What's Cooking

[Chairs 2, 3, 4, 5 & 6]

Fran Lebowitz

Could not only explain the foreign policy lecture, but would do so with prickly wit and a striking honesty, leaving me (for example) breathless and gasping for more. (Think Oliver Twist, asking for porridge.) Furthermore, Fran Lebowitz is the perfect counterpoint to that passive-aggressive relationship I, for one, have with my self-esteem, and there are few people who make me think or laugh as hard as she does. Just think, then, what she could do for Arvo Part or Paula Poundstone.

Dave Foley

Such sparkling eyes! Such sweet demeanour! Such twinkling humour! I believe that Dave Foley is a down-to-earth comical-but-not-cutting compassionate and dear and thoughtful and real person, and I actually confess to an iota of smugness (I, who claim to so loathe tribalism) because he comes from Toronto, a city so many people condemn. He would be an excellent dinner guest and character in my play, making sure to always appear in crisp and clean attire, holding chairs for the ladies and putting his napkin on his lap, where it belongs.

Jessica Lange

Has become one of my favourite actresses over the years, once I got any wrong idea of (her) potential flakedom out of my head. (I am always averse to atmospheres and people who emanate a certain kind of what Don used to call too much fairy dust.) While I think Jessica's husband's plays, and her participation in them, minorly heavy-handed and self-indulgent, I admire what seems to be her frankness, respect for privacy, love of her children, and lack of overweening confidence. She is odd in a way that feels safe and personal, and familiar. I think she will shine at supper as well as in a play that is bound to create a kind of controversy only her sort of intelligent mind could handle during interviews.

Arvo Part

As I said elsewhere, I do not know or even understand a lot about him, but if I had a dime for every theologically-bound person I have loved and respected in my life, I could open a small café with whomever is willing. What's more, Part's awe-inspiring acumen, his patience and regard (so thoroughly evidenced in his work), and the reality that he could discuss the background selections at dinner and their effects on the play's semi-absurdness -- as well as the fact that their themes lend well to both to an idea of a reformed Last Supper and Pirandello -- well, as they say nowadays, having him in my dinner theatre production would be a real coup.

Louise Arbour

Comes highly recommended by mareseatoats, although I am ashamed that I know almost nothing of her except that she is an Aquarian (sign of the genius), is the right age (older than me), is presently the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights, and used to be a Supreme Court of Canada Justice. She was born in Montreal, which makes her bilingualism an essential feature in and of the play, and her parents owned a hotel chain, which so works for me given my own background in the restaurant/hotel business. It will make her participation in the production more believable. Also, she was editor of her school magazine (which is the one thing I would have best loved as a young adult) and will even better contribute to an idea of erudite intellectualism that will no doubt infuse this glorious work. And the best thing about Louise Arbour is her apparent reputation for irreverence, which is to be the highlight of my play and presentation.

<:^)

Rank and File

I have said this before. Well, I have said many things before. But I have said that when you're a woman living with a woman and you used to live with a man -- a man that you love (and all of this complicated by the fact that he died) -- you will be judged. And I mean judged in a way that's apparent. Gay women will shun you or keep a healthy distance because you're not truly one of them. Straight women will be friendly, but not as inclusive as they were when you were wholly straight. (This also applies to women who are bisexual, whether they know they're bisexual or not.) And gay men who used to adore you because, when you were straight, they saw you as someone who could bolster them the way their mothers and other straight girlfriends did, now shun you because you have fallen to the back of the Can't-help-me? No thanks, I'm not-interested file.

Now I can think of a hundred people I know to whom none of this applies, and you know who you are: affectionate, consistent, easy going, compassionate, tender, fun-loving, serious, perceptive, couldn't care less about anyone's sexuality (past present or future). I am not, and I am never, talking about you. And in fact, today, I am not talking about anyone in the first paragraph either...which is kind of my point.

First of all, let me say (and who's trying to stop me?) that in general I love Toronto. There isn't enough space on the page for me to elucidate, except to repeat that this is one of the friendliest cities in which I have lived.

But today I want to talk about a Torontonian trait that drives me mad.

Despite all of the people who couldn't give a rat's rump if a person is gay or straight or somewhere in the middle, there are too many intellectual snobs in this city: Too many people for whom warm and genuine praise is anathema: Too many people who, if you tell them how lovely they look, think you're a vulnerable or inauthentic flake: Too many people who need to let you know where they've been, what they've seen, where they've travelled and who they can name -- and who will shudder if you ask what they do to make their living. (Apparently decent people don't ask questions like that, even if by telling someone where you work you are opening up the relationship to a thousand new and exciting conversations.)

As I said, I mean that nice people are behaving this way. People who would never see you hungry or in serious trouble or left out in the cold. People who respect all manner of religions, ethnicities, backgrounds, and colours. People who work hard, raise children, volunteer, give money to charities. People who would be horrified to hear the word snob and their names uttered in the same sentence. People who would shoot themselves in the foot, in fact, if they thought that they were being unkind.

I'm not sure what it is.

Perhaps the city's too big for people to feel emotionally safe and secure. Maybe five million inhabitants make an individual feel as it there is no point in telling anyone anything personal because who really cares? Perhaps in a city this size everyone feels -- or becomes -- entirely dispensable, so that if Person A doesn't measure up in all things desirable, Person B is living right around the corner and available to apply.

I hate to sound flip. It's one of the things I least like in a person. Flip is so easy. But some days I can't help myself, especially when I have gone out into the world in a warm and friendly way and come home feeling gut-punched by well-intended people because I have used the wrong word or didn't know what President Obama said or can't understand the structure of taxes (or even how to talk about taxes) or haven't gone anywhere 'special' in the last forty years or don't have a solidified career and don't care if I make a great deal of money and can't sky dive or golf or para sail or snowshoe or read a Japanese menu or dissect great art or decipher a bar of music or make extra dry martinis with my eyes closed.

And God forbid I should actually answer someone who asks, "Your mother died when she was how old? And in what way, did you say?" No, you have to keep things tidy. And intellectually stimulating. But not too emotional, and always aware that by almost every other standard you have already come in well past fourth place.

It makes me feel rotten, inside and out, as if a thousand termites lived on my tongue and bumble bees had gouged out my eyes. It makes me want to run and hide away in the countryside with quiet neighbours who bake pies for a living and do all of their laundry by hand. And it makes me feel glad that I can't answer their questions or satisfy their notions about why I might care what kind of day they have had -- which has little or nothing to do with their stock market portfolios or the superior quality of the hybrid vegetables they have growing in their illustrious backyards.

Speaking of rank, I'm with Marcellus: Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

LG 150 Recall Rigmarole

I didn't even want a new cell phone. I like the one I have, although I don't use it more than five times a year. I only got it as a means of contact with my daughter in case of cottage travel emergencies.

Anyway, the first recall message I received was by telephone from a friendly man named Don who suggested I ask for a Samsung M510. Not knowing much about the particulars, I had no idea what that meant, although his tone suggested that a Samsung M510 could mean a phone of many features. In the meantime, I contacted my daughter (whose own LG 150 had been accidentally laundered at home and was a little bit warped) of the recall. She went over to her nearest Virgin Mobile kiosk, where she was instantly handed an LG Muziq, a phone clearly worth a lot more than the LG 150 (and more apt to work than one full of suds).

By the time I got to the same kiosk about three days later, their replacement phones were all gone, but the young man assured me that I should write in for an LG 160, as they were indeed the superior phone. (I might not be young, or sexy and savvy, but Buster, I'm not dead yet.) I thanked him, and opted to wait until I was back in Toronto to take up this matter again.

When I got home, I decided to call one of their toll free numbers because I was confused by the mixed messages I was receiving by phone and in person and from the various web sites. While it was almost sort of fairly practically somewhat clear that "Health Canada is of the opinion, based on the review of test results and its assessment of current science, that the past and current use of the LG 150 should not pose immediate or long-term health concerns" the words "should not" made me feel a little bit nervous. Should is a modal and, while remarkably friendly, does not touch the meaning of will.

I also noted the difference between the LG web site message and the one put out by Virgin Mobile:

Please note, however, that because customer satisfaction and safety continue to be our primary commitment, we are taking a proactive approach and working in cooperation with our carriers to allow all LG 150 phones to be returned. http://ca.lge.com/lg150/

versus:

"Needless to say, we're doing everything we can to ensure our customers are all aware of LG's voluntary recall and of the simple way to get a replacement phone, at no cost," said Andrew Black, President and CEO, Virgin Mobile Canada. "Customer experience is our number one priority and we are very focused on getting our customers their new phones as quickly as possible."

http://www.virginmobile.ca/vmc/en/whyChooseUs/wc_012709.html

So I called the toll free number to try and ascertain the upper edge of the fine line. The young man with whom I spoke told me, to the best of my memory, that while the recall was voluntary, everyone should (there's that word again, this time used in an entirely different context) turn their phones in; that they were a risk and wouldn't have been recalled otherwise. So then I was left wondering -- and given this cynical age, who could fault me? -- why anyone would offer a free phone if they didn't have to?

So off I went to another kiosk, this one in Toronto. The young woman advised me that there was nothing really wrong with the phones; that they simply didn't meet Radio standards (whatever that means); that her mother had the LG 150 and that she wasn't trading hers in and that, if I wanted a new one, I'd have to hand over my LG 150 then and there and wait until the mail offered up a new one.

So then I called Virgin Mobile to complain and ask them to clarify. Ultimately, a friendly woman took my call, and we discussed the ramifications of all of these mixed messages. She was able to semi-satisfy me by telling me that the only replacement for the LG 150 is (not ought to have been or should be) the LG 160 -- $29.99 at Best Buy -- I have to ask, who could blame anyone for being disgruntled knowing they were going to get a basic phone versus an LG Muziq (harumph!) -- $149.97 at Best Buy? She did not, however, satisfy me in terms of the health issues. She told me that it wasn't up to Virgin Mobile to make that decision for their customers, which kind of begs another question: why the recall? And if it isn't up to Virgin Mobile to take a stand on the health issue aspect, then why did one of their phone operators tell me I ought to switch phones?

In the end, I didn't get a new phone. Despite their promise of a trade-off of same or equal value, I paid more at Best Buy than $29.99 for the LG 150, and a new phone, as I said, is not what I wanted. Oh no. Instead I got a lot more -- so much, in fact, that the next time I'm shopping around, it likely won't be with Virgin Mobile or for a product made by LG. If people can't come together and get their stories, radio waves, standards, recalls, replacements, or values straight, then I don't want their products. In the meantime, let's hope my head doesn't swell up like a melon or my teeth fall out. That wouldn't be pleasant for anyone.

Mr. Watson, come here, I want to see you.
Alexander Graham Bell's first telephone words.

I know how he feels.

<:^)

What's Cooking

I have decided to write a play entitled Twelve Chairs For Pirandello, which will be a modern and antithetical abstract re-enactment of the Last Supper, although in this case, Jesus, who is absent, will not die (and I intend no sacrilege) (although I do think this is the first time in my life I spelled sacrilege correctly the first time round). For the dinner portion of the play, I have already created my guest list (beside each name below, highlighting my reasons why):

[Chair 1]: Noam Chomsky

While I am averse to naming my children on this site, I suppose it is safe enough to say that Don and I and our youngest son had the privilege (why would sacrilege have been so hard to spell, given privilege?) of hearing Mr. Chomsky lecture on Foreign Policy in the amphitheatre at the University of Prince Edward Island about 17 years ago. Our son had recently broken his arm (in five, count them, places) and so was in a proper sling cum cast (or is that cast cum sling?), and at best was as shy as any young school-aged boy could be. We arrived early (we were, in fact, the first three arrivals), securing the best seats -- somewhat left of centre, on an aisle, not too high, not too low. On stage, Noam Chomsky chatted with a stagehand (or microphone expert or whatever the proper term is), then made an ambling move toward the door.

I whispered to my son, "You must go down and introduce yourself," a suggestion met with an astonished blotched face and even lower whispers of, "No, Mummy. I can't do that." Down he went and out the door (never trust a seven-year-old), and gone he was for ten or fifteen minutes. (Don and I thought perhaps he had drowned himself in the water fountain.) Returning to his seat he relayed the conversation he had had with Mr. Chomsky as best he could, which went something like (and he can correct me if I'm wrong)...

"Hello, Mr. Chomsky. I would like to introduce myself. My name is Noam, and I wanted to tell you that I was named for you." I am sure were it not for his cast/sling, Noam the younger would have held out his right hand, but I am almost certain I recall the other hand being used, which is neither here nor there except for the thrill I felt for my son who was shaking the hand of that man. And because I haven't an eidetic memory and instead a selective one (that's what hormones are for, correct?), the middle part of the story escapes me, but I do recall that the end of their conversation was, to my ears at least, spectacular:

Noam the senior leaned down to Noam the junior and smiled, looking Noam the junior square in the eye. "And do people call you Norm, too?" he asked. (Don and I found this especially funny because our Noam had had a recent prescription and, sure enough, typed onto the bottle's label was the name Norm.)

That night Noam Chomsky delivered a long lecture -- almost none of which I understood -- straight into the eyes of our mottled-faced son. The three of us couldn't have been more thrilled, for a whole host of reasons.

The other thing I remember vividly about that night is a professor (who I shall not here name) standing at the microphone for too many minutes during the question period and asking several combative questions, all of which Noam Chomsky answered quietly, politely, and, what seemed to me, comprehensively. That professor, in fact, allegedly spent several subsequent years jailed for sexual assault charges against young boys. Anyway, I am not sure I would seat Noam Chomsky next to anyone who might not quite understand or agree with him -- and never next to a pedophile (which is why Woody Allen was not invited) -- but he is certainly at the top of my play list.

[End of Part 1]

<:^)

And The Winner Is...

For 17 years (it began as a way of keeping the kids entertained when we first moved to Ottawa and had to live in the smallish hotel/apartment for nine months), our family, and eventually our family and friends, have been having a bit of an Oscar night where everyone comes with their sealed envelopes, ten dollars and filled-in ballots enclosed, prepared for a long night of hooting, hollering, and oil-enhanced carbohydrates, and where the sound of my daughter every ten minutes or so bursts forth, "How many have I got right, Mom?"

I know that I would be asking the same question -- probably every five minutes -- except that I am the Mrs. Hitler of the Fifth Form (see The Browning Version with Albert Finney version, although both versions are splendid) who sits in the chair, a bowl of Doritos in my lap and a leaky red pen making check marks and slash lines on everyone's papers. So busy am I etching my exes and ticks, in fact, I barely see any of the action on television, which might be a good thing when I think back to the year that Liza with a z Minnelli won for Cabaret and I jumped up and down so hard in Paula Ouimet's wooden chair that I broke it. (What was I thinking? Mind you, I had just fallen in love with that indescribable Mr. Ackerman and was already half out of my mind) (or as I said...what was I thinking?)

This year I am happy to report that I have seen almost all the big name movies. Mind you, does it really matter who any of us think is going to win, should win, shouldn't win, needs to win, or has a winning turn coming to them? A movie can be nominated for 11 Oscars, have won all the SAG and Golden Globe Awards, break everybody's heart, and still not win. Or it can be a maudlin pretentious cloying over-acted over-directed over-produced mess and still pick up seventeen prizes.

Frankly, I think a lot of it has to do with politics and who's in power and who's about to be, or has been recently, elected and who has just died and who hates who and who loves who (objective case, and objectivity, cast aside). I don't think much of it has to do with deserving because, after all, isn't almost everyone who is nominated deserving of an Oscar, either this time or for another time when they were not nominated? I can't think of a seasoned performer (or even a relatively unseasoned performer: see previous nominees Marion Cotillard and Saoirse Ryan, to name just two) who shouldn't at some point have won, or win, a best-in-category prize. Which leads me to ask...why weren't David Cross or Dev Patel or Madur Mittal nominated?

All I do know it that I am going to over-talk, over-eat, over-mark; cry at least twice (but only for the kids and maybe again for Joanne Woodward); laugh myself half-sick (but only half); have a thousand non-conflicted but conflicting opinions about dress-up or dress-down designer threads and duds; deride Jack Nicholson's sunglasses; wish there were no politically-motivated thank you speeches; enjoy everyone who is here in our home; drink a little bit of wine and enjoy them even more; lament the length of the program, and regret when it is over. And speaking of Oscar night, I hope that one of my last tipsy memories at bedtime will be the sound of my daughter's voice crying out over the telephone, "How many did I get right, Mom?"

In the meantime everyone, happy voting! At the very least, if I can't win, I hope one of my children does.

I voted for Seabiscuit. That's the most realistic horse costume I've ever seen. ~ Billy Crystal, 76th Academy Awards

Channel Surfing

Holy mother of God. What has become of television?

This morning, still flu-ridden, I flipped over to Ellen Degeneres, whose star guest (or guest star) was Naomi Watts -- looking and sounding more like Nicole Kidman than Nicole Kidman. What's that all about? I have read somewhere that these women are long-time best friends, but it was positively creepy, even if Ms Watts is polite and friendly and living with Liev Schreiber. Imitation may be a form of flattery, but I think a person would do better to send compliments or a basket of roses.

Reminds me now of that young woman I so don't like -- Ellen Page -- doing her impression of Janeane Garofalo's acerbic shtick impression of Kathy Bates's acerbic shtick...like a t.v. within a t.v. within a t.v... (I think the three women ought to play multi-generational family members in a remake of The Waltons -- Come Down From That Mountain -- a show I confess to admiring from time to time...or, if not admiring, at least basking in.)

Anyway, this afternoon after my slow chores had been completed, I turned back to the t.v. and the movie channels. Here's what I found:

Kickin' It Old School -- a movie about breakdancers

Semi-Pro -- a movie about basketball

Poor Boy's Game -- a movie about boxing

Transformers -- a movie about robots

The Diving Bell and The Butterfly -- a movie about a man who has had a massive stroke

Just as I was about to switch over to radio (but, in my condition, could I deal with Marilyn Lightstone?) I spied with my little eye -- it's not really little, but only slightly smaller than the other one -- something that was old (1963) and starring the two actors who long-ago and ever-presently epitomize/d my parents -- she emotionally, he physically: Judy Garland and Dirk Bogarde. Count the irony (alcoholism/divorce/Flemish/writer/he died the same age as my father, she close to my mother's age...) in that hearty little love story -- she (in her last film role) as Jenny (yes, Jenny), and he as my favouritely-named David -- David Donne (yes, Donne) -- in I Could Go on Singing. The story just about kills me every time I see it, especially when they get to the part about their young son and his re-acquaintanceship with his mother. I remember those days so well, except that I wasn't in a pricey boarding school and my father wasn't a doctor. My mother, however...

Anyway, I can see that I'm wavering from anything that is interesting to anyone but me -- hey...isn't that what I'm supposed to do? -- and I have a special hamburger preparation brewing in the kitchen and have to dash. But if anyone can recommend something watchable throughout this long season of flu, I'd be grateful. I was trying to ride the channel surfing wave, and ended up channelling. But all of that imitative robotic breakdancing basketball boxing cerebral hemorrhaging was making me dizzy. What else could I do?

<:^)

Menu Planning

I am trying to order three (with at least one vegan) item/s for an organizational function (what does that mean, I wonder?) -- for an evening celebration of writers (which sounds pretentious, although this couldn't be further from), and I have whittled it down to five options, but, for the life of me, cannot determine the winning three. It's all turning into a SACU test...you know, rock is to earth as sun is to ________. (You don't even want to know how poorly I did on those tests, and try as I might to blame it on the four dozen Oreo cookies, if that were true then why did my roommate Kathy, who also sat up all night and ate with me, do so well? Survery says...)

Anyway, here are the whittled-down choices:

Crudités: A selection of seasonal veggies including carrot, celery, broccoli and cherry tomatoes with a blue cheese or ranch dip.

Of course, I'm allergic to blue cheese and celery -- yes I am -- and raw vegetables give me a stomach ache. And those little cherry tomatoes make me nervous. What if one gets stuck in my throat in the middle of that short speech I have to make? Which reminds me of that poor man at the Beaverbrook Hotel and his friend doing the Heimlich while his wife looked helplessly on. Only he wasn't choking to death, he was having a heart attack. (See where my brain goes and how lucky you are?)

Cheese Platter: A variety of sliced and cubed cheeses such as cheddar, Swiss, brie and camembert.

All well and good except for the lactose intolerance. I was on a train not so long ago suffering the slings and arrows of cheddar and brie -- usually I'm so good about this -- but stuff a plateful of orange-coloured cubes in front of my face and I'm a goner, especially if there are breadsticks and little rye toasts. I remember a few years back how one of my kids and I got hooked on those jars of cheese that you drip over nachos...oh my God, they were good...kind of like Cheez Whiz for rich people (except we weren't rich).

Fruit Platter: Seasonal fruit including seedless grapes, kiwi and melons.

Kiwi? Do they know how many people are allergic to kiwi? And I don't mean in a tiny little break out in a momentary rash way, oh no. I mean in a full-blown anaphylactic grab me that Epi-Pen kit and call 911 where's the ambulance way. Don't even put me in the same room with a kiwi. I am choking already.

Assorted Cold Cut Platter: A vast array of hand sliced meats including smoked chicken, cappicola, black forest ham and genoa salami.

Now, this is fine, except for the cholesterol and the recurring bowel polyps -- oh yes, and the vegans. On the other hand, is there anything tastier than a super bologna sandwich, served up on homemade bread with a soupcon of moutard, a small side of pickles, and a plateful of ch-- Oh dear. I was going to say cheese.

Hummus Platter: A blend of roasted red pepper and roasted garlic hummus served with toasted flour pita toasts.

Or as my friend Lisa used to say, Hummus where the heart is, which, when I look back on this entire list of food options (and remember, I can only pick three) seems to be true because, except for the gall bladder intolerance, this item is clearly the most palatable for me.

Typically, I wouldn't even factor myself into the equation, oh no not at all, but choosing is an arduous task -- haven't you learned anything from this exercise? -- and what good will I be if I am gasping and gassing my way through the entire event? If it's blue cheese and veggies and kiwi they want, then let them eat cake. As for me, I'll be in the corner chowing down on hummus and grapes and a fistful of ham...not too hard, not too soft...just the way the doctor ordered.

Say cheeeeeese!

<:^)

In A Manner Of Speaking

According to the Internet, here are the ten most misspelled/misused words found in blogs:

1. Your - You’re
2. Then - Than
3. Its - it’s
4. To - Too - Two
5. Were - Where - We’re
6. There - Their - They’re
7. A - An - And
8. Off - Of
9. Here - Hear
10. Lose - Loose


According to the Internet, here are the past ten years' worth of Scripps National Spelling Bee winning words (and their winners):

1998:
chiaroscurist
Jody-Anne Maxwell

1999:
logorrhea
Nupur Lala

2000:
demarche
George Abraham Thampy

2001:
succedaneum
Sean Conley

2002:
prospicience
Pratyush Buddiga

2003:
pococurante
Sai R. Gunturi

2004:
autochthonous
David Scott Pilarski Tidmarsh

2005:
appoggiatura
Anurag Kashyap

2006:
Ursprache
Kerry Close

2007:
serrefine
Evan M. O’Dorney

2008:
guerdon
Sameer Mishra

Does anyone else see the discrepancy, or am I merely over-taxed because of this interminable flu? Anyway, what I love best is that some of the spelling bee words haven't yet made Spellcheck -- say, there's a surprise -- which now leads me to the question (or am I begging one?) ... if we who blog spent more time with our noses elsewhere (in a dictionary, perhaps) we might know the meaning, or at least how to spell four, of those winning words. As it is, the only one familiar to me is logorrhea, and that's because I have it.

<:^)

~ By Lines ~

Incident
Once riding in old Baltimore,
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee;
I saw a Baltimorean
Keep looking straight at me.

Now I was eight and very small,
And he was no whit bigger,
And so I smiled, but he poked out
His tongue, and called me, "Nigger."

I saw the whole of Baltimore
From May until December;
Of all the things that happened there
That's all that I remember.

Countee Cullen 1903 - 1946

Homeland Security

I'm not sure why, but someone from a Rogers email account is trying to access my Sitemeter. This reminds me of how I, as a young babysitter, was always rummaging through desk drawers and cookie jars (the one to access information, the other to satisfy chronic carbohydrate cravings).

When I was ten, in fact, the older boy next door was so in love with my older sister that, one evening when he had been invited over to babysit (me), we spent the better part of our time together rifling through my sister's garbage pail and re-taping a love letter she had written to some boy who wasn't our next door neighbour. But I was ten, and he was all of fifteen, and some things can be understood and easily forgiven.

In case this matters to anyone but me, the reason I opted for Sitemeter is because of the many wonderful students I have had who occasionally access this site from points around the world (Mexico, Colombia, France, Italy, Japan, China, Germany, Switzerland, and so on). While I am not able to cull names from the reading list, I do have some idea: location (by way of maps), entries read (what they enjoy), time spent reading (should I be helping in some way), and like that. I also know that, to date, I have had almost 7000 pages read (I immodestly confess that this figure stuns me) and that, once in a while, someone will outclick on my photo (God help them).

But technology -- at least that which is free-of-charge -- does not yet offer up names. If it did, I would be emailing my Rogers' guest and asking her (or him) what it is she (or he) so desperately wants to know. In the meantime, I am able to give you some (im?)pertinent facts here and now, if you think this will help:

Age: a rather constant 37, which is, after all, my favourite number
Sun sign: Aries (moon in Aries, Scorpio rising...so look out...)
Favourite colour: What day of the week is it?
Favourite day of the week: What day of the week is it?
Favourite flower: yellow ones and sometimes pink
Occupation: bartender/ophthalmic technician/teacher (yes, qualified...)/proof reader/editor/writer
Favourite pets: Strabinsky, Munchy, Galoshes, Sneakers, Boots, Slippers, Ralph and Pooh Bear, Jenny and Jeeves
Favourite Beatnik Baby: Lainey
Favourite t.v. shows: The New Adventure of Old Christine; Graham Norton; Antiques Roadshow; Escape to the Country; Masterpiece Theatre; American Idol (what can I say?)
Favourite food: deep-fried chicken, which my gall bladder will no longer tolerate

I could go on, but enough about me me me. If there is anything you want to know in any real and meaningful way, just click your mouse on my email address and ask away. I won't bite and, if you're really nice, I might even share my cookies with you. Right now though, I have to go pack. I have a train to catch early tomorrow, and time's a'wastin'. There's a beatnik baby waiting, and tomorrow's my favourite day.

<:^)

Das ist das Hinterland, nicht?

I am studying German the second time around and am just as inept at it today as I was seventeen years ago. No...make that more inept. As much as I find myself titillated sitting on the other side of the desk (that is, seated...which reminds me of a first-hand story I heard years ago about a teacher who used to whip chalk at delinquent students in her classroom. One day, fed up with the constant battery of flying projectiles, the students waited until the teacher's back was turned and then ready and aiming, they fired). (Which now reminds me of the time Rowan Fitzgerald accidentally bonked me in the back of the head with a tennis ball, to which I responded, "Oh no! Not my medulla oblongata!" A person might take this episode as anomalous, except I did the same thing to my young son about my carotid artery that time Michael was driving us all who knows where in his little blue Civic and we hit a patch of ice. The car kept going, as did my child in the back seat, who was suddenly flung forward and had no choice but to wrap his arms around my neck and hang on.. And I wonder why we have problems....)

But I digress.

German. Yes. Or should I say ja?

First off, I am really bad as an either/or person. (Oh my god, the buried symbolism in that remark could hang an entire town.) For example, if you ask me, "Who said -- A fool shows his annoyance at once, but a prudent man overlooks an insult -- Shakespeare or The Bible?" I'll mess it up every time. (Mind you, Shakespeare and Jesus said an awful lot of similar things, despite the divergences in their backgrounds.) Anyway, German's really tricky because so much of it sounds like English, except with many more syllables in one word. So where this all leads me is into the following pool of confused muck: Wer means who, not where. Was is what, not was. Wie is how, not we, and so on. The numbers are even worse. Although sechs does indeed sound like six, and sieben like seven, I want to invert their order because sieben begins with si (see: six) and sechs begins with se (see: seven). And how about all the Sies? Sie is used for second person singular, third person singular, second person plural (but only when formal), third person singular...which I suppose isn't all that different from English, except when you consider that in German you also have to worry about declensions and gender and the fact that I haven't discussed nominative and accusative since I was in love with Mr. Carey in grade seven. And what about the capitals on all those nouns?

I shall do the best I can, but I already knew how much trouble I was in last night when one of the women at that wonderful place where I volunteer on Thursday nights said something in German (as a way of helping me), and I was the only one of five who did not understand and the only one of five taking--who had ever taken--German. Clearly, when it comes to second language learning, I might as well be back on the outskirts of mid-20th-century Kirkland Lake, the place of my birth, going down into the gold mines with all the post-war vets, battered and bruised.

Ach, I say! Or is that Auch? Or Och? Or...

<:^)

Wait Watchers

Losing weight is hard. If it were only Christmas and the jet lag of New Year's exercise patterns (holding holding holding), but then once the flu hits.... Wait. Did I say once the flu hits? How about once, twice, three times (a lady?) you're out with a sinus inflammation that puffs up your nose and stiffens your neck and overlaps dental roots -- silver fillings, pins, root canals and crowns included -- to the point where an abscess would feel like a blessing. (Okay, I'm lying about that last part, and I ought to know better given that I have just come in from the dentist's.) Still, jumping into the swimming pool is out because anything cold near my head feels like a heave-ho of hammering ice picks, and the treadmill is toast (I wish!) because as soon as I get up past 1k an hour my teeth rattle out of my head, and salad's no good because those crunchy baby carrots and diced English cucumber bits send me writhing in pain, shrieking and calling for Mama. Mammmmma!

Which reminds me of the time I lived in Wyn Evans dining room (long story) (but no longer than one year) in grade ten and fell asleep on the living room floor one skip-school afternoon while Wyn Evans' daughter, Marilyn, and a bunch of our friends were watching Dick Cavett. (Dick Cavity?) Apparently I sat up in the middle of my nap and cried out, "Comes to me, comes to me, comes to me! Nobody comes to me!" How could I forget that? (No one would let me.) I was thinner in those days (all right -- less fat. Have it your way), but the cigarettes had something to do with that, and I don't think that early morning spliff hurt, either.

Which all leads me to young Michael Phelps, who -- horror of horrors -- was photographed (why would anyone do that to anyone?) smoking dope. And yes, there was the earlier drinking and driving charge, but oh my God. What twenty-three-year old man-like amphibian/amphibian-like man living with all of the pressure his life must entail (I know, because I used to be a kid who watched Dick Cavett) wouldn't need to get away from it all now and again? I sit it and laugh through my aching teeth, in fact, remembering all of my friends and their various habits: liquor, cigarettes, dope, cocaine, mescaline, hash oil, peyote, LSD ... and certainly not to condone, but I have the worst potato chip addiction in the world, so who am I to talk? Who are any of us to talk?

And I ask you -- what is a flu-ridden woman to do but sit and stare at the television and take in these dire tales of abominable behaviour, a bucket of softened potato chips in her jelly roll lap? (Come to think of it, that's how I got my nickname: jelly to jolly to Jollifer.) In the meantime, who can account for all the calories in canned chicken noodle soup with a side of soft-butter crackers chased with three bowls full/bowlsful/bowlfuls (have it your way) of pudding? Nothing to do but wait it out I suppose...wait wait wait wait weight.

Once, twice, three times a lay-lee...
Pablo Coffey, age two

<:^)

Worrier and Ives

My son just sent me photos of his baby's ultrasound. Wait -- that reads weirdly. I guess I should say...photos of an ultrasound of his baby. I hope he (my son, not the baby) won't mind me writing a bit about it here, but I am so thoroughly impressed by the baby's laid-back nature -- he's only minus 6 months old -- I am beside myself. I mean, how often do you catch a pre-newborn reading Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance? He's relaxed all right. He's got headphones on, too -- I could just make out the corner of Debussy's Claire de Lune cd -- and I think I can see the outline of a Gatorade bottle. (No Pepsi?) Over at the edge of his room sits a spinning globe -- the older version...Yugoslavia, USSR, Czechoslovakia -- so I'm pretty sure he's going to be a traveller. Even when he waves he's got that easy-going wrist action, a boy of casual, friendly hellos and goodbyes.

I remember when I watched the first video of Lainey. She was about the same age, give or take a semi-demi-hemi-trimester. She wasn't reading or listening to music or waving hello. At first -- I guess because of the shoulder action -- I thought she was dancing. But then I saw the gavel in her hand and a copy of the Hippocratic oath lying at her feet. Even more surprising, she wasn't tripping over her tiny robe. (There are genes, and there are genes.) I am not exactly certain what was going on, but you can be sure that the accused felt like one sorry fool that day. When she (Lainey) finally spun around to look at me, her eyes got really really big, as if she recognized something, but then I faintly heard the court bailiff calling in the next victim, and off she went, her nose in some law book, her hand ready to pound.

I also remember what my own children were doing at approximately the same ages. One of them was reggin' to Bob Marley and smoking what we used to call a joystick. The other -- and this while tossing back a tin of lager -- dunked fifteen perfect hoop shots (if that's how you say it) in a row. Still another was frying up an egg and bologna sandwich while reading a manual on forced air furnaces. I'll leave you to do the guessing. Meanwhile, I've got some work to do. There's a basketful of size three stiff wing collars waiting to be ironed and several travel agencies to be called. No matter what else, I feel I'm covered.

<:^)

Super Bowl Sunday Scores!

I confess that I am not a typical football fan. Oh, I buy the Cheesies and Pepsi and such, and I make sure there's a warm woollen blanket for that stretch on the couch. I even go as far as lining the cats along the back of the sofa for long-term insulation, hauling in extra treats as a bribe. (Last year Sneakers kicked up quite a fuss because I served up Doritos instead of Transfat-free Lays. Go figure.) In added measure, I check the weather forecast the night before, hoping for sunshine, change the batteries in the remote, shower myself squeakingly clean, and bow to the east for good luck (an old fruitcake trick my mother taught me when I was a child). Then, when the big day arrives, I plop myself down, surrounded by all that is happy and good, and wham! Off I go with the channel changer.

Yesterday, in fact, was the best Super Bowl Sunday I can remember. While the Steelers (I recently visited Pittsburgh -- the population is nuts for their football, and Steelers' paraphernalia sellers dominate the city) and -- what was the name of the other team? -- charge in to pummel and pound, I set off through the airwaves. Here's what I found:

Emma
Gosford Park
Sense and Sensibility
Stranger Than Fiction
Iris
Remains of the Day
Four Weddings and a Funeral

While I admit that Gwyneth Paltrow's English accent has at this point worn minorly thin, that Andie MacDowell can't act her way out of a paper bag (it's not my fault that she chose this career), and that Kate Winslet and Emma Thompson seem to have got the wrong-way-around men in Sense and Sensibility (and this is what they call poverty?), I could not have been more delighted -- not merely several of cinema's greatest stories, but a day spent with Juliet Stevenson, Alan Cuming, Greta Scacchi, John Hannah, Simon Callow, Jeremy Northam (twice!), Toni Collette, (Dame) Judi Dench, Jim Broadbent, Kris Marshall, Maggie Smith, Bob Balaban, Kristin Scott Thomas (twice), Stephen Fry, Emily Watson, Helen Mirren, Alan Bates, Clive Owen, Michael Gambon, Eileen Atkins, Hugh Bonneville, Penelope Wilton, Tom Wilkinson, Emma Thompson, Kate Winslet, Hugh Grant (also twice) (this one's for Mary, twice), Robert Hardy, Kelly Macdonald, Will Ferrell (who was great in STF), Maggie Gyllenhaal, Tom Hulce, Dustin Hoffman, and Linda Hunt (have you seen her in the Year of Living Dangerously?)

What can I say, but wow! what a day! Oh yeah -- and go, Steelers, go!

<:^)