Pet Peeves

I would hate for anyone to go through my blog and find all the errors. Well, actually, that's not entirely true. That would depend on who was doing the trolling and the culling. But given that we are losing our language faster than the speed of sound, I can't imagine most people caring about any of this. Furthermore, I am, at worst, a moderate proponent of adapting to changes in language/culture, otherwise we'd all be walking around saying things like, Whan that Aprille, with hise shoures soote... (thank you, Chaucer). All the same, I feel it's my duty to note here today the first of my pet peeves regarding our current culture as it relates, or doesn't relate, to the English language:

Since when did "impact" obtain its most recent usage?

As far as anyone ever told me, impact as a transitive verb means 1. to drive or press closely or firmly into something; to pack in. 2. to fill up, congest, throng: A vast crowd impacted St. Peter's Square. 3. to collide with, strike forcefully: a ricket designed to impact the planet Mars ... and as an intransitive verb 4. to have impact or make contact forcefully (usually followed by on, upon, against, etc.): The ball impacted against the bat with a loud noise. The speaker's words suddenly impacted on the audience (and thank you Random House).

And despite the comprehensive explanation that Bartleby gives

-- The use of impact as a verb meaning “to have an effect” often has a big impact on readers. Eighty-four percent of the Usage Panel disapproves of the construction to impact on, as in the phrase social pathologies, common to the inner city, that impact heavily on such a community. Ninety-five percent disapprove of the use of impact as a transitive verb in the sentence Companies have used disposable techniques that have a potential for impacting our health. It’s unclear why this usage provokes such a strong response, but it can’t be because of novelty. Impact has been used as a verb since 1601, and its figurative use dates from 1935, allowing people plenty of time to get accustomed to it. It may be that its frequent appearance in jargon-riddled remarks of politicians, military officials, and financial analysts has made people suspicious. Nevertheless, the use of impact as a verb has become so common in corporations and institutions that younger speakers have begun to regard it as standard. It seems likely, therefore, that the verb impact will eventually become as usual as the verb contact has become over the last 30 years --

why is it I want to run screaming from the house whenever I hear clauses such as

"Wow! That movie really impacted me!"

"That new job could really impact your career."

which, when you think about it, isn't all that far removed from "Action that!" (although now I digress).

Perhaps my response has something to do with the fact that these sorts of impactful sentiments often emerge from the same people who say things such as "My bad!" and "nuc-u-lar war" and "the facts of the matters is" and "Is it still raining out yet?" (as if raining out all by itself isn't more than enough).

Sadly, I am not well-honed enough -- despite my new copy of The Canadian Press Stylebook (thank you, Michelle) -- to argue this point effectively. I only know what rankles; what feels wrong in my skin and my head.

My final word for the day, then, runs into my biggest pet peeve: people who do not credit their sources: people who steal ideas, phrases, clauses, sentences, paragraphs, inflections, intonations, plots, characters, themes, jokes, inventions, lyrics, screenplays, scripts, poems, by-lines and banners and, at the very least, do not say who or what has inspired this. But on this point I feel a dissertation coming on, and who ever wants to read on of those?

Yo! I'm outta here!

<:^)

Bonnie Hunt Sings Jesus on Idol

In keeping with yesterday's Bonnie Hunt Show and her fabulous videotaped song for American Idol (nudge nudge wink wink), I thought I would reprint an entry of mine written on Wednesday, May 9, 2007.

This one's for you, Bonnie.

Jesus And The First Supper

Cast of Characters

Andrew (Simon Peter's brother)
Bartholomew
Matthew
James (son of Alphaeus)
Jesus
John (sometimes called James)
Judas
Jude
Simon
Simon (known as Peter)
Thomas

For reasons of clarity, James, son of Alphaeus, shall be called James; John, sometimes called James, shall remain John; Simon, sometimes known as Peter, shall be called Peter.

Act One

The year is 27 and it is summer. The evening, in fact, is balmy, and the sky an explosion of black and gold and white. Jesus has only last week put together his team of disciples, and has since invited them to dinner at an outdoor restaurant overlooking the Mediterranean.

Jesus enters the room wearing a long crenellated robe and Birkenstock-style sandals. In his hand he carries a leather satchel, probably containing his VISA card. Behind him the disciples follow slowly, led by Peter. The men walk toward the table marked Reserved and sit down.

Matthew [turning slowly to Bartholomew]: I wonder, Judas, what think you of the rumours that Herod Agrippa is going to run for office again?

Judas: Why do think that it matters to me who should run for office? Besides, can't you see we are sitting at the reserved table? Should not decorum, therefore, predict and preclude your typical brash behaviour?

Bartholomew: What ho, boys! Not another argument! We have just this moment arrived, and you know how Jesus is on the subject of team spirit. Did he not spend one and one half hours last week pontificating and elaborating on same?

Jude: Have you seen the menu? It's fabulous! And look at that basket of whole wheat challah -- filled to the brim! Yummy. Here, don't be shy -- have a piece. It might lighten your mood, Judas.

Judas: I am not in fowl temper, rather only irritated by this constant barrage of political banter. Herod this, and Herod that. I would have been a better king than he, but nooooooo! Apparently here in the Middle East, lineage is everything.

James: It's the same the world over, Judas! Look at the map -- study the demographics. And Jude is right -- feast your eyes on this delectable menu. Sesame crackers and seaweed bisque! And my favourite -- peppered bean soup!

Simon: It's going to be hellish choosing between the fried schnitzel and lamb kabob! I promised myself to pull in one belt loop by summer's end, and once again I have let myself down.

Peter: Hello you boys! It's hard to shout along such an enormous table. [Laughter] Jesus was just saying that the weather's been holding out well, and tomorrow we shall go down to the sea and practice our fly fishing.

Jude: What about the sermon? Isn't there to be any talk of tomorrow's sermon?

Andrew: Oh yes, that too.

Peter: Hey, Jude! [Peter shouts across the table] Don't bring us down. Of course there'll be a sermon. Tomorrow Jesus will be discussing the rigors of --

Bartholomew: No no! I said the honey with olive oil. I just dab it on my face -- see these irritating blotchy patches? -- gone in a day.

Thomas: Mmm...hummus and babaganush! Tasty! What a terrific menu. It can't always be this scrumptious. Whose idea was it to come here? [Several sets of eyes land on Jesus] [more or less]

John: And wait 'til you see the dessert menu! I was here last week with my mother and we made proper pigs of ourselves. The chocolate wafers are to die for.

Judas: The rigors of...?

Peter: Oh, the usual. The tax census. The calendrical system. The build-up of algae in the Sea of Galilee -- there is such an abundance you can practically walk across! [Peter eyes the bottles of brandy and gin that the waiter has placed on the table]

Andrew: You don't say?

Peter: And then there are the minor issues. The fattening of goats and sheep. Itch-resistant robes. A thank you to Mrs. Federman for her fabulous figcakes.

Jude: Kookookachoo!

Andrew: Bless you!

Judas: Oh really, Peter, such idiotic topics. How can anyone take us seriously if we are to behave as the donkeys in the field? You call yourself an advisor?

Peter: Sticks and stones, Judas. Sticks and stones.

John: Could someone please pass me the wine? [John's eyes widen] Oh no, not you, Jesus. Perhaps Simon or Peter or Bart. Yes, the red will do. Thank you.

Judas [under his breath]: Shteyner af zayne beyner.

Thomas: Does it feel like rain, or is it just me?

Judas: And these endless clichés. Where do they come from? Surely not from your father's genius brain?

Thomas: Yes, I think I felt a drop.

Jude: I saw your sister the other day, Peter. She was walking down the road with Lactivius. [Peter looks toward Judas] Could it be that you are jealous, good Judas, having only last week asked for this pretty girl's hand? [Laughter]

Judas: Schmendrick!

Matthew: So Judas, what do you think of the rumours that Herod Agrippa is running for office again?

Thomas: The tiramisu please, and perhaps just a little of the baklava. As long as it isn't too fattening.

Andrew: Here Simon, have a grape.

Peter: I don't know about the rest of you, but a good game of checkers or chess out on the back patio might be nice during sunset.

End of Act One

<:^) Posted by Jennifer Coffey at 5:46 AM

Veterinary Corner

I need a new house. Or a barn. Or at the very least a stable.

I don't know if it's my age, but keeping up with the animals has become a bit dizzifying. As it is, had I not sat down again at this computer today, I would have forgotten to feed the fish (round one of two), who by virtue of species live in separate tanks. Poor Edith was doing her I'm starving to death spiral, and Truman was looking quite sad, gills downward-turned and mouth decidedly abject. (Sometimes I wonder...if only I'd veered from a Capote namesake.)

But it's not only the fish. There's Boots's first needle at 11 a.m. along with his special diet plate (and subsequent cloistered urine test) (you don't want to do that, at least not without a good nail brush), which means I have to surreptitiously fork some off on the side for Galoshes, whose pleading eyes break my heart and who is so well aware of this that he also waits at my feet for the milk in my cereal bowl, an event that usually occurs somewhere an hour this side of the needle. Now Boots, who used to thrive on big gulps of my leftover milk (which probably had everything to do with the bladder stones and subsequent kidney failure), but can no longer indulge since kidney failure and subsequent diabetes, stands alongside Galoshes for one spoonful alone, while Ralph hunches at the top of the stairs meowing relentlessly for me to fill his water bowl that sits in the bedroom. It isn't enough that he has the bathtub faucet turned on for him twice in the morning, or that there are two other rooms with full water bowls in them, his front bedroom bowl has just got to be full.

In the meantime, poor Sneakers -- whose sinus infection has returned for the third time this season and, oh, what an achooing mucous-y mess! -- rolls about on the coffee table batting his paw at the milk drinkers and gazing dolefully toward the comb and brush cupboard -- this while the dog gets up and clops through the house on her new special shoes, tip-tapping her way to the back door because she knows that when she goes out she also gets treats, which has nothing to do with the flaked white tuna that's judiciously sprinkled on top of her dinner in the evenings. And while all of this is going on, Slippers, whose interminable ear infection has recently cleared (and therefore she's no longer falling at right angles), jumps up on my shoulder, digging her claws in for love and affection. None of which is to be confused (God forbid!) with the nightly ritual of five plates of treats, one of them special for Boots.

I must admit, though, at the end of a difficult, or even a not-so-difficult day, there is nothing half as satisfying as the blanket of cats and the clopping of dog feet toward the front bedroom. And I say this taking into account that Boots usually gets to my water glass before I do, then leaks overnight on the covers; that Slippers always sleeps near or on top of my allergic head; that Ralph walks hard on my chest; that Galoshes mistakes my toes for playthings, and that Sneakers blows great gusts of breath (ach!) all over my face.

<:^)

Closed For Repairs

I was at the Reference and Research Library doing some referencing and research, and what do you know if I didn't turn the knob on the microfilm printer just a little too hard to the right -- or was it to the left? -- when snap! Who could know that that enormous multi-million dollar machine would have any parts on it that my tiny hand could harm? Not me, that's for sure, although I was careful to cover up my mishap when I asked for help because, really, that might have been my wrist clicking or someone's overly loud watch or even a dancing fetishist tapping a little too loudly in his shoes and not the little dial after all. I mean, a person wouldn't want to jump to any hasty conclusions, would she? That's practically tantamount to lying, and what kind of mother would I be if I condoned that sort of thing? While it's true that I didn't actually see anyone dancing, I would bet you two chocolate bars and a bag of chips (which reminds me of that joke about the priest and the altar boy, although in that story it was a bag of chips and a Pepsi and they weren't in a library) that almost everyone in that room wore a watch except me.

And anyway, this clicking occurrence happened after I was unable to properly thread the film through the windy (long i) machinery and adjust the millimeter (or whatever those numbers were) setting and decide whether I was to hit the P or not. In fact, I still don't know what the P stands for, and I still haven't decided (although everyone else in the room seemed to know, but heaven's to Betsy, most of them -- not all mind you, but most of them -- looked no older than thirteen, and we all know that kids nowadays can do anything), and furthermore I can't remember which one (the P or the non-P, if there even was a non-P) I was supposed to hit (either/or...), all I know is that pushing one button made the print dark and not pushing didn't -- or something like that. My point being that you can only imagine how exhausted I was by this time and you can see how I could not be held accountable for any slightly overly-zealous wrist action, which after long thought I am sure wasn't my wrist at all but something close to what I suggested earlier.

Besides that, there was all that business about setting the pages correctly within the printing framework, which I wasn't quite (but almost) able to do without help, and the roll that kept slipping off -- who knew that I had it on upside down? -- and then when the words came up on the screen in reverse no one told me that there was an adjust dial and that spinning the whole thing around wouldn't work well either (and in fact I saw that this was true with my own eyes, which is why I had to keep changing machines), especially when the whole thing went into cardiac jam. If those two much older-than-I-am women hadn't been caterwauling next to me I am sure things would have run much more smoothly too, but it isn't for me to judge who they allow into the library and who they keep out. I could tell these women were incompetent because they were at least fifty years old (imagine! fifty!) and they kept trying to instruct the other on how to run the machines, when all along I could have told them if they'd only asked. Mind you, after they laughed out loud when I tripped over the chair, well, let's just say they didn't endear themselves to me in any special way and if they had had some minor hope that I might offer my assistance, they were wrong. But as I said, it's the kids nowadays who know everything, not old women -- although come to think of it, that isn't entirely true either. In fact, when that sweet young man who occupied the first chair I had taken (I got all the way up to four) asked me how to turn off his machine -- and he couldn't have been more than seventeen -- I was more than happy to show him. Good thing I did, too, because my scarf was sitting underneath his coat right where I had left it.

Swing your partner round and round
Allemande left and a dosey-do...

<:^)

Auld Lang Syne Off

Oh my. It's that time of year again (and I am already three weeks behind). Resolutions. What to keep, what to throw away? Now, at my age and girth, I have no options when it comes to food choices. It's do or die, and I mean that too literally. You cannot know how sad it makes me, though, to have to part with so many things that I love -- foodstuffs that have sustained me through the cold and lonely wintry nights. (Okay, so I'm exaggerating in a Dickensian sort of way just a little...but what's a fat romantic girl of thirty-seven to do?) So here I go, my chubby fingers clutching the edge of my seat as I type out my farewells...

Good-bye guacamole dip made with just the right amount of fresh garlic and black pepper, and served on tasty Farmboy tortilla chips! Sayonara, too, to sesame crackers smothered in roasted red pepper spread. (I hate when they call it spread. You can see the fat content shoot up before your hungry eyes.) Bis dann brown sugar cookies baked in shapes of little moons and stars and served with hot cinnamon tea, and ta ta tahini-laden pita! A culinary kunda hafiz to over-salted crunchy crackers served in tiny pieces on a festive Christmas plate, and a sad sad adios to chocolate-peanut-noodle armadillos, tastier than anything you could ever imagine and so utterly delectable at night. Bye bye beer in special cans of burnished colours served up with zesty hummus (a special hwyl goes out to you), and a solemn beannachd leibh to Beef Wellington, my runny-nosed parting from puffed pastry a true lament to the succulent filet mignon that lay in wait beneath your velvety surfaces. A softened selamat pergi to crustless sandwiches everywhere -- tangy tuna and exquisite egg eyeing up at me from pretty painted platters -- and a lingering le'hitraot to lovely little lemon meringue tarts who I am sure called out my name...eat me, Jennifer, eat me...just before they disappeared forever. A swift and painful tschuss to maraschino cherry chocolates -- all three boxes of you -- washed down with a tschau and another bubbly bottle of Cuvee Speciale...good bye Cuvee! good bye!...and paalam, oh paalam, to my tiny pigs-in-a-blanket, your darling stubby feet tucked up cosily beneath your steaming shawls, sitting silently there next to your cranberry brie sisters -- my fir melenge to phyllo pastry everywhere a testament to my loyalty and my love. Zai Jian three-cheese lasagna served up with homemade Caesar (et tu, Brute?) salad and two fearless crusty loaves, and a half-felt hejdo, hazel nuts, and all your brethren kin. Sampai jumpa double-helping Atlantic salmon with a side of buttery potatoes and caramelized carrots, and finally, most tragically, arrividerci cheese-laden baked-stuffed potatoes.

I dare not look back to see what I have forgot, lest I hurry down (these too too sullied) stairs in search of lingering remnants and unhappy crumbs. Who can know how long I'll keep my steadfast promises, up here in my weeny wind-chilled garret, my head full of long-ago memories of pleasanter times when life was rich and sweet and little dogs and children were kept at bay by the sounds of melodious crunching? And speaking of weenies...dare I say it? -- ciao ciao ciao chocolate-chocolate pecan layer cake made with one cup whipping cream and equal parts brown sugar! And oh my god, I almost forgot! Pirmelenge my precious praline cheesecake, your nutty-coated chewiness sticking happily to the sides of my shiny-faced veneers.

Please Sir, can I have some more?

<:^)

Today's Music

I love the way he smiles at her, and she at him. I love the way they hold hands when they walk down the street together, and how he looks to her for safety. I love the way they dance, shyly, awkwardly at first, she having to lift the train of her dress every so often so he doesn't trip over it. I love looking at their teeth, knowing that no sudden abscess is going to mar any special occasion. I love how they danced with the young man and woman, and how they always step aside for anyone standing behind them because they were raised in a generation and among families of good manners. I love that they are going to be people of their neighbourhood, and that they will fit in. I love how hard they have worked to realize their dreams. I love, too, that (I believe, at least that) he means to fulfill all of his promises. Most of all, I love how they are with their children -- protective, affectionate, comfortable, buoyant and kind.

I love how your eyes close whenever you kiss me
And when I'm away from you,
I love how you miss me
I love the way you always treat me tenderly
But, darling, most of all, I love how you love me

Bobby Vinton

Fragments and Impressions

He always sounds so rehearsed and he speaks in iambic pentameter, holding his chin arrogantly. I called him Metaphor Man. (I'm thinking it's no coincidence that Elmer Gantry was showing on one of the movie channels last night.) Although...when he smiles...and his shoulders, as Mary pointed out (over the phone), are frail. As my mother, who I know would have loved him, would say, "We shall see, darling, we shall see." He does seem inclusive (although he did not look over at Hilary when he shook her husband's hand) and non-punitive (is it because she's in trouble today?), and these things, if true (outside the parentheses, that is), would have to be good.

I love that he and his wife allowed their daughter to bring her camera to photograph her big day. I would have been saying something like, "What? You want to bring what? What kind of impression would that make? Are you crazy?!"

Joe Biden's "Thank you, Mr. Justice." Could he have been warmer? I loved him to the point of an exclamation mark.

Paternal Itzhak Perlman evoking Jascha Heifetz in that movie about the music school for poor kids. And happy, handsome Yo Yo Ma, hair blowing in the wind, smiling down at Obama. And who was that attractive clarinettist -- all of them playing John Williams' special-occasion and beautiful "Air and Simple Gifts" right on through the noon hour, the official inauguration time. Perfect.

Brilliant sun, waving flags, smiling faces, bomb-proof cars. George Bush flying away, looking more real than I have ever seen him. Bombastic ministers (one especially). The pianist's chilblained hands. Good manners. Aretha Franklin, and her diabetes. Mother-in-law in the White House, and what's not to love?

The 21 gun salute, and Don saying to me back in 1980, "If you check, it's only the locals who don't know that there's a cannon buried in the cement outside The Dispensary door," and my, "There's a what?"

And what has become of poetry? Sarah said (over the phone) it sounded like Deep Thoughts -- "A tree grew in my yard," she said -- and we howled. Dreadful dreadful dreadful.

That lunch would have made me throw up. Too rich. (Mind you, my flu came back in the middle of the night -- stroke-inspiring vertigo, should you be a worrier -- and I cannot function in any reasonable way today.)

After all was said and done, do you know what made me cry today (besides Yo Yo Ma, that is)? Glen Campbell and his two sons, sitting on the Bonnie Hunt stage, performing Gentle On My Mind.

In the meantime, we shall see.

And it's knowin' I'm not shackled
By forgotten words and bonds
And the ink stains that have dried upon some line...

<:^)

In Memoriam

Music

When all agree, and all must sometime soon,
That each to greater good's subordinate,
Then each will count his reason as a boon,
And plot each course by one co-ordinate.
All will be happy then; no trial, no strife,
Nor any discord in our harmony;
The deal is struck; We give our all to life,
Relenting so that life will let us be.
Then still the still voice that might seem to call,
And intimate some unnamed destiny.
Now confident that all we see is all,
Make better all for all eternity.
As in one note, we sing the funeral dirge,
And each man's voice insensible will merge.

Written by Don Ives, who died, following a brief illness, on January 19, 2004

Scratch and Sniff

The cats are drunk. Or high. Or out of it. Or whatever you call blottoed on catnip.

It all started on Saturday, when I ran into Susan at Canadian Tire. (I never cease to be stunned by the number of times I run into people I know wandering about this mammoth city. How is it possible? And yet....) Anyway, Susan shares custody of a cat, and she told me about this great on-sale scratching post that would stop Sneakers, especially, from clawing at the wood. She even took me over to the very shelf where we found two remaining corrugated cardboard clawing boards, and I tucked one under my arm and went happily on my way.

Well, it was a mistake, I can tell you now. Within seconds of opening up what turned out to be Pandora's Box, the cats were rolling drunkenly on the floor, bits of crinkled cardboard stuck between their teeth, fur flying in all directions as they hissed and spat at one another, each trying to gain absolute control over their new arcadia. Sneakers was so out of it, in fact, that I had to check his pulse (no easy task) to assure myself that he was still alive. When I leaned into him with my stethoscope, he raised his eyebrows scurrilously and said,

"Whatisitthatyouthinkyou'redoingfatso?"

at which point I pulled back in utter rejection and said something about pots calling kettles. But it was of no use, because he wouldn't listen and clearly he had no concern for my feelings or the risks he was taking with his health or personal safety. He just rolled over on his back, extending one covetous paw toward the new purchase and swiping me away with the other. His still-lit cigar lay smoldering under the table.

Galoshes, who could barely stand up, started singing Patsy Cline songs and swinging his goggles in ever-widening concentric circles (I'm merely quoting what he said in between choruses). He looked like something out of East of Eden, and I was horrified. I asked him how he could possibly feel himself a responsible sled team representative when he could barely make it across the room. He told me to mind my own business, muttering half under his breath, "Chappaquiddick." When I told him that he wasn't making any sense, he tossed a handful of catnip into my face and said, "Eat that, sister."

Boots was the worst one of all. He kept curling his lip the way my first husband used to when he had had too much to drink (which was just about always), and asking me things like, "Whose your Momma?" and "Have you checked the goldfish?" I was really hurt, especially since I had just bought him his new beautiful orange collar and matching bell and had combed him for hours. What a waste of my time, as I could see by the handfuls of tawny-coloured hair strewn about the living room floor. "Take hold of yourself!" I said, and he did, and quickly I saw the folly of my suggestion.

Even tiny Slippers, usually so elegant and sweet, was having a hard time with it all, and truly this was the first time I ever saw her fight with her brothers. She kept sticking her small elbow in front of their faces, clamoring after the offensive substance and whining for more. At one point she stuck her claw in Sneaker's eye, and I am sure that were he less girthy, or more continent, he might have retaliated.

In the end, fed up with what has now turned into a two-day binge, and disgusted by this mordant display of self-indulgent gormandizing, I had to take myself up to the bedroom, carrying poor abstaining Ralph -- his little pointed head bent down over the bits of rippled potato chips I had measured out for him on the bedspread.

I go out walkin' after midnight, out in the moonlight...

<:^)

Weather Report

Baby, it's cold outside. Birds are huddled in their brittle nests. Snowflakes are stopping mid-air to look at one another, astonished by the bitter blast. In fact, people are freezing in their tracks, arms and knees upright in military position.

Which reminds me...

I was twenty-eight and had just delivered my third child, a great big baby boy. Besides the abdominal swelling, my cheeks (not those cheeks) were the size of two monumental grapefruits, abscessed teeth common among the pregnant. And because in utero infants should avoid excessive novocaine, my mouth had had to wait for the inevitable extractions after the first inevitable expulsion. Too graphic? Well, then, imagine how I felt. (And by the way, a little word of warning: if you have abscessed teeth, repair them -- at any cost. Don't have them removed.)

Anyway, off I went in the searing heat of the mountain-climate sun, a bloated Barbapapa (well, I guess in my case, a Barbamama), to a dentist I had never met and whose accent -- this is not a slight; I have always been terrible on either side of unfamiliar accents, even my own -- I could not entirely decipher. And given the enormity of my face and all the cotton batting, discussion was necessarily kept at a minimum.

Home I went, then, gap-toothed, pain pills in one hand and ice pack in the other and, for the rest of the day, between bouts of breastfeeding and babbling (me) with the children (and them), I applied the pack. And I am nothing if not diligent.

The next morning when I got up, the first thing I did after checking the baby was look in the mirror to see if the swelling had come down. Well, it had, but both sides of my face were black. BLACK. (And remember that, ordinarily, I am a really really white woman.) I grabbed up the baby, instructing the two toddlers to help Mommy get them dressed -- oh the looks on their faces as their stared at my cheeks -- and off we ran (I mean we ran...on foot) to the hospital, two miles away.

"Where have you been?" the doctor asked me.

"What do you mean -- where have I been?" I said this curtly, nodding to my children. "I have been home with my children. Were you expecting me?"

"But your face is black."

"Yes, I know my face is black. That's why I'm here."

"But it's hot outside. If anything your face should be red, not black."

"What are you talking about?" I was seething.

"You have frostbite," he said.

"I have frostbite?" I said.

"Yes. Where have you been?"

"I've been home with my children. Oh yes, and yesterday I went to the dentist."

"The dentist? Did he work on your cheeks?"

"No, but he gave me some pain pills. And ice."

"Ahhhh," said the doctor.

And so it unravelled that, in the haste of the various edemas and needles and accents, I had misheard the rest of what the dentist had said about the ice pack. "Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off -- maximum three times a day." (I thought he had said something about my mother -- taxi...Mom? taxing, Mom? three times a day -- who, God rest her soul, was at that point already long dead. And not to embarrass myself or the dentist, I had left it alone.)

So here I am today, all these 11 years later (shut up, please), looking out my window into the freezing cold and remembering the last thing the doctor in the hospital said: "For the rest of your life you will have to be careful outside in the cold. Once you've had frostbite it can easily return, so dress yourself warmly and keep your face clothed." ("Clothed?" I had asked him, but he didn't reply.)

So take this as a warning and be careful on days like today -- or anytime you feel ice come close to your person. We are each of us only minutes away from becoming wherever your images take you -- a frozen daiquiri, a Popsicle, an ice sculpture in a park. Stay in. Stay warm. Keep your face clothed.

Oops! There goes a bird!

<:^)

Communications

Yesterday was a wonderful day.

And it wasn't just because the Creuset kettle company emailed me back and promised to replace the faulty kettle I bought at Kitchen Roots (a store that apparently will not refund your money even when one of their products is faulty...tsk tsk). I wouldn't have even bought the dang thing if the Paderno hadn't fallen to pieces.

It had nothing to do with the workshop news, either, although how can workshop news ever not be good?

And as much as I love Stephan, it wasn't because I ran into him in the falling snow last night in front of the house.

Besides that, it wasn't the series of email from that wonderful group of women, or how they made me laugh at least fifteen times, especially Juanita who got all mixed up, and Diana who helped me with the words I didn't understand. (Ilex and ibex -- how was I supposed to know the difference?)

And it had nothing to do with the dentist (I am terrified of the dentist) calling and leaving a message -- for Mary!

There was the eyeglass refund cheque, of course, but no...it wasn't that.

And it wasn't the upcoming event to celebrate the various writers.

Or the $3.00 I won on the Bingo ticket.

And it wasn't the cupcakes, burritos, the popcorn or chocolate -- no.

But if you're thinking it would have to be that the baby's post-op appointment went perfectly you'd be close, but not entirely, right.

It was the baby, however, who is learning to talk, and who picked up the phone when I called her mother and as clearly and resoundingly as you can imagine, on hearing my voice, echoed "Hiiiiiiiiiii!"

You can give me kettles and workshops and friendship and laughter and candy and money and parties and winning lottery tickets, but nothing on earth is as wonderful as a child who is delighted to hear your voice. How many times in your life is somebody going to be that happy to know you at least five times a day?

As I said, yesterday was a wonderful day. In fact, today doesn't look too bad either.
<:^)

From Hetero to Homo and Back

There are lots of happy couples out there. People say it isn't so, but I see them all the time. In fact, I think I see them now more than ever before, since Don died and since I left the heterosexual world.

It isn't the same for gay couples. At least not when they're out in the heterosexual world. It isn't the same even when we're sitting in a roomful of amiable heterosexuals who aren't apparently, or even, homophobic. (Come to think of it, it isn't the same when I'm sitting in a room of amiable homosexuals who know I used to be happily and heterosexually married.) And it is triply not the same when a person who once inhabited a heterosexual sphere now inhabits another.

This is a heterosexual world. How we are perceived, how we are allowed to 'acceptably' behave, is about habit and nuance and expectation. It doesn't matter how nice a person is; how friendly; how smart. It's about how we expect them to be in our universe.

I am not talking about egregiously hateful behaviour. I am talking about small things. About how the world feels polite, warm even, but how the twinkliness disappears. About how it's okay for heterosexual couples to hold hands, nudge, lay a head on a partner's shoulder, get up and dance, but how it's still not quite okay to do that if you're one half of a gay couple -- at least not when your half doesn't hold up its homosexual end because it looks -- appears -- too straight.

Don used to say that it wasn't about being straight or gay (although that's not entirely true, either). He used to say that it was about world views, and how people didn't want their world view of you turned upside down. "It feels like a betrayal," he said, and in that he was absolutely right. You can see it in people's faces. Why did she leave? (Actually, I never left in those ways. He died.) Didn't she love him? How can you live that long and not know you're gay? She doesn't seem like one of us anymore -- not exactly, anyway.

I don't mean to sound bitter. I'm not bitter. I have more friends than I have a right to -- remarkable and rare friends, who don't see those sorts of divisions -- and, in a way, I'm not even talking about myself.

I am talking about expectations dashed against reality. I am talking about the easy excuse of being let go. I am talking about the exclusion that follows the inclusion, once people know. I am, for illustration, even talking about the two middle-aged lesbians I met at the vet's a few weeks ago who called each other "room-mate" -- and why they did so. People make fun of that. I make fun of that. Ellen Degeneres offered up that very joke the other night. But it isn't funny, and she didn't intend it to be funny, either.

That homosexuals think they have to make excuses for who they are is painful and cruel and wrong-headed, and ought to be unsubstantiated. That we are deemed somehow not quite up to par, especially if we don't present (can you tell I used to work for a surgeon?) the way people expect us to, is horrifying. And it is especially horrifying when it happens among kind, enlightened, sweet, well-meaning individuals, people who would slit their mother's (and mothers') throats before ever believing there was a homo- or heterophobic bone among them.

There are a lot of happy couples in the world. But not one of them has any right to think themselves hierarchically placed because of what feels like their especial happiness. We are all born and we all die. And if we work hard enough at being good, there shouldn't be a table or a banquet hall or a dance floor in the world where each of us doesn't fully and equally belong.

Technology

Wow. I have the biggest computer screen in the world. Or that's how it feels to me. My daughter gave it to me for Christmas -- isn't she lovely? (And imagine me...having such a responsible, generous daughter when I am only thirty-seven.) The screen is so big, however, I hardly know what to make of it. I keep expecting a movie to flash in front of my eyes -- see Rocky Balboa come running up that long, wide staircase, or gaze at a wistful Meryl Streep as she flies over the African veldt with woodenly handsome Robert Redford at the wheel. (Do they call it a wheel in an airplane?)

The other thing I notice is the condition of my floaters, my right eye worse than my left, always, but here resembling a maze of spider webs spreading themselves across the Kalahari. If I stare at the screen hard enough, I can imagine the E chart letters, too:

F Z B D E

O F L C T

A P E O T F

and so on.

And it's a good thing there isn't a bucket of non-toxic paint lying around, because I think my fingers would be drawn to it in a second. This screen feels about the right size and colour for a good dash of fun. Do you remember finger-painting in Kindergarten? Me neither. Mind you, I didn't go to Kindergarten because I was too shy...which is probably where my love for movies came into play. Oh, the women could tap dance in those days, and was there anything like Esther Williams for diving through a wide-angle screen and into a pool of technicoloured ice-blue water? Makes me thirsty just thinking about it.

Anyway, I am going to sit here for a while and gaze at my new prize, at least until Ralph signals from the gift bag underneath the bed that it's time to come out and play, or Boots needs his 11 a.m. injection. Perhaps if I could teach the cats to type and to enjoy something of this magnitude, a gift this grand, they wouldn't have such odd habits or illnesses. In the meantime, could someone fetch me a large bag popcorn? If I give up my seat now, I'll never get it back.

<:^)

The Globe and Mail: Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt

I can't believe it. I am sitting here reading The Globe and Mail, and for the 60th time this season I have come across a news item on Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt -- this one attesting to Brad Pitt's fidelity to Jennifer Aniston prior to their separation.

Allow me to quote: “What people don't understand is that we filmed [Mr. & Mrs. Smith] for a year. We were still filming after Jen and I split up,” he continues. “Even then it doesn't mean that there was some kind of dastardly affair. ... She [Aniston] was a big part of my life, and me hers,” he says. “I don't see how there cannot be [that]. That's life, man.”

Give me a big fat flu break. Is there any reasonable-thinking human on the planet who

a) believes any of this
b) cares about any of this
c) thinks any of these people are real
d) all of the above

Mr. and Mrs. Smith was released in 2005, and, by hook or by crook, Brad Pitt already has six (SIX) children with Angelina Jolie. That's two children per year, which ought to make this some kind of record. Such laudatory parents! (Isn't this what I keep hearing?) Such nobility! And oh, the money she -- and now they -- have donated to charity -- which just happened to occur, initially, at a time when Angelina Jolie couldn't have been in a worse situation or relationship with the press. Talk about deflection. And when you consider that since 2001 her movie salary alone has been 63 million and his 105 million -- what's not to give?!

Dashing off to IMBD gives me other odd tidbits about these actors:

[Brad Pitt] and ex-wife Jennifer Aniston reached a settlement with Damiani International. The pair claimed the company agreed to never reproduce their wedding rings, but it manufactured and sold "Brad and Jennifer" rings in 18 karat white or yellow gold, featuring either 12 or 13 diamonds and costing about $1,000 apiece. Under the settlement, Pitt will now design jewelry for Damiani that Aniston will model in ads, and Damiani will stop selling the Pitt and Aniston copies. Does this not strike anyone besides me as somewhat fiscally mercenary (or just plain weird)?

At her wedding to her Hackers (1995) co-star Jonny Lee Miller, [Jolie] had displayed her husband's name on the back of her shirt painted in her own blood. During her marriage to Thornton, the spouses each wore a vial of the other's blood around their necks. Narcissism, anyone?

Tell me that there aren't a thousand more newsworthy stories -- even stories surrounding actors and entertainers. Let's talk about Christina Applegate and her brave and generous nature in the face of a double mastectomy; about Kellie Pickler and how hard she has worked to overcome family dysfunction; about Bonnie Hunt and her work as an oncology nurse; about Paul Newman and all of the millions of dollars he contributed, quietly; about Johnny Depp, Jude Law, and Colin Ferrell, who donated their movie salaries to Heath Ledger's daughter, Matilda, a story I might have flinched at had I had to read it 1000 times. Charity, after all, begins at home, and at home is where it should stay...thus the word anonymous.

Please...flu or no flu...no more stories about Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, especially not in The Globe and Mail, whose writing (online and otherwise) plummets further and further as the years tick on by. The spelling mistakes and typos combined are enough to render a reader speechless, which isn't the point exactly, but one can't miss the connection -- or, as my mother always said -- "Like attracts like, darling."

That's life [man]
That's what all the people say
You're riding high in April,
Shot down in May...

A person can only hope.

<:^)

Flu Watch

This is the second day of fever and sore throat and everything else that goes hand and hand and limb to limb with the flu. Apparently, everyone in the world has had this virus within the last three weeks, and some have had it more than once. There's mutation for you. (My g.p. once told me that the average virus hangs around for six weeks, which is really rude if you ask me. I don't have invited guests who stay that long.)

Anyway, for the last day and a half I have been lying in bed smothered in cats and sticky ginger ale, but all that excessive warmth and spicy goodness cannot compensate for the sobby states the flu always finds me in. I'm not sure how or why that happens. Are there flu endorphins? Does your serotonin level skip a beat when viruses attack?

Which is all to say that as hard as I try to keep images of Kodak Christmas moments out of my head, I find that I cannot. Mind you, I cry about everything in between, too: children's television commercials, game show winners, and losers, election results, goldfish swimming delicately in their tanks, soap bubbles in the kitchen sink, the sky. In fact, Frank Sinatra -- you remember him...the Hollywood thug? -- had me weeping into my pillow last night, him singing High Hopes with that screechy-voiced red-haired kid while Carolyn Jones played bongos in the background.

Anyway, I have to get back to bed. Harriet Craig is coming on this very minute, and a person can't have too many tear-soaked sheets. Mind you, I ought to be careful that all that dampness doesn't cause a horrible case of pneumonia.

Finances

I must have been thirty years old before I heard the expression, "The penny dropped." But when I first heard it, I knew what it meant.

Women call it intuition. Lawyers call it evidence. Therapists call it epiphany.

Whatever word you choose as synonymous, it's all the same (to me).

I have had pennies dropping all around me from the time I was three years old, some of them falling on my head so hard they left scars. A few bounced off my shoulders while others sprinkled around my toes. But no matter how I looked at it, there I was standing in a field of bright shiny copper, the glint so bright I thought my retinas permanently damaged.

At my age, you would think I'd have it all figured out, that I would know when to look up or to run. But I have so many character flaws, it's easy enough for me to find myself preoccupied with other woes and miss the action all around my head.

I am not sure what the solution is. An army helmet? A wide-brimmed umbrella? A shunt?

No matter, if any of you have any suggestions, I would appreciate knowing what they are. And if there is anyone out there who knows how to turn that money into, say, raindrops or profit, I'd be anxious to have your opinions as well. During this time of falling economy, even pennies count.

Answers to Last Week's Puzzle

Last year I made a resolution. I decided to lose weight. By spring, I was thinking of purchasing a treadmill. By late summer, I had joined Weight Watcher's. Occasionally, I went to the Y where I could swim. Sometimes, instead of driving, I walked. I made headway in leaps and bounds, losing twenty pounds or so by late December. By Christmas I had a tiny slip off the fitness wagon (oops!) and in the true spirit of holiday sharing and acceptance, I scarfed down a few candies and pies and turkeys.

But every new year brings with it so much to do. Besides tidying up the old year (Christmas cards, piano Santas, snowmen candles, special holiday platters, fir trees), there are many jobs waiting to be done. Floors need washing, windows wait to be shined, beds ask for make-overs, unpainted walls scream out for dignified colours, and new resolutions linger in the wings.

I would have no trouble -- none whatsoever -- getting at these tasks and resolutions were it not for a few minor items that keep getting in my way: two maraschino chocolate-covered cherries sitting alone in a box on the bottom shelf of the fridge; five pieces of sealed-in-Tupperware homemade fruitcake; half a dozen pecan/caramel/chocolates, melted in the shape of turtles; two Marified ziplocked cinammon buns; half a bag of Lay's potato chips hiding (quavering?) behind the breadbox, a big bottle of unopened Pepsi brought to me as a gift...the list seems endless.

Anyway, there is only so much a person can cram into a reasonable day, so I have had to cut corners. The floors, of course, cannot wait, and the windows demand to be cleaned as soon as possible. The beds need to be seen to for reasons of hygiene and safety, and the walls have to be treated for the purpose of prevailing sanity. It isn't healthy to sit in a room alongside unpainted walls. Furthermore, it would be downright rude to let all of that good food go to waste. A household could become toxic.

In order, therefore, to fold up the old year and welcome in the new, my resolution -- which was initially complex and life-affirming -- has been modified to fit the demands of my busy day: I am going to drink more water. In the meantime, someone hand me that box of chocolate-covered cherries and the Lay's potato chips while I go pour myself a great big glass of H2O. And while we're at it -- has anyone seen my apron?

<:^)

Slumdog Millionaire

I like to go to a movie on New Year's Eve. It was what Don and I did in Ottawa, right up until he died. We used to say we found 'our people' there, and so, it seemed, we did.

Last night, with Mary, I went to see Slumdog Millionaire. It seems like some sort of fluke to me today that, given all of the recent high-profile films, we saved the best for the last. The story, which I won't spoil for anyone who has not seen it, revolves in and around the lives of three Mumbain children, Salim, Jamal and Latika. Salim and Jamal are brothers, and as such they are very different from one another, Salim, the older, having to take on the bulk of the family responsibility after their mother dies.

I have two sons, and like Salim and Jamal, they are quite different. My older son I have not seen for quite some time. Yesterday, while I was cleaning out an old trunk, I came upon a workbook belonging to him, written when he was aged seven. I opened it up.

In the spring Jen likes to clean. I love my mother. I love my mother best in the springtime.

I held the workbook close to my chest for fear my heart would break. I thought back to this happy child, my boy, who used to lisp and tell everyone he loved them. On another page he wrote

I would like to meet the mailman. I want to be a mailman when I grow up. I like skiping with my sister.

Life changes us all, and often we don't know why. I sat through that movie and I saw Salim and Jamal and Latika, and I saw my three children. On the way home, I said to myself

He loved me best in the spring. And I am thinking -- I am hoping -- that that is still true.