There are moments when I visit Ottawa that I can barely choke down all of the memories, all of the dreams we had there, and so many -- too many -- changes. I never once dreamt in all those years that one day there would be children I would not know, or that some of the people I loved more than life -- people I once would have died for -- would vanish. I did not know that I would drive along the canal and irrefutably understand that I could never come back; that our small world would change in a hundred thousand ways; that there would be no more laughter at that kitchen table on Gilmour Street.
But there are other things I did not know, either. That I would hear the words of a little girl call out to me over the phone, "Grammie's coming on the train? Soon?" or that a child would run gleefully across the pavement in her rubber boots towards me when I arrived, the wind picking up the soft ends of her hair and blowing them across her baby cheeks. I did not know that I would sit in a bingo hall with Mary and my daughter, and with two of my daughter's friends -- young women I met so many years ago -- and talk and carry on and feel as if time had changed nothing.
I think I know why it is we walk around -- how we are able to walk around -- harbouring small injustices. It's because the big ones are just too much to carry. There are only so many tears a person can choke back before she drowns, and only so many more late afternoons where she can sit back and flourish in the sun.
Tuesday, March 31
Friday, March 27
Mix-ups and Mayhem
Holy mother of God, I am not meant for domestication.
Yesterday morning, I marched into the back yard armed with the imperial (okay...practically indignant) decision that I would clean it up. It was now my turn to take some action and give a truly helping hand, rather than offer up my usual elaborate list of (albeit helpful) suggestions. Out I went in my shorts and t-shirt and pink clogs, two big brown bags and a pair of floral-print gardening gloves under my arm, hauling rakes and brooms and hoses for leaves and (leftover-from-winter) doggie droppings, toting paper towel and pungent (toxic?) Vim foam cleaner and old washcloths to wipe down the white wringer washer and green plastic (sigh...plastic) chairs. I hadn't taken three steps when I smashed the top of my head into the overhanging cherry tree (well, it's not really a cherry tree, but it reminds me of one, and cherry tree sounds so much more beautiful than, say, jack pine tree), setting off the wind chimes and causing a flurry of squirrel activity. Two steps later, a five-foot-long rose bush branch whipped across the back of my right leg, leaving five deep slashes from heel to thigh. As I reeled forward, then backward, I fell into another tree branch that left a poke-size indentation between my shoulder blades, all of which caused me to lunge forward again into the rose bush branch, this time cutting my right arm and the front of my left leg. I was a bleeding mess. As I raised my head in agony I smucked my head, hard, into the cherry tree, setting off the chimes again. I am almost embarrassed to say how long it took me to make the yard beautiful (five hours) or how badly I needed a chiropractor by the time I was finished. I did manage to save myself from broken bones, and I had a wonderfully detailed conversation with two chubby slugs that had made their home under the rotting sisal mat. They told me about their rugged winter and asked me what was in the offing for the Canadian economy. I sympathised, apologized for the dog droppings (at which point they looked at me aghast and said, "Apologize? Whatever for?!") and told them that I didn't think it mattered what was happening with the economy: we were all doomed. I have to tell you that my head ached until well past midnight, and I have leg gouges so deep that I am afraid the septicemia will bypass my limbs and rush straight to my heart.
Then, bloody and bruised, I decided to try an indoor sport. I took up the challenge that Splenda had offered me and began making a batch of chocolate chip cookies. Now I don't want to decry artificial sweeteners just yet, and there is every reason to suspect that I mucked up the recipe, but, an hour later as I stood staring at the hard biscuit-like masses of chocolate chip cookies, I knew I had to start again. I raced up to the computer trolling for recipes, and spent another twenty minutes poring over my Pillsbury baking book. This time, I thought, I will try an entirely new recipe -- one calling for both shortening and butter. I am not sure why I thought that all that extra fat would help (mirror mirror on the wall...), but it wasn't long before I realized that something had gone dreadfully wrong. The cookies came out of the oven floating in a bathtub of oil. Worse, they had expanded to the size of small Frisbees, each one interlocking with the other. When I tried to disengage them, they drizzled through my fingers and piled at my feet in slippery liquid globs. As it turns out, I had used the fluid measure for the fat instead of the dry measure, and at that point did not realize that if a person cooks with Splenda she ought to reduce the sugar requirement by half. In other words, one cup sugar = 1/2 cup Splenda. I couldn't even tempt the cats with a "Here kitty kitty! Look -- treats!" I don't know how long I stood there, although by that point the day was well into early afternoon and I had not even showered. Third times the charm, I said to myself, and another trip to the computer with some appropriate questions cleared up a few more mysteries. But just in case I had missed something, I decided to switch from chocolate chips -- many of which had fallen off the previous batches and had hardened into the floor -- and turn to the ever-reliable oatmeal. The recipe promised that I could make 62 golf-ball sized edible delectables, but I am sad to say that, despite my careful rendering, only about 44 cookies resulted, most of them wan and small and a little lost-looking.
As a true test of cookie fortitude, I tossed a light jacket overtop my pajamas (don't ask) and ran across the street to our neighbour and friend, Mike, offering up some samples. (He has since replied with several useful suggestions, although I don't think he will be baking with artificial sweeteners any time soon.) My only consolation as I sit here is that some (not all...but some...) of the people who treated me poorly throughout my younger life were excellent cooks. They could whip up a soufflé in the time it takes most of us to turn on the oven, and their blueberry popovers were to die for. Their roses bloomed happily and graciously, their tiny colourful faces turned sweetly toward the sun, and nary a stick nor a stray branch tripped up so much as the lowliest child. It seems, however, that all of this domestication is to elude me. I am not entirely sure why -- I do try -- but I understood with painful finality the depth of my hopelessness when I walked out of the kitchen a few minutes ago and slipped on the oily chocolate mass that now blankets the floor, falling backwards into the baking pans on the counter, sending two dozen or so biscuit-hard cookies flying into the air. As I flailed about in an attempt to grab whatever I could, I caught sight of the flaming red streak creeping belligerently up my leg and figured if that doesn't kill me first, the cookies surely will.
<:^)
Yesterday morning, I marched into the back yard armed with the imperial (okay...practically indignant) decision that I would clean it up. It was now my turn to take some action and give a truly helping hand, rather than offer up my usual elaborate list of (albeit helpful) suggestions. Out I went in my shorts and t-shirt and pink clogs, two big brown bags and a pair of floral-print gardening gloves under my arm, hauling rakes and brooms and hoses for leaves and (leftover-from-winter) doggie droppings, toting paper towel and pungent (toxic?) Vim foam cleaner and old washcloths to wipe down the white wringer washer and green plastic (sigh...plastic) chairs. I hadn't taken three steps when I smashed the top of my head into the overhanging cherry tree (well, it's not really a cherry tree, but it reminds me of one, and cherry tree sounds so much more beautiful than, say, jack pine tree), setting off the wind chimes and causing a flurry of squirrel activity. Two steps later, a five-foot-long rose bush branch whipped across the back of my right leg, leaving five deep slashes from heel to thigh. As I reeled forward, then backward, I fell into another tree branch that left a poke-size indentation between my shoulder blades, all of which caused me to lunge forward again into the rose bush branch, this time cutting my right arm and the front of my left leg. I was a bleeding mess. As I raised my head in agony I smucked my head, hard, into the cherry tree, setting off the chimes again. I am almost embarrassed to say how long it took me to make the yard beautiful (five hours) or how badly I needed a chiropractor by the time I was finished. I did manage to save myself from broken bones, and I had a wonderfully detailed conversation with two chubby slugs that had made their home under the rotting sisal mat. They told me about their rugged winter and asked me what was in the offing for the Canadian economy. I sympathised, apologized for the dog droppings (at which point they looked at me aghast and said, "Apologize? Whatever for?!") and told them that I didn't think it mattered what was happening with the economy: we were all doomed. I have to tell you that my head ached until well past midnight, and I have leg gouges so deep that I am afraid the septicemia will bypass my limbs and rush straight to my heart.
Then, bloody and bruised, I decided to try an indoor sport. I took up the challenge that Splenda had offered me and began making a batch of chocolate chip cookies. Now I don't want to decry artificial sweeteners just yet, and there is every reason to suspect that I mucked up the recipe, but, an hour later as I stood staring at the hard biscuit-like masses of chocolate chip cookies, I knew I had to start again. I raced up to the computer trolling for recipes, and spent another twenty minutes poring over my Pillsbury baking book. This time, I thought, I will try an entirely new recipe -- one calling for both shortening and butter. I am not sure why I thought that all that extra fat would help (mirror mirror on the wall...), but it wasn't long before I realized that something had gone dreadfully wrong. The cookies came out of the oven floating in a bathtub of oil. Worse, they had expanded to the size of small Frisbees, each one interlocking with the other. When I tried to disengage them, they drizzled through my fingers and piled at my feet in slippery liquid globs. As it turns out, I had used the fluid measure for the fat instead of the dry measure, and at that point did not realize that if a person cooks with Splenda she ought to reduce the sugar requirement by half. In other words, one cup sugar = 1/2 cup Splenda. I couldn't even tempt the cats with a "Here kitty kitty! Look -- treats!" I don't know how long I stood there, although by that point the day was well into early afternoon and I had not even showered. Third times the charm, I said to myself, and another trip to the computer with some appropriate questions cleared up a few more mysteries. But just in case I had missed something, I decided to switch from chocolate chips -- many of which had fallen off the previous batches and had hardened into the floor -- and turn to the ever-reliable oatmeal. The recipe promised that I could make 62 golf-ball sized edible delectables, but I am sad to say that, despite my careful rendering, only about 44 cookies resulted, most of them wan and small and a little lost-looking.
As a true test of cookie fortitude, I tossed a light jacket overtop my pajamas (don't ask) and ran across the street to our neighbour and friend, Mike, offering up some samples. (He has since replied with several useful suggestions, although I don't think he will be baking with artificial sweeteners any time soon.) My only consolation as I sit here is that some (not all...but some...) of the people who treated me poorly throughout my younger life were excellent cooks. They could whip up a soufflé in the time it takes most of us to turn on the oven, and their blueberry popovers were to die for. Their roses bloomed happily and graciously, their tiny colourful faces turned sweetly toward the sun, and nary a stick nor a stray branch tripped up so much as the lowliest child. It seems, however, that all of this domestication is to elude me. I am not entirely sure why -- I do try -- but I understood with painful finality the depth of my hopelessness when I walked out of the kitchen a few minutes ago and slipped on the oily chocolate mass that now blankets the floor, falling backwards into the baking pans on the counter, sending two dozen or so biscuit-hard cookies flying into the air. As I flailed about in an attempt to grab whatever I could, I caught sight of the flaming red streak creeping belligerently up my leg and figured if that doesn't kill me first, the cookies surely will.
<:^)
Wednesday, March 25
Project Runway Canada Unfair!
Ridiculous! Preposterous! Incredible!
A fashion designer -- Adejoké -- makes her best creation to date -- and so say all of the judges -- and she is sent home?!? What other competition eliminates one of their better talents because she is part of a team whose other half she did not choose?? And all of this because the judges brought back two people who were once upon a time considered inferior designers and had already been sent packing??
Does American Idol bring back eliminated singers and then send home a performer who is still considered in the running? Does So You Think You Can Dance decide in its final stages that they ought to bring back an ex-contestant and permit them not only a second chance but at the same time allow this second chance to shove aside one of their better contenders?
How preposterously stupid. How remarkably unfair. What a ridiculous ratings ruse.
I am so angry in fact, I might not watch the program again, despite my fondness for Sunny and Jessica. The reason I tuned in to Project Runway Canada in the first place was to see -- especially because I can't sew a curtain hem -- the creative, interesting, appealing, colourful, sweet outfits the contestants come up with week to week. I take delight in their designs, and I am moved by their stories. (I confess I also like to peek at Iman -- who looks fabulous -- and remind myself that she is my age.)
Now, instead of having what feels like a fair competition, we have to sit through the bemoanings of the pompously vain Genevieve -- who, it seems, can make only one style of skirt -- and one half of the pathetically nasty Kim/Jason co-conspirators. Add to this that Kim, who ought to have been gone long ago, was given, along with Jason and Genevieve, a second chance, and that the same was not true for Adejoké, rankles beyond comprehension.
What a mistake. And how unfair to the people who were the remaining contestants. And here's where my hypocrisy comes in.
Had Kim been even remotely tolerable, had she not spewed grade-four-level criticisms at the top designers, had we not had to listen to her as she took up so much of our viewing time, and had she been moderately talented (my view, I know)...and had Genevieve (who is uncannily interchangeable with Kim) been kind, generous, shown integrity, imagination, sweetness...had Jason been appealing, fair-minded, or warm...had any of them shown 1/18th of the character of Adejoké or Jessica or Sunny, I would have thought over and over, "How wonderful it is to see them come back. How I hope they do well."
As it is, I am fuming. Not only has one of my favourite programs been lopped off at the climactic stages, but who knows how long it will be before the law suit between NBC Universal and The Weinstein Company is settled, and I can sit back on my couch and watch the progenitor Project Runway with Heidi Klum at the helm? The summer could be in full swing, and I will have gone on to other enjoyments. And even then I will have to lament: Heidi Klum is a mere thirty-five!
<:^)
A fashion designer -- Adejoké -- makes her best creation to date -- and so say all of the judges -- and she is sent home?!? What other competition eliminates one of their better talents because she is part of a team whose other half she did not choose?? And all of this because the judges brought back two people who were once upon a time considered inferior designers and had already been sent packing??
Does American Idol bring back eliminated singers and then send home a performer who is still considered in the running? Does So You Think You Can Dance decide in its final stages that they ought to bring back an ex-contestant and permit them not only a second chance but at the same time allow this second chance to shove aside one of their better contenders?
How preposterously stupid. How remarkably unfair. What a ridiculous ratings ruse.
I am so angry in fact, I might not watch the program again, despite my fondness for Sunny and Jessica. The reason I tuned in to Project Runway Canada in the first place was to see -- especially because I can't sew a curtain hem -- the creative, interesting, appealing, colourful, sweet outfits the contestants come up with week to week. I take delight in their designs, and I am moved by their stories. (I confess I also like to peek at Iman -- who looks fabulous -- and remind myself that she is my age.)
Now, instead of having what feels like a fair competition, we have to sit through the bemoanings of the pompously vain Genevieve -- who, it seems, can make only one style of skirt -- and one half of the pathetically nasty Kim/Jason co-conspirators. Add to this that Kim, who ought to have been gone long ago, was given, along with Jason and Genevieve, a second chance, and that the same was not true for Adejoké, rankles beyond comprehension.
What a mistake. And how unfair to the people who were the remaining contestants. And here's where my hypocrisy comes in.
Had Kim been even remotely tolerable, had she not spewed grade-four-level criticisms at the top designers, had we not had to listen to her as she took up so much of our viewing time, and had she been moderately talented (my view, I know)...and had Genevieve (who is uncannily interchangeable with Kim) been kind, generous, shown integrity, imagination, sweetness...had Jason been appealing, fair-minded, or warm...had any of them shown 1/18th of the character of Adejoké or Jessica or Sunny, I would have thought over and over, "How wonderful it is to see them come back. How I hope they do well."
As it is, I am fuming. Not only has one of my favourite programs been lopped off at the climactic stages, but who knows how long it will be before the law suit between NBC Universal and The Weinstein Company is settled, and I can sit back on my couch and watch the progenitor Project Runway with Heidi Klum at the helm? The summer could be in full swing, and I will have gone on to other enjoyments. And even then I will have to lament: Heidi Klum is a mere thirty-five!
<:^)
Saturday, March 21
Tafelmusik Explodes
Beethoven's 7th and 8th symphonies never sounded as marvelous as on Saturday night at Trinity-St. Paul's Centre in downtown Toronto, rendered by the musical outpourings of the Tafelmusik Baroque Orchestra. Mind you, despite my being the grateful recipient of ten concerts per year (well, that, and those thirty-six months of piano lessons taken in my prepubescent days), I really ought to know more about baroque music (and so on) than I do. In fact, whenever I hear the word render, I think of pork fat. And my closest associations with that great composer are remembering to spell his name by splitting thus -- Beeth/oven (speaking of pork) -- and an image of Gary Oldman playing that very role (pork role?) right around the time he began dating Isabella Rossellini (whose mother ranks among my favourite actresses) and fathering their child.
Anyway, I am not sure that I can locate (either in my brain or in my handy Funk and Wagnalls) the appropriate adjectives to describe this embarrassingly talented group of musicians. A few inadequate words, however, come to mind -- dulcet, vibrant, sweet, sad, delightful, precise, comical, lyrical, playful, exact, inspiring, liquid -- but one or several modifiers cannot do justice to the goosebump thrill that I experience from up in my narrow balcony pew. In truth, whenever I look down at the now-familiar faces of the Tafelmusik Baroque Orchestra, I don't see people. I see flowers and plants and characters from story books and films. I see Tumnus and Bo Peep and Toad of Toad Hall and Peter Pan and the Little Dutch Girl and Hans Brinker and a lovely set of wafting tulips, and so on. (Okay, so Music Director Jeanne Lamon reminds me of Joan Plowright, but Joan Plowright as a nursery rhyme gardener, watering her roses and daffodils and showering her forsythia with love.)
Which is all to say that Saturday night was a tour de force. Led by mellifluous guest conductor Bruno Weil, the musicians set off into the enchanting world of, as I said, Beethoven's 7th and 8th symphonies, beginning with the shorter and extremely lively 8th, and stringing and tooting and tapping their way into the initial banter and final lightning-electric syncopated frenzy of the 8th. (I would speak here in musical terms -- allegro, staccato, scherzando --and so on -- were I either entitled or schooled [or diligent], but neither [and nor] is the case.) The most accurate description I can give is of the rather girthy front-row-balcony gentleman wildly chewing his gum and tossing his head back in mirthful oblivion, jaws gyrating at what seemed to me an uncomfortable and dangerous speed as his excitement reached a frothy, fevered pitch. I was delighted. Clearly, this man was delighted. Everyone in that glorious hall was delighted. Indeed, a person could feel the approving swell chords and chords before the absolute climax, collective knees creaking, our puffy hands sweat-drippy in anticipation of the inevitable round upon round of wild applause and standing ovation. In fact, if it were up to me, I'd still be standing there clapping.
As it was, the tulips exploded in chorus, their petals spiralling up -- in one or two instances sticking to the stained-glass windows -- their slender stems bouncing off of hymnals and second-floor radiators. Peter Pan flew high into the air, her violin caught in the joint of the chandelier, her bronze-red hair streaking by in bolts of Technicolor flashes. Even the gentle Tumnus looked terribly surprised, his watery eyes made waterier still from the sudden eruption, his Florsheim shoes reductively shiny in the rise of the dust and damp. At one point, Bo Peep and her entire flock of sheep lay flattened under a series of high-strung violins, and I have to say that little Hans Brinker, usually so calm in the face of remarkable challenge, was mopping his brow. Let's face it -- the place was a mess. A person couldn't see for the flurry of soaring oboes and flutes, the trombones and trumpets a great mash of metal, the glint from the sackbuts now blinding. In truth, had I not just experienced the most exciting musical night of my life, I might have been a little resentful when Dickens fell, solidly, into my lap.
Still, when all is said I done, I will always be able to say that I was there the night the Tafelmusik Baroque Orchestra exploded.
<:^)
Archived April 2, 2008
Anyway, I am not sure that I can locate (either in my brain or in my handy Funk and Wagnalls) the appropriate adjectives to describe this embarrassingly talented group of musicians. A few inadequate words, however, come to mind -- dulcet, vibrant, sweet, sad, delightful, precise, comical, lyrical, playful, exact, inspiring, liquid -- but one or several modifiers cannot do justice to the goosebump thrill that I experience from up in my narrow balcony pew. In truth, whenever I look down at the now-familiar faces of the Tafelmusik Baroque Orchestra, I don't see people. I see flowers and plants and characters from story books and films. I see Tumnus and Bo Peep and Toad of Toad Hall and Peter Pan and the Little Dutch Girl and Hans Brinker and a lovely set of wafting tulips, and so on. (Okay, so Music Director Jeanne Lamon reminds me of Joan Plowright, but Joan Plowright as a nursery rhyme gardener, watering her roses and daffodils and showering her forsythia with love.)
Which is all to say that Saturday night was a tour de force. Led by mellifluous guest conductor Bruno Weil, the musicians set off into the enchanting world of, as I said, Beethoven's 7th and 8th symphonies, beginning with the shorter and extremely lively 8th, and stringing and tooting and tapping their way into the initial banter and final lightning-electric syncopated frenzy of the 8th. (I would speak here in musical terms -- allegro, staccato, scherzando --and so on -- were I either entitled or schooled [or diligent], but neither [and nor] is the case.) The most accurate description I can give is of the rather girthy front-row-balcony gentleman wildly chewing his gum and tossing his head back in mirthful oblivion, jaws gyrating at what seemed to me an uncomfortable and dangerous speed as his excitement reached a frothy, fevered pitch. I was delighted. Clearly, this man was delighted. Everyone in that glorious hall was delighted. Indeed, a person could feel the approving swell chords and chords before the absolute climax, collective knees creaking, our puffy hands sweat-drippy in anticipation of the inevitable round upon round of wild applause and standing ovation. In fact, if it were up to me, I'd still be standing there clapping.
As it was, the tulips exploded in chorus, their petals spiralling up -- in one or two instances sticking to the stained-glass windows -- their slender stems bouncing off of hymnals and second-floor radiators. Peter Pan flew high into the air, her violin caught in the joint of the chandelier, her bronze-red hair streaking by in bolts of Technicolor flashes. Even the gentle Tumnus looked terribly surprised, his watery eyes made waterier still from the sudden eruption, his Florsheim shoes reductively shiny in the rise of the dust and damp. At one point, Bo Peep and her entire flock of sheep lay flattened under a series of high-strung violins, and I have to say that little Hans Brinker, usually so calm in the face of remarkable challenge, was mopping his brow. Let's face it -- the place was a mess. A person couldn't see for the flurry of soaring oboes and flutes, the trombones and trumpets a great mash of metal, the glint from the sackbuts now blinding. In truth, had I not just experienced the most exciting musical night of my life, I might have been a little resentful when Dickens fell, solidly, into my lap.
Still, when all is said I done, I will always be able to say that I was there the night the Tafelmusik Baroque Orchestra exploded.
<:^)
Archived April 2, 2008
Friday, March 20
Things That Move
I tuned in to the Discovery Channel yesterday as I sometimes do to watch Jeff Douglas on Things That Move. As interesting as I find the program, I generally pop by to see how Jeff is holding up these days. I haven't seen him in a while, but when we were neighbours, we (he and his wife and Mary and I) developed a sweet sort of friendship made up of visits and outings and parties and Christmas and dinners that occasionally included my children and some of his family as well. Typically I would be a little hesitant to bring up anything as personal as a man's parasites but, alas, I noted that Jeff mentioned this very thing on his show this week. Therefore, as a tribute to an old friend (why, he's practically my age -- lucky thirty-seven!), I offer up the following adaptation that I wrote for him at that time. It is based on the song I Am The Very Model of A Modern Major General from The Pirates of Penzance. Warning: this is not for the squeamish.
GENERAL:
I am the very model of a modern parasitical,
I've wormy things in swimming holes colonic and rectitical,
I hold my knees together to avoid squirtations vertical
Projectiles known to menace and at times to even hurt a girl.
I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters indigestible,
I understand emetics, both the languid and detestable,
Soft powders, tonics, liquid gels, and scopes that offer several views,
Pink purgatives a feature of the Annual Anal Fissure News.
ALL:
Pink purgatives a feature of the Annual Anal Fissure News.
Pink purgatives a feature of the Annual Anal Fissure News.
Pink purgatives a feature of the Annual Anal Fissure News.
GENERAL:
I'm very good at picking up varieties hermetical,
(A tapeworm from Columbia is more than just political)
In short, in matters vegetable, and animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern parasitical.
ALL:
In short, in matters vegetable, and animal, and mineral,
He is the very model of a modern parasitical.
GENERAL:
I know the rationale behind the gourmand Puritanical;
Those bugless leaves of lettuce and clear water sanitanical,
I speak to crowds of thousands where I lecture on hygienia,
And grace the throngs with countless tales of Diet Schizophrenia,
I can tell undoubted Atkins from the Hellmanns and the Spiegelites,
I know the whole darn menu from the Cordon Bleu in Brooklyn Heights!
I dine in Buddhist restaurants divest of chemicals impure,
And never munch on anything the Pope himself would not insure.
ALL:
And never munch on anything the Pope himself would not insure.
And never munch on anything the Pope himself would not insure.
And never munch on anything the Pope himself would not insure.
GENERAL:
And I can say with guiltless ease I am a proud evacuant,
And tell you there is nothing here I want or need or should recant:
In short, in matters vegetable, and animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern parasitical.
ALL:
In short, in matters vegetable, and animal, and mineral,
He is the very model of a modern parasitical.
GENERAL:
In fact, when I know what is meant by kaolin and im-pact-shun,
When I can tell at sight a specimenical infract-shee-un,
When I’m no longer sore surprised by angry diarrhea,
And when I know precisely what is meant by steatorrhea,
When I have learned what progress has been made in modern bowelry,
When I know more of bum bugs than grammarian of vowelry --
In short, when I've a smattering of colonary strategy,
You'll say a better parasite has never sat inside of me.
ALL:
You'll say a better parasite has never sat inside of me.
You'll say a better parasite has never sat inside of me.
You'll say a better parasite has never sat inside of me
GENERAL:
For my parasitic knowledge, though I'm learned and a devotee,
My sphincter scores being higher than the targeted trajectory;
But still, in matters vegetable, and animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern parasitical.
ALL:
But still, in matters vegetable, and animal, and mineral,
He is the very model of a modern parasitical.
Adopted by Jennifer Coffey
Eliminated by Jeff Douglas
<:^)
Wednesday, March 18
Sleep Country
I was at Yorkdale Mall a few weeks ago and saw two women trying out mattresses. The younger woman -- a daughter perhaps -- bounced from mattress to mattress, saying things like, "I want this one!" and "No! I want this one!" The older woman was laughing.
That's the way I used to select my new bed, if selection came into the picture at all. I am just now having a memory of Don lugging home mattresses rescued after a hotel fire in Invermere, British Columbia (where we were living at the time), one for each child and an extra special springy one for us. I think we slept on that thin little wafer for eleven years, when we finally bought a 'real' Sealy Posturepedic in Ottawa. Even then, we didn't test the thing out, only sitting on the edge and saying, "Wow, at this price it has to be good."
Several months ago, I knew it was time to give up the Sealy, its springs long protruding and poking into my back, its centre of gravity so low I needed a slingshot to get out of bed in the morning. These things wouldn't have troubled me when I was younger and more supple, but as I get older all of it matters. Frankly, it broke my heart to let the Posturepedic go, given all of its buoyant and happy history. Tragically, then, I went off to Sleep Country to test out their mattresses. I wasn't in the showroom five minutes when I shouted to Mary, "A pillow top mattress! That's what they had in all of the fabulous B&Bs! Remember how great my back felt in the morning?" So I bought one.
I have to say that I wasn't quite sure I had made a mistake in the beginning, but by the second week when I was stiffer than a board and my neck had a double S crick in it, I located the warranty, relieved to see that, for a small fee, I could return the pillow top. When I went back to Sleep Country the salesman told me that a person should always check out a prospective bed for at least fifteen minutes apiece, and this time that's what I did. I rolled about on Sealys and Sertas and Simmons and Sleep Numbers until I could stand it no more, realizing in the end that only one of those mattresses made me feel all-over comfortable.
Anyway, yesterday, I was standing at the kitchen sink washing the baking dishes and waiting for the cupcakes to cook, and I was thinking about mattresses -- how symbolic they are; how particular to each person's needs; how when we are young we can sleep on that wafer and feel great in the morning, and how, as we creep up in years, all of the nuances count that much more. And all of this took me to the subject of friendship and how, when I was young, I would choose anyone who crossed my path to be my friend, no matter their natures or the degree of their kindness, generosity, reciprocity, and so on -- and no matter mine. And so as I stood there with suds up to my elbows, it occurred to me that friends are like mattresses.
When you're young you can tolerate anything, no matter how lumpy, reedy, barbed, soft, hard, ill-tempered or unforgiving. But as a person gets older, the whole framework changes. You need time to make your selection. You need even more time to see if the fit will be right. You need to be brave in the event that you have to return it. And you need to be patient. You need to know that in some cases there might be a long period of time when the mattress will feel perfect and then, all of a sudden, it won't. You also need to know that a mattress can surprise you, energizing and refreshing you day after day, lasting throughout your whole lifetime.
I had a moment of longing as I stood in the kitchen. I thought of that mother and daughter and of the days when I was young and as lively, bouncing from mattress to mattress and, for the moment, happy with them all. But then I said to myself -- at my age now, which is better? A dozen dozen beds that feel good for ten minutes, or a handful of mattresses that are comfortable, reliable, solid, beautifully formed, giving, forgiving, and perfectly attuned to my body and mind?
This morning I slept in a little later than usual, basking in the comfort of my recently purchased mattress. Consumer Reports says it isn't well rated, but in my life, given my needs, it's perfect for me.
Goldilocks was very tired by this time, so she went upstairs to the bedroom. She lay down in the first bed, but it was too hard. Then she lay in the second bed, but it was too soft. Then she lay down in the third bed and it was just right. ~ The Brothers Grimm
That's the way I used to select my new bed, if selection came into the picture at all. I am just now having a memory of Don lugging home mattresses rescued after a hotel fire in Invermere, British Columbia (where we were living at the time), one for each child and an extra special springy one for us. I think we slept on that thin little wafer for eleven years, when we finally bought a 'real' Sealy Posturepedic in Ottawa. Even then, we didn't test the thing out, only sitting on the edge and saying, "Wow, at this price it has to be good."
Several months ago, I knew it was time to give up the Sealy, its springs long protruding and poking into my back, its centre of gravity so low I needed a slingshot to get out of bed in the morning. These things wouldn't have troubled me when I was younger and more supple, but as I get older all of it matters. Frankly, it broke my heart to let the Posturepedic go, given all of its buoyant and happy history. Tragically, then, I went off to Sleep Country to test out their mattresses. I wasn't in the showroom five minutes when I shouted to Mary, "A pillow top mattress! That's what they had in all of the fabulous B&Bs! Remember how great my back felt in the morning?" So I bought one.
I have to say that I wasn't quite sure I had made a mistake in the beginning, but by the second week when I was stiffer than a board and my neck had a double S crick in it, I located the warranty, relieved to see that, for a small fee, I could return the pillow top. When I went back to Sleep Country the salesman told me that a person should always check out a prospective bed for at least fifteen minutes apiece, and this time that's what I did. I rolled about on Sealys and Sertas and Simmons and Sleep Numbers until I could stand it no more, realizing in the end that only one of those mattresses made me feel all-over comfortable.
Anyway, yesterday, I was standing at the kitchen sink washing the baking dishes and waiting for the cupcakes to cook, and I was thinking about mattresses -- how symbolic they are; how particular to each person's needs; how when we are young we can sleep on that wafer and feel great in the morning, and how, as we creep up in years, all of the nuances count that much more. And all of this took me to the subject of friendship and how, when I was young, I would choose anyone who crossed my path to be my friend, no matter their natures or the degree of their kindness, generosity, reciprocity, and so on -- and no matter mine. And so as I stood there with suds up to my elbows, it occurred to me that friends are like mattresses.
When you're young you can tolerate anything, no matter how lumpy, reedy, barbed, soft, hard, ill-tempered or unforgiving. But as a person gets older, the whole framework changes. You need time to make your selection. You need even more time to see if the fit will be right. You need to be brave in the event that you have to return it. And you need to be patient. You need to know that in some cases there might be a long period of time when the mattress will feel perfect and then, all of a sudden, it won't. You also need to know that a mattress can surprise you, energizing and refreshing you day after day, lasting throughout your whole lifetime.
I had a moment of longing as I stood in the kitchen. I thought of that mother and daughter and of the days when I was young and as lively, bouncing from mattress to mattress and, for the moment, happy with them all. But then I said to myself -- at my age now, which is better? A dozen dozen beds that feel good for ten minutes, or a handful of mattresses that are comfortable, reliable, solid, beautifully formed, giving, forgiving, and perfectly attuned to my body and mind?
This morning I slept in a little later than usual, basking in the comfort of my recently purchased mattress. Consumer Reports says it isn't well rated, but in my life, given my needs, it's perfect for me.
Goldilocks was very tired by this time, so she went upstairs to the bedroom. She lay down in the first bed, but it was too hard. Then she lay in the second bed, but it was too soft. Then she lay down in the third bed and it was just right. ~ The Brothers Grimm
Tuesday, March 17
Are Idol Results Fixed? Simon Says...
I read on-line this morning that American Idol results have been fixed...that Danny Gokey, Lil Rounds, Adam Lambert and Alexis Grace will be named among the final four contestants -- and that Adam Lambert and Lil Rounds won't win. After watching the way Simon Cowell and Randy Jackson, who takes 97% of his cues from Simon, I am inclined to think that the rumours are true. If you don't believe me, watch how Randy typically flails when he is called upon to speak first, and then pay attention when the first assessment falls to Simon: watch him shoot his opinions over to Randy and then listen to Randy, a minute later, repeat those opinions. I have seen Randy all set to go one way in his judgement and completely turn it around based on what Simon has said. In fact, so seldom does Randy Jackson have an opinion that strongly differs from Simon's, I wonder why we need both of these men on the panel.
More than that, look how slated the judges' final selection demographics were -- eight guys and five girls who, together, looked like an ad for an upbeat Seventh Heaven spin-off. (I think there would have been more women/fewer men -- and higher ratings, pity the thought -- had Tatania del Toro not sung Saving All My Love For You for the third time in a row.) Also note that the first contestants voted off the show were, and will likely continue to be, the ones Simon is urging viewers to vote off the show: Jasmine Murray, Jorge Nunez, Megan Joy Corkrey and Anoop Desai -- all of whom were hand-selected by the judges, and selected despite the judges knowing that there were stronger singers they might have chosen. For example, why was Ricky Braddy not among the finalists? How engineered did that omission feel? He out-sang at least one-third of the final contestants, and the excuses Simon and Randy used for ousting him were so lame that I can't come up with a better expression for it than that.
Clearly, the show's producers and judges have an enormous vested interest in outcomes. And demographics being what they are, the judges' favourites appear to change from week to week, depending on ratings and buzz, and on the way they want to spin everything. (And while I'm at it, why does Simon have to be utterly cruel to these young adults who are so nervously standing up on a stage in front of millions of people? Is he such a fashion icon, such a Generation X Factor guru, such an enormous vocal talent that he has to keep belittling and demeaning the singers he once pronounced brilliant?) Furthermore, we keep hearing that Kara DioGuardi was brought in as a replacement for Paula Abdul. While that may be ultimately true, I think she was also brought in as a means of keeping the votes cleaner and splitting the umbilical cord that conjoins Randy and Simon. In the meantime, while we're out here waiting for the world to become reasonable and fair, I think the inside mantra will continue to be
Simple Simon says, put your hands on your head...
The 1910 Fruitgum Company
More than that, look how slated the judges' final selection demographics were -- eight guys and five girls who, together, looked like an ad for an upbeat Seventh Heaven spin-off. (I think there would have been more women/fewer men -- and higher ratings, pity the thought -- had Tatania del Toro not sung Saving All My Love For You for the third time in a row.) Also note that the first contestants voted off the show were, and will likely continue to be, the ones Simon is urging viewers to vote off the show: Jasmine Murray, Jorge Nunez, Megan Joy Corkrey and Anoop Desai -- all of whom were hand-selected by the judges, and selected despite the judges knowing that there were stronger singers they might have chosen. For example, why was Ricky Braddy not among the finalists? How engineered did that omission feel? He out-sang at least one-third of the final contestants, and the excuses Simon and Randy used for ousting him were so lame that I can't come up with a better expression for it than that.
Clearly, the show's producers and judges have an enormous vested interest in outcomes. And demographics being what they are, the judges' favourites appear to change from week to week, depending on ratings and buzz, and on the way they want to spin everything. (And while I'm at it, why does Simon have to be utterly cruel to these young adults who are so nervously standing up on a stage in front of millions of people? Is he such a fashion icon, such a Generation X Factor guru, such an enormous vocal talent that he has to keep belittling and demeaning the singers he once pronounced brilliant?) Furthermore, we keep hearing that Kara DioGuardi was brought in as a replacement for Paula Abdul. While that may be ultimately true, I think she was also brought in as a means of keeping the votes cleaner and splitting the umbilical cord that conjoins Randy and Simon. In the meantime, while we're out here waiting for the world to become reasonable and fair, I think the inside mantra will continue to be
Simple Simon says, put your hands on your head...
The 1910 Fruitgum Company
Sunday, March 15
Famous People in History
Attila the Hun (AD 406-453), Khan of the Hun people for nineteen years, has reincarnated and is living in Toronto as a woman. Although Hun's new empire cannot lay claim to such wide territory as that stretch between the Netherlands to the Baltic Sea, Toronto is growing in leaps and bounds, and who knows what this could mean in one lifetime, especially given Hun's (relatively) new role as English as a Second Language instructor?
I had the great mis/fortune of meeting Ms. Hun three years ago at a downtown ESL school, famous for its Sex and The City homage, when she followed me down an escalator requesting that I return a thin binder I had inadvertently removed from a classroom. She towered above me -- her spiked hair and Gucci boots adding to her great height -- teetering on the edge of the jagged moving stair, and when she walked she reminded me of a domineering rooster jerking its head in patriarchal authority. (My father had his own escalator incident, by the way, years ago, having fallen down several steps of a flight, face first and drunk, following a sporting event in Montreal. My brother was with him. My father wore the imprint of those stairs [and those stares] for many weeks to come, kind of like a badge of courage in a Mel Gibson movie. Braveface, I would have called it.)
As things sometimes go, Ms. Hun was innately and diabolically clever, determined to undermine several new teachers and, with equal fervour, ensure that the those who knew as little as possible in the grammatical and stylistic ways of English stay on. Alas for the neophytes, Attila had been logged into the system a long, long time and was therefore well ensconced as henchwoman/assistant to the Jean Brodie administrator, and what with her high fashion sense and fabulous good looks, the rest of us didn't stand a chance. This was her terrain, and she wasn't about to give over to invaders.
My fondest memories of her are these: eyeing her as she sat in the staff room, her long freckled arm hanging protectively around the shoulder of the least competent and most petulant staff member, the two of them sharing a Tim Horton's cinammon and cream cheese bagel, tittering softly, mockingly; listening to her twitter on the elevator as she discussed with another instructor a weekend party they were giving but to which they were clearly not inviting newcomers (as if any newcomers would have wanted to go); sitting next to her on the subway, shading my eyes in the glare of her wet-look boots and marvelling at her professed skill with Easy Crosswords; covering my ears against her barked (clipped, staccato, shrill, strident, imperious) orders to new students on intake day, who were fearful of her, as was her intention; staring at her disappearing form as she ran from me into the long subway tunnel and home to her Lava Lovelife.
I seldom think of her, except as one might imagine a conquering hero -- Magellan or Marco Polo or Napoleon -- dashing through various countries and continents and straddling seas, her two-edged sword in hand, her frosted spikes glinting in the afternoon sun, as she searches in vain for her ideal man: an Oedipal Mundzuk, flying atop his gallant and trusty steed.
A person who is nice to you, but rude to the waiter, is not a nice person. ~Dave Barry, Things That It Took Me 50 Years to Learn
I had the great mis/fortune of meeting Ms. Hun three years ago at a downtown ESL school, famous for its Sex and The City homage, when she followed me down an escalator requesting that I return a thin binder I had inadvertently removed from a classroom. She towered above me -- her spiked hair and Gucci boots adding to her great height -- teetering on the edge of the jagged moving stair, and when she walked she reminded me of a domineering rooster jerking its head in patriarchal authority. (My father had his own escalator incident, by the way, years ago, having fallen down several steps of a flight, face first and drunk, following a sporting event in Montreal. My brother was with him. My father wore the imprint of those stairs [and those stares] for many weeks to come, kind of like a badge of courage in a Mel Gibson movie. Braveface, I would have called it.)
As things sometimes go, Ms. Hun was innately and diabolically clever, determined to undermine several new teachers and, with equal fervour, ensure that the those who knew as little as possible in the grammatical and stylistic ways of English stay on. Alas for the neophytes, Attila had been logged into the system a long, long time and was therefore well ensconced as henchwoman/assistant to the Jean Brodie administrator, and what with her high fashion sense and fabulous good looks, the rest of us didn't stand a chance. This was her terrain, and she wasn't about to give over to invaders.
My fondest memories of her are these: eyeing her as she sat in the staff room, her long freckled arm hanging protectively around the shoulder of the least competent and most petulant staff member, the two of them sharing a Tim Horton's cinammon and cream cheese bagel, tittering softly, mockingly; listening to her twitter on the elevator as she discussed with another instructor a weekend party they were giving but to which they were clearly not inviting newcomers (as if any newcomers would have wanted to go); sitting next to her on the subway, shading my eyes in the glare of her wet-look boots and marvelling at her professed skill with Easy Crosswords; covering my ears against her barked (clipped, staccato, shrill, strident, imperious) orders to new students on intake day, who were fearful of her, as was her intention; staring at her disappearing form as she ran from me into the long subway tunnel and home to her Lava Lovelife.
I seldom think of her, except as one might imagine a conquering hero -- Magellan or Marco Polo or Napoleon -- dashing through various countries and continents and straddling seas, her two-edged sword in hand, her frosted spikes glinting in the afternoon sun, as she searches in vain for her ideal man: an Oedipal Mundzuk, flying atop his gallant and trusty steed.
A person who is nice to you, but rude to the waiter, is not a nice person. ~Dave Barry, Things That It Took Me 50 Years to Learn
Friday, March 13
Music
I'm not always sure why people who can't sing well are so touchy on hearing that news. It's as if you had just told them that they had three stomachs. (Wait a minute. Someone did tell me that once and I have to admit the experience wasn't very pleasant.) Anyway, I had a sister-in-law who was not only tone deaf, but who loved to sing, full volume, along with the car radio. Her name was Betty and she came to live with us for one summer when she was seventeen. She fell in love with her brother's boss's brother, a French boy named Luc, who had a motorcycle and who taught her how to catch King Crab at the beach. That summer Betty sang along to all the songs that she heard on the stereo -- America, Judy Collins, Taj Mahal, Joni Mitchell, Loggins and Messina, Patsy Cline, Shawn Phillips, and so on. The more we teased her, the louder she got.
Two and a half years later, when she was home in Buck's County for Christmas on military leave (she was by this time a paramedic nurse), and because she had been remarking on episodes of mildly blurred vision, her mother took her for a visit to an ophthalmologist. One week later, Betty was in a Bethesda, Maryland hospital having her right eye removed along with a retinoblastomic tumour. The next day, in hospital gown and housecoat, she unhooked her I.V. and coerced her father into taking her out to the parking lot so she could practice driving. (Her father said everything was fine right up until he turned on the car radio and Betty began to sing.)
Seven years later, home again for Christmas on military leave, Betty mentioned that she had been having a recent pain in her right side. Again, her mother accompanied her daughter to the doctor's office. Seven weeks later Betty died of secondary liver cancer. She was twenty-seven.
Do you remember when you were a kid and mixed up lyrics? I've laid around and played around Thistle Town too long? I still do that. I sang Two Below, Honey instead of Tupelo, Honey for years before someone corrected me, and only last week I misinterpreted Emmylou Harris and Mark Knopfler's I went down to Donkey Town for I went round to Honky Tonk (which might be closer to Donkey Town than you think). I imagine that by now everyone knows about Gladly, The Cross-eyed Bear and There's a Bathroom on the Right (which jives well with my childhood memory of ...when I get to that Swami's door).
I could sing along the whole day through, whether I know the lyrics or not. Lyle Lovett, Cheryl Wheeler, Arvo Pärt -- bring it on. I'll sing in the shower, the car, the basement, the grocery store, the laundromat, the hardware store, everywhere but a doctor's office, because I'm an extremely anxious patient. I'm pretty sure I even sing in my sleep. I'm not a great singer, but I'm passable, and I have an appreciation, and patience, for a variety of styles and ranges of vocal talent as well as non-talent. But whenever I hear someone sing who is radically tone deaf and buoyantly chanting along in whatever key she or he can grab hold of, happily oblivious, or impervious, to those within earshot, and whether this happens when I am at the laundromat, grocery store, hardware store, or in a car, I think of Betty in the parking lot and I laugh out loud.
This is for all the lonely people thinking that life has passed them by.
Two and a half years later, when she was home in Buck's County for Christmas on military leave (she was by this time a paramedic nurse), and because she had been remarking on episodes of mildly blurred vision, her mother took her for a visit to an ophthalmologist. One week later, Betty was in a Bethesda, Maryland hospital having her right eye removed along with a retinoblastomic tumour. The next day, in hospital gown and housecoat, she unhooked her I.V. and coerced her father into taking her out to the parking lot so she could practice driving. (Her father said everything was fine right up until he turned on the car radio and Betty began to sing.)
Seven years later, home again for Christmas on military leave, Betty mentioned that she had been having a recent pain in her right side. Again, her mother accompanied her daughter to the doctor's office. Seven weeks later Betty died of secondary liver cancer. She was twenty-seven.
Do you remember when you were a kid and mixed up lyrics? I've laid around and played around Thistle Town too long? I still do that. I sang Two Below, Honey instead of Tupelo, Honey for years before someone corrected me, and only last week I misinterpreted Emmylou Harris and Mark Knopfler's I went down to Donkey Town for I went round to Honky Tonk (which might be closer to Donkey Town than you think). I imagine that by now everyone knows about Gladly, The Cross-eyed Bear and There's a Bathroom on the Right (which jives well with my childhood memory of ...when I get to that Swami's door).
I could sing along the whole day through, whether I know the lyrics or not. Lyle Lovett, Cheryl Wheeler, Arvo Pärt -- bring it on. I'll sing in the shower, the car, the basement, the grocery store, the laundromat, the hardware store, everywhere but a doctor's office, because I'm an extremely anxious patient. I'm pretty sure I even sing in my sleep. I'm not a great singer, but I'm passable, and I have an appreciation, and patience, for a variety of styles and ranges of vocal talent as well as non-talent. But whenever I hear someone sing who is radically tone deaf and buoyantly chanting along in whatever key she or he can grab hold of, happily oblivious, or impervious, to those within earshot, and whether this happens when I am at the laundromat, grocery store, hardware store, or in a car, I think of Betty in the parking lot and I laugh out loud.
This is for all the lonely people thinking that life has passed them by.
Thursday, March 12
Fashion and Style
I offered to colour mareseatoats hair for her, a promise about which I always feel ambivalent because of the strong peroxide smell. Still, she needs a spring lift, as her natural blonde fades to brown with passing years. (You'd think she was 105 from this description, when in fact she's only 87.) My own hair no longer requires colouring, having turned a silvery semi-white, which I do like, and which, except for momentary lapses, I have no intention of hiding. Like my father, I went grey at an early age. I coloured my hair for years trying to keep it as black as it had been in my childhood, because I so loved how shiny it was -- the one feature I didn't hate about myself. But eventually the colour simply made me look unhealthily old, the lines in my face (highlighted by the ebony frame) carved into my forehead and under my eyes like slash marks. Not attractive. (I just thought of that dreadful song...ebony and ivory, side by side on my p'yano keyboard. Oh my God, is this what I have turned into? Ebony and ivory, my face like a keyboard, easily.... At least mine scans.) Anyway, it was a pain in the neck having to keep my roots in line with the rest of my hair, as various stylists reminded me that I needed two colours when dying -- one to lift, one to cover (I think). When my hair first started showing signs of aging, I bought henna from the health food store in Charlottetown, and Don would help me apply it in the bathtub. Our pillowcases always soaked up some of the dark dye, which made me wonder what I was putting on my head.
Which all reminds me of the time I decided I should try a real hairdresser and have my hair coloured professionally. Lo and behold, as the colour began to set, the stylist and I noticed that the bottom three inches of my hair had turned a bright aquamarine. The stylist asked, "Do you use henna?" but I could see he already knew the answer to his question. He then said something like, "It coats the hair, and won't allow other colours to permeate. You can see how far it has grown out of your natural hair tones where the line changes from your colour to the green." I had quite a haircut that day, a row of hairdressers doubled over at their stations, me laughing along with them, and many reminders of Anne of Green Gables. I kept a large chunk of the remnants in a little change purse that I carried around with me, which I still have along with snips of all my children's hair, cut when they were toddlers.
Over the years I projected my vanity onto my children, dying their hair depending on their special requests -- burgundy/purple for our daughter and 30+ peroxide for our younger son adjusted every three or four weeks as the platinum faded into his natural colour. Our older son didn't want his hair dyed, however. Instead, he came home from high school one day completely shaved, embarking on some cockamamie story about how he had got gum in his hair after ducking under a table in the school cafeteria as he was looking for I forget what, and how his best friend had accidentally shaved it all off when trying to make repairs. The boys were eighteen at the time.
Don, unfortunately, lost most of his hair shortly after a near fatal bout with the Hong Kong flu and a series of antibiotics needed to treat his subsequent double pneumonia. While he would have likely had to say goodbye to his locks sooner than later, the insult of finding large clumps on his pillow every morning, also at age eighteen, must have been dreadful. (Dreadlocks?) Anyway, I loved his almost-bald head, marked with a Yeltsin-like scar as the result a car accident he had had when he was young. (He rolled his car after working three days straight, which was all the worse because he had picked up two hitchhikers five minutes earlier. No one else was hurt, although Don said he felt sick about having risked their lives.) Throughout the years he always carried one of those ten cent combs in his back pocket, forever tidying the fringe. If he had had half an idea of how handsome he was, he would have whipped that comb right into the lake.
When I was a child living in my father's home, his wife, the Wicked Witch of the North of the 49th Parallel, also a hairdresser, kept my head shorn in a time when supershort hair was not only unfashionable but cause for ostracization. I don't, however, think my near-baldness was as bad as that poor nine-year-old girl she scalded downstairs in her hairstyling 'shop.' You could hear the child screaming down one side of Perth Avenue and up the other. This was the same child on the same day who had come in to have her long hair shaped for a special outing that night. Instead of trimming her hair, my stepmother cut it off at the nape after yanking a long comb through the tangles. I remember this well. It was a cloudy Saturday and I was standing at the kitchen sink doing the dishes when the little girl's mother dropped her off at the back door. As I watched her walk downstairs to be made beautiful for her special occasion, I remember envying her long beautiful hair, and her life, and I can even to this day hear her screaming and crying down in the basement, her sobs eventually turning into small panting breaths. As far as I know, nothing was done to ensure that this did not happen again, although I might be wrong. I left their home not many months after that episode, but I can't imagine many neighbourhood kids coming to her shop after that news got around.
Anyway, I am sure everyone has at least one hair story that stands as memorable. These are some of mine.
Give me down to there hair
Shoulder length or longer
Here baby, there mama
Everywhere daddy daddy
Hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair
Which all reminds me of the time I decided I should try a real hairdresser and have my hair coloured professionally. Lo and behold, as the colour began to set, the stylist and I noticed that the bottom three inches of my hair had turned a bright aquamarine. The stylist asked, "Do you use henna?" but I could see he already knew the answer to his question. He then said something like, "It coats the hair, and won't allow other colours to permeate. You can see how far it has grown out of your natural hair tones where the line changes from your colour to the green." I had quite a haircut that day, a row of hairdressers doubled over at their stations, me laughing along with them, and many reminders of Anne of Green Gables. I kept a large chunk of the remnants in a little change purse that I carried around with me, which I still have along with snips of all my children's hair, cut when they were toddlers.
Over the years I projected my vanity onto my children, dying their hair depending on their special requests -- burgundy/purple for our daughter and 30+ peroxide for our younger son adjusted every three or four weeks as the platinum faded into his natural colour. Our older son didn't want his hair dyed, however. Instead, he came home from high school one day completely shaved, embarking on some cockamamie story about how he had got gum in his hair after ducking under a table in the school cafeteria as he was looking for I forget what, and how his best friend had accidentally shaved it all off when trying to make repairs. The boys were eighteen at the time.
Don, unfortunately, lost most of his hair shortly after a near fatal bout with the Hong Kong flu and a series of antibiotics needed to treat his subsequent double pneumonia. While he would have likely had to say goodbye to his locks sooner than later, the insult of finding large clumps on his pillow every morning, also at age eighteen, must have been dreadful. (Dreadlocks?) Anyway, I loved his almost-bald head, marked with a Yeltsin-like scar as the result a car accident he had had when he was young. (He rolled his car after working three days straight, which was all the worse because he had picked up two hitchhikers five minutes earlier. No one else was hurt, although Don said he felt sick about having risked their lives.) Throughout the years he always carried one of those ten cent combs in his back pocket, forever tidying the fringe. If he had had half an idea of how handsome he was, he would have whipped that comb right into the lake.
When I was a child living in my father's home, his wife, the Wicked Witch of the North of the 49th Parallel, also a hairdresser, kept my head shorn in a time when supershort hair was not only unfashionable but cause for ostracization. I don't, however, think my near-baldness was as bad as that poor nine-year-old girl she scalded downstairs in her hairstyling 'shop.' You could hear the child screaming down one side of Perth Avenue and up the other. This was the same child on the same day who had come in to have her long hair shaped for a special outing that night. Instead of trimming her hair, my stepmother cut it off at the nape after yanking a long comb through the tangles. I remember this well. It was a cloudy Saturday and I was standing at the kitchen sink doing the dishes when the little girl's mother dropped her off at the back door. As I watched her walk downstairs to be made beautiful for her special occasion, I remember envying her long beautiful hair, and her life, and I can even to this day hear her screaming and crying down in the basement, her sobs eventually turning into small panting breaths. As far as I know, nothing was done to ensure that this did not happen again, although I might be wrong. I left their home not many months after that episode, but I can't imagine many neighbourhood kids coming to her shop after that news got around.
Anyway, I am sure everyone has at least one hair story that stands as memorable. These are some of mine.
Give me down to there hair
Shoulder length or longer
Here baby, there mama
Everywhere daddy daddy
Hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair
Wednesday, March 11
What's Cooking: Pickles, Jams and Jellies
Sneakers sidled up to me this morning (too early, which explains the sidling) and he said, "You know, I'm not too happy with Christopher Hitchens."
And I said, "Sneakers, have you been smoking those horrible cigars again?"
And he said, "Don't deflect. Whenever I want to have a discussion with you about someone whose birthday happens to coincide with yours and I don't happen to like them, you deflect and then you get all huffy."
"I'm not huffy!" I said, pointing to his upper chest. "Your smoking jacket has stains all over the collar. When was the last time you put it in the wash?"
"I'm not happy with Christopher Hitchens," he said.
"And I'm not happy with Rosie O'Donnell."
Sneakers laughed. "Another Aries."
"What's wrong with Aries?"
"You're the one not happy with Miss O'Donnell, not me." He licked his arm. "You first," he said.
So I said, "I think she's a bully. She has so much talent and a good brain and she abuses her power because she feels bigger when she's pushing people around."
Sneakers looked up at me with his large green eyes. "She's insecure."
I sighed. "I know that. How could I not know that? But she's an adult."
He laughed his rich baritone laugh. "Don't recite that reason-but-no-excuses line to me again. Besides, you stole it from someone else."
"I did not! I borrowed it." I whisked a flea from the air with one hand and smacked it down hard on the coffee table." I always credit my sources, which is more than you do!"
He laughed again. "Well, if you walked around those rainy streets for as many months as I did with a darning needle stuck inside your head, you might have issues, too."
"I wasn't the one who called you Pinhead," I shouted. "At least not at first."
Sneakers stared too long into my eyes. "And half of it," he said, "is still -- achoo! -- there."
"That's not my fault. I did everything I could, as did the veter-- I mean, the doctor. Anyways, what has any of this got to do with Rosie O'Donnell?"
"The subject," he said, "was Christopher Hitchens."
I stared back at him. "Did you say issues or tissues?"
He grabbed the Kleenex from my hand, and launched: "I said Christopher Hitchens, who used to be one of my favourite public debaters. I thought he had -- that he was -- an intellect, but I do believe that the man -- I cannot grasp what I am about to say -- has had too much brandy," then muttering under his breath, "I didn't use to think there was such a thing as too much brandy." He fluffed his collar, "In truth, I think Mr. Hitchens is a Miss ... Miss... Miss..."
"Misogynist?" I asked.
"Indeed."
"I think Rosie O'Donnell is too," I said.
Sneakers peered at me again. "How so?"
I peered back. "I think she makes it hard for women to feel safe with other women. Mind you, I think she does that with men, too. And stop staring at me!"
"Wouldn't that make her an equalist?" he asked. "Furthermore, she isn't the treacherous sort that he's become, that I know for certain."
"Oh really? How can you possibly know that for certain?"
"Because I had lunch with them last week at Sardi's, and while I found that she got under my skin once in a while -- she really ought to learn to let go -- he was downright lunatic! Worse, when he ordered that second ghastly bottle of Chardonnay I knew we were done for."
I felt a twinge of envy, Chardonnay or no. "It must have been interesting, given their opposing views on the war," I said.
"Oh my dear woman, you have no idea. He was shouting 'Down with Muslims!' and she roared back, 'Muslin? What's wrong with muslin? I decoupage with muslin all the time!' And he said, 'I said Muslim, you idiot, not Muslin!' And then he paused for a second and then practically screamed -- 'The Sunni! The Shi'a! The Ahmadis! Down with them all!' Miss O'Donnell of course blanched and she hollered back, "Amati? The violin makers? What's wrong with them?' and she smashed her wine glass down onto the linen tablecloth with such brute force, and you could tell that the waiters were not pleased with us at all." Sneakers' eyes steamed with pleasure. "All I wanted to do was sit there and eat my fish, and I think Hitchens could tell because he asked me if I thought that he and Rosie should quieten down, and I said, "The Sunni the betta," but neither of them got that, which wouldn't have made any difference anyway because no sooner had he asked me but what he was tossing gherkins across the table, and Miss O'Donnell, enraged, picked up a handful of mashed potatoes and threw them back at him."
I sat listening to Sneakers, my mouth wide open. "They have mashed potatoes at Sardi's?" I asked.
"Wipe that drool off your chin," he said, "it isn't attractive. And yes, they do indeed have mashed potatoes at Sardi's, and as that clump of carbohydrates came hurling toward Hitchens they hit my plate instead, and my fish went flying out into 44th Street and got squished by a cab."
I sighed. "You win," I said, "although I'm surprised. He's the third decant of Aries and she is the first, and --"
Sneakers picked a flea from his belly. "I don't mean to interrupt, but I have a card game downtown and I'm running a little late. Do you think you could throw this in the wash for me?" He handed me his smoking jacket. "It reeks of Hitchens' cigars, and there's a small brandy stain just there, on the collar."
<:^)
And I said, "Sneakers, have you been smoking those horrible cigars again?"
And he said, "Don't deflect. Whenever I want to have a discussion with you about someone whose birthday happens to coincide with yours and I don't happen to like them, you deflect and then you get all huffy."
"I'm not huffy!" I said, pointing to his upper chest. "Your smoking jacket has stains all over the collar. When was the last time you put it in the wash?"
"I'm not happy with Christopher Hitchens," he said.
"And I'm not happy with Rosie O'Donnell."
Sneakers laughed. "Another Aries."
"What's wrong with Aries?"
"You're the one not happy with Miss O'Donnell, not me." He licked his arm. "You first," he said.
So I said, "I think she's a bully. She has so much talent and a good brain and she abuses her power because she feels bigger when she's pushing people around."
Sneakers looked up at me with his large green eyes. "She's insecure."
I sighed. "I know that. How could I not know that? But she's an adult."
He laughed his rich baritone laugh. "Don't recite that reason-but-no-excuses line to me again. Besides, you stole it from someone else."
"I did not! I borrowed it." I whisked a flea from the air with one hand and smacked it down hard on the coffee table." I always credit my sources, which is more than you do!"
He laughed again. "Well, if you walked around those rainy streets for as many months as I did with a darning needle stuck inside your head, you might have issues, too."
"I wasn't the one who called you Pinhead," I shouted. "At least not at first."
Sneakers stared too long into my eyes. "And half of it," he said, "is still -- achoo! -- there."
"That's not my fault. I did everything I could, as did the veter-- I mean, the doctor. Anyways, what has any of this got to do with Rosie O'Donnell?"
"The subject," he said, "was Christopher Hitchens."
I stared back at him. "Did you say issues or tissues?"
He grabbed the Kleenex from my hand, and launched: "I said Christopher Hitchens, who used to be one of my favourite public debaters. I thought he had -- that he was -- an intellect, but I do believe that the man -- I cannot grasp what I am about to say -- has had too much brandy," then muttering under his breath, "I didn't use to think there was such a thing as too much brandy." He fluffed his collar, "In truth, I think Mr. Hitchens is a Miss ... Miss... Miss..."
"Misogynist?" I asked.
"Indeed."
"I think Rosie O'Donnell is too," I said.
Sneakers peered at me again. "How so?"
I peered back. "I think she makes it hard for women to feel safe with other women. Mind you, I think she does that with men, too. And stop staring at me!"
"Wouldn't that make her an equalist?" he asked. "Furthermore, she isn't the treacherous sort that he's become, that I know for certain."
"Oh really? How can you possibly know that for certain?"
"Because I had lunch with them last week at Sardi's, and while I found that she got under my skin once in a while -- she really ought to learn to let go -- he was downright lunatic! Worse, when he ordered that second ghastly bottle of Chardonnay I knew we were done for."
I felt a twinge of envy, Chardonnay or no. "It must have been interesting, given their opposing views on the war," I said.
"Oh my dear woman, you have no idea. He was shouting 'Down with Muslims!' and she roared back, 'Muslin? What's wrong with muslin? I decoupage with muslin all the time!' And he said, 'I said Muslim, you idiot, not Muslin!' And then he paused for a second and then practically screamed -- 'The Sunni! The Shi'a! The Ahmadis! Down with them all!' Miss O'Donnell of course blanched and she hollered back, "Amati? The violin makers? What's wrong with them?' and she smashed her wine glass down onto the linen tablecloth with such brute force, and you could tell that the waiters were not pleased with us at all." Sneakers' eyes steamed with pleasure. "All I wanted to do was sit there and eat my fish, and I think Hitchens could tell because he asked me if I thought that he and Rosie should quieten down, and I said, "The Sunni the betta," but neither of them got that, which wouldn't have made any difference anyway because no sooner had he asked me but what he was tossing gherkins across the table, and Miss O'Donnell, enraged, picked up a handful of mashed potatoes and threw them back at him."
I sat listening to Sneakers, my mouth wide open. "They have mashed potatoes at Sardi's?" I asked.
"Wipe that drool off your chin," he said, "it isn't attractive. And yes, they do indeed have mashed potatoes at Sardi's, and as that clump of carbohydrates came hurling toward Hitchens they hit my plate instead, and my fish went flying out into 44th Street and got squished by a cab."
I sighed. "You win," I said, "although I'm surprised. He's the third decant of Aries and she is the first, and --"
Sneakers picked a flea from his belly. "I don't mean to interrupt, but I have a card game downtown and I'm running a little late. Do you think you could throw this in the wash for me?" He handed me his smoking jacket. "It reeks of Hitchens' cigars, and there's a small brandy stain just there, on the collar."
<:^)
Tuesday, March 10
Dear Tabby: From The Letter Box
Can you help me?
My name is Jenny and I was named for my adopted mothers mother and recently a big fat huge enormous problem has developed. My also adopted brother Jeeves is being mean to me. And I mean mean in a really really BIG way. I know that sometimes I have a little bit of a hissy fit but thats no excuse for whats going on around here. All of a sudden one night when Pam was babysitting Lainey Jeeves got so mean to me I could barely stand it. He says it has something to do with me hissing just a little bit at Pam and that he got worried that I would hurt her and maybe hurt the baby too but honestly Tabby I am much too fat to do anything too bad and I would never hurt Lainey not ever.
My cousins in Toronto dont have this problem and there are five of them and one of them is way way fatter than I am whoa but they do all kinds of bad things like drink brandy and smoke cigars and sit up all night playing poker and once they chased their also adopted mother who is also my also adopted grandmother all around the house because she was carrying a rotisserie chicken and boy did they ever want some of that. I am not like that at all. I dont drink brandy and I never smoke and I dont even know how to play cards although someone once said that it was because my head was a little small like Beatle Juice and I have never chased anyone for chicken.
Now I dont know what to do. I hide under the bed because I am afraid that Jeeves is going to kill me or make a big cut and I'll get an abscess and I cant get to my litter pan in the basement which is not good because we are moving away from this house and we have to keep it tidy for the new owners. Oh cant you please help me? I will do anything Tabby. I will stop hissing at strangers and I will never jump up and scare people again and I will try even though its going to be really really hard to love my brother and get along with him because I dont want to have to go to Toronto and live with my cousins even though with six you get eggroll and I tried one of them once and I really liked it a lot.
You can call me at 1 800 CAT CLAWS or email me at the address I sent to you last time. If you dont help me Tabby I am so afraid that I will be left outside in the rain and not allowed to come in where its warm and I can eat my supper in peace if I promise to never ever again do anything to scare anyone and I only did it in the first place because I was insecure and you cant blame me for that not exactly and when you see how fat my cousin is whoa youre going to think that Im a pretty good bargain.
Love,
Jenny
My name is Jenny and I was named for my adopted mothers mother and recently a big fat huge enormous problem has developed. My also adopted brother Jeeves is being mean to me. And I mean mean in a really really BIG way. I know that sometimes I have a little bit of a hissy fit but thats no excuse for whats going on around here. All of a sudden one night when Pam was babysitting Lainey Jeeves got so mean to me I could barely stand it. He says it has something to do with me hissing just a little bit at Pam and that he got worried that I would hurt her and maybe hurt the baby too but honestly Tabby I am much too fat to do anything too bad and I would never hurt Lainey not ever.
My cousins in Toronto dont have this problem and there are five of them and one of them is way way fatter than I am whoa but they do all kinds of bad things like drink brandy and smoke cigars and sit up all night playing poker and once they chased their also adopted mother who is also my also adopted grandmother all around the house because she was carrying a rotisserie chicken and boy did they ever want some of that. I am not like that at all. I dont drink brandy and I never smoke and I dont even know how to play cards although someone once said that it was because my head was a little small like Beatle Juice and I have never chased anyone for chicken.
Now I dont know what to do. I hide under the bed because I am afraid that Jeeves is going to kill me or make a big cut and I'll get an abscess and I cant get to my litter pan in the basement which is not good because we are moving away from this house and we have to keep it tidy for the new owners. Oh cant you please help me? I will do anything Tabby. I will stop hissing at strangers and I will never jump up and scare people again and I will try even though its going to be really really hard to love my brother and get along with him because I dont want to have to go to Toronto and live with my cousins even though with six you get eggroll and I tried one of them once and I really liked it a lot.
You can call me at 1 800 CAT CLAWS or email me at the address I sent to you last time. If you dont help me Tabby I am so afraid that I will be left outside in the rain and not allowed to come in where its warm and I can eat my supper in peace if I promise to never ever again do anything to scare anyone and I only did it in the first place because I was insecure and you cant blame me for that not exactly and when you see how fat my cousin is whoa youre going to think that Im a pretty good bargain.
Love,
Jenny
Sunday, March 8
Shopping
Babysitting Gloria's vintage stocked store, The Painted Table, for the past week has certainly tweaked my shopping urge. Set away from the downtown core, the shop is one in a north and south series of second-hand and antique stores that specialize in everything. Everything, from my bird's eye view today, includes a pair of 1952 Russell Spanner chairs; a suitcase filled with colourful cotton and satin 1940s and '50s aprons; one yellow flecked and one red arborite kitchen table, the latter accompanied by four matching red cloth check-patterned chairs; a 35 by 37 inch (almost square) oak dining table with fat, sculpted legs; a rectangular dining room table with leaf and six armless chairs; a set of wooden oars; three pair of different sized snowshoes; a polished, corded toboggan; a 30-piece set of Patricia china; two low-rise moss green restaurant stools; Samsonite luggage of the kind I carried onto the airplane when I was seven; a Bob Wills and his Texas Play Boys record; rolling pins; several metal canister sets; a Pelouze ice cream scale; seven woollen blankets; a mink muff (my mother had one); two three-and-a-half foot high pedestals; cowboy boots; five cocktail shakers; umpteen shot glasses; thick-glass sundae dishes; necklaces; cotton and nylon gloves; broaches; bracelets; earrings; ceramic lamps; teak end-tables; embroidered pillowcases; tablecloths; several purses; hats (wool, cloth, fur); high-heeled shoes; a fabulous green and white cushioned 1960s teak couch; a selection of mirrors (old and older); two 1970s fireplace lamps; two sleek yellow cream-coloured cloth chairs (legs also teak -- the kind of chairs Dick Cavett and Woody Allen sat on back in the convivial days of flagrantly sexist chatter), and on and on and on -- some of the description used with Gloria's permission (I always credit my sources) in that meagre writing I call my fiction -- although where to draw the precarious line between fact and make-believe I leave to my better peers.
People always talk about how the most important gifts are priceless: love, health, friendship, kindness, humour...but I can think of many gifts, given and got, that bear great meaning (love, health, friendship, kindness, humour), although some money did indeed pass hands in the transactions.
My favourite kind of shopping, the kind I know many people share, is gift buying. Some of my happiest selections include a guitar; a flute; a banjo; wedding rings; a honeymoon cottage rental; an Alex Colville lithograph; a Tom Thomson print; a silver bracelet; a small pink ceramic traveling clock; the 50th anniversary edition of To Kill A Mockingbird; a purple cowboy shirt; a small framed photograph of a sailing ship; a fringed cowgirl jacket; a watch, and a Zippo lighter.
As recipient, among my favourite presents are a pair of heavy, dark green, coin-shaped Roman earrings, beautiful despite their description, but too heavy to wear; a Raggedy Ann doll; a wooden trio of bears paperweight; a knee-length 1950s silver poodle-hair coat; a pair of inflatable wet-look knee-high boot inserters; a black and white halogen kitty cat lamp; a set of very old Shakespearean Comedies, Tragedies, and Histories and Poems, each bound in blue leather; a one inch tall glass penguin; a pair of sturdy comfortable black walking clogs; the same watch; a small chunk of rock stolen from a gravesite in Montparnasse, and three cobalt blue perfume bottles that hold the remainder of Don's ashes.
You can tell a lot about people by the way they move about Gloria's store; by how long they stay; if they are on a rabid hunt for that perfect item; if they are homesick or lovesick; if they are nostalgic; if they love their parents or hate them. People come in here and they talk about their families -- their grandparents and aunts and cousins, and how so-and-so had that very couch or how their dad drank out of those beer glasses or how their uncle had those fireplace lamps and how his two cats slept in the basin of either one every night. I once saw a woman cry over a 1960s cookie press, and if that doesn't tell you everything you need to know about a person, what does?
Strings of street lights, even stop lights, blink a bright red and green, as the shoppers rush home with their treasures...
People always talk about how the most important gifts are priceless: love, health, friendship, kindness, humour...but I can think of many gifts, given and got, that bear great meaning (love, health, friendship, kindness, humour), although some money did indeed pass hands in the transactions.
My favourite kind of shopping, the kind I know many people share, is gift buying. Some of my happiest selections include a guitar; a flute; a banjo; wedding rings; a honeymoon cottage rental; an Alex Colville lithograph; a Tom Thomson print; a silver bracelet; a small pink ceramic traveling clock; the 50th anniversary edition of To Kill A Mockingbird; a purple cowboy shirt; a small framed photograph of a sailing ship; a fringed cowgirl jacket; a watch, and a Zippo lighter.
As recipient, among my favourite presents are a pair of heavy, dark green, coin-shaped Roman earrings, beautiful despite their description, but too heavy to wear; a Raggedy Ann doll; a wooden trio of bears paperweight; a knee-length 1950s silver poodle-hair coat; a pair of inflatable wet-look knee-high boot inserters; a black and white halogen kitty cat lamp; a set of very old Shakespearean Comedies, Tragedies, and Histories and Poems, each bound in blue leather; a one inch tall glass penguin; a pair of sturdy comfortable black walking clogs; the same watch; a small chunk of rock stolen from a gravesite in Montparnasse, and three cobalt blue perfume bottles that hold the remainder of Don's ashes.
You can tell a lot about people by the way they move about Gloria's store; by how long they stay; if they are on a rabid hunt for that perfect item; if they are homesick or lovesick; if they are nostalgic; if they love their parents or hate them. People come in here and they talk about their families -- their grandparents and aunts and cousins, and how so-and-so had that very couch or how their dad drank out of those beer glasses or how their uncle had those fireplace lamps and how his two cats slept in the basin of either one every night. I once saw a woman cry over a 1960s cookie press, and if that doesn't tell you everything you need to know about a person, what does?
Strings of street lights, even stop lights, blink a bright red and green, as the shoppers rush home with their treasures...
Thursday, March 5
Help Wanted
I saw something in yesterday's news about this year's The Bachelor, which thank God I don't watch. But it put me in mind of an old entry of mine and that particular evening when I happened upon the show. Anyway, later last night, I saw an Alan Zweig documentary called I, Curmudgeon, and now, given that I feel I have found several of my people, I am going to reprint that old Bachelor entry in homage to all of the people who, like me, have been wandering the planet for dozens of years decrying, alone (or feeling alone), "The Emperor's new clothes! The Emperor's new clothes!"
______________________________________
We used to live next door to The Sweeties. It's okay to say that because they don't know my name, so they won't ever read this blog entry. I didn't often see them throughout the wintertime, but come the summer season they were out in full force. Mr. Sweety is an ac-tor and Mrs. Sweety a children's writer of some sort, although I do not ask. They are, at least on the surface, a happy couple, and I often see them out during the warm months of the year, singly and together. I recognized him from afar because the sun had a way of bouncing buoyantly off his bouffant hair, while she was harder to determine in her wide-brimmed straw hat. Sometimes he came pedalling up the street on his nearly-rusty bicycle and she would hurry down the front stairs to greet him. "Hello, sweety," she would say, and he, in turn, paused dramatically, bike aloft in one strong manly hand, grinning widely up at her, his face a mess of happy cracks and gleams. "How are you sweety dear?" After removing their hummingbird hemp cardigans from around their necks, arm-in-arm they strolled into the back yard to take up their daily duties, which might have included any number of chores: planting Bella Geste Blossoms and classic Shasta Daisies; laying pseudo-Aztec pathways made of soft penumbrated stone, or entertaining guests -- always couples -- with sweating bottles of Amonj-Ra Shiraz, robustly tart Greek salads and garlic-drenched bruschetta (with intermittent time-outs to hug their sweety Golden Lab).
It isn't only me who found them annoying. Sometimes Boots, from his peaceful place on the rocking chair, would look at me and tilt his triangular face and say, "Haven't we heard enough from them today?"as their cooing honeyed voices carried up and through the backroom window. I didn't know what to tell him.
What got me off on this tangent wasn't the Sweeties at all, however. The other night as I was flicking channels I landed on a show called The Bachelor (and something about an officer and a gentleman), which, as it turned out, wasn't half as nauseating as the program itself. I needed fewer than five minutes to confirm my gastric suspicions, because here's what I saw:
A sexually ambiguous Bambi eye-lashed Andy of Mayberry in his (I don't know) mid-thirties, with a folksy George Bush accent -- Y'all are amazing -- and several rounds of I love yer dotter (or words and intimations close to that) as he flies, in what feels like rapid-fire succession, from quaint American town to quaint American town on these various pre-arranged dates with straightened, side-parted, blond-streaked and bangless (no pun intended)-haired women wearing solid-coloured blouses with hand-made Fisherman knit sweaters, anonymous pants and modestly carated jewellery. The girls' pigeon-toed 'umble fathers with their bilateral Hollywood gazing and raw emotions (Do you love my dotter?) at the ready, lunge forward in gappy veneer-tooth smiles, decked out in brushed corduroy pants and button-down shirts of soft pinks and yellows, their penny loafers squeaking from the pressure of their too-tight Argyle socks. The fathers are all trim, by the way, and the mothers, who weep silently in the background, are not, yet one can easily sense the Oedipal vicariousness of it all, even before the camera pans back to the eagerly waiting siblings (Do you love my sister?), the overstuffed couches, the sparkling marble fireplaces, the elegant table lamps, and the Victorian handstitched cushions scattered among the Ikea trademarks of good family living. As the camera angle widens, the viewers can see some signs of life -- a Dieffenbachia, perhaps, or a Christmas cactus; a snow-tipped wagging tail of the large family dog (although I found no evidence of a baby or a cat). Behind an armchair you might spot a magazine rack, rows of dog-eared Victoria Secret and LL Bean catalogues amply supplied, and in the hallway a board game or two (slanting casually across the credenza) lying alongside a trinity of wine goblets in readiness for good news or bad. As we move out-of-doors to the aluminum-sided houses painted in rich Mediterranean blues and deep-algae greens, we spy slope-back slatted lawn chairs and shadows of romping squirrels, and, looking up, birch trees looming on the horizon. On the way into the heart of town, American flags hang nobly from every house as we pass by small ponds laden with lily pads and modest ducks on our way to restaurants specializing in substantial portions of Welsh rarebit, lamb stew, and garlic-laced bruschetta (which is where, and why, the Sweeties came in), cows grazing on amber-waving grain while an occasional hawk floats a lazy figure-eight overhead. Somewhere, I just know it, there's a cheese factory just outside of town.
"Cheese?" Boots asks with a raised head, but I can barely hear him for the chatter outside my window: "Oh no sweetie, let me get that for you." "Are you sure, sweetie darling? I wouldn't want you to hurt your back." _______________________________________
"Girls who put out are tramps. Girls who don't are ladies. This is, however, a rather archaic usage of the word. Should one of you boys happen upon a girl who doesn't put out, do not jump to the conclusion that you have found a lady. What you have probably found is a lesbian." ~ Fran Lebowitz
<:^)
______________________________________
We used to live next door to The Sweeties. It's okay to say that because they don't know my name, so they won't ever read this blog entry. I didn't often see them throughout the wintertime, but come the summer season they were out in full force. Mr. Sweety is an ac-tor and Mrs. Sweety a children's writer of some sort, although I do not ask. They are, at least on the surface, a happy couple, and I often see them out during the warm months of the year, singly and together. I recognized him from afar because the sun had a way of bouncing buoyantly off his bouffant hair, while she was harder to determine in her wide-brimmed straw hat. Sometimes he came pedalling up the street on his nearly-rusty bicycle and she would hurry down the front stairs to greet him. "Hello, sweety," she would say, and he, in turn, paused dramatically, bike aloft in one strong manly hand, grinning widely up at her, his face a mess of happy cracks and gleams. "How are you sweety dear?" After removing their hummingbird hemp cardigans from around their necks, arm-in-arm they strolled into the back yard to take up their daily duties, which might have included any number of chores: planting Bella Geste Blossoms and classic Shasta Daisies; laying pseudo-Aztec pathways made of soft penumbrated stone, or entertaining guests -- always couples -- with sweating bottles of Amonj-Ra Shiraz, robustly tart Greek salads and garlic-drenched bruschetta (with intermittent time-outs to hug their sweety Golden Lab).
It isn't only me who found them annoying. Sometimes Boots, from his peaceful place on the rocking chair, would look at me and tilt his triangular face and say, "Haven't we heard enough from them today?"as their cooing honeyed voices carried up and through the backroom window. I didn't know what to tell him.
What got me off on this tangent wasn't the Sweeties at all, however. The other night as I was flicking channels I landed on a show called The Bachelor (and something about an officer and a gentleman), which, as it turned out, wasn't half as nauseating as the program itself. I needed fewer than five minutes to confirm my gastric suspicions, because here's what I saw:
A sexually ambiguous Bambi eye-lashed Andy of Mayberry in his (I don't know) mid-thirties, with a folksy George Bush accent -- Y'all are amazing -- and several rounds of I love yer dotter (or words and intimations close to that) as he flies, in what feels like rapid-fire succession, from quaint American town to quaint American town on these various pre-arranged dates with straightened, side-parted, blond-streaked and bangless (no pun intended)-haired women wearing solid-coloured blouses with hand-made Fisherman knit sweaters, anonymous pants and modestly carated jewellery. The girls' pigeon-toed 'umble fathers with their bilateral Hollywood gazing and raw emotions (Do you love my dotter?) at the ready, lunge forward in gappy veneer-tooth smiles, decked out in brushed corduroy pants and button-down shirts of soft pinks and yellows, their penny loafers squeaking from the pressure of their too-tight Argyle socks. The fathers are all trim, by the way, and the mothers, who weep silently in the background, are not, yet one can easily sense the Oedipal vicariousness of it all, even before the camera pans back to the eagerly waiting siblings (Do you love my sister?), the overstuffed couches, the sparkling marble fireplaces, the elegant table lamps, and the Victorian handstitched cushions scattered among the Ikea trademarks of good family living. As the camera angle widens, the viewers can see some signs of life -- a Dieffenbachia, perhaps, or a Christmas cactus; a snow-tipped wagging tail of the large family dog (although I found no evidence of a baby or a cat). Behind an armchair you might spot a magazine rack, rows of dog-eared Victoria Secret and LL Bean catalogues amply supplied, and in the hallway a board game or two (slanting casually across the credenza) lying alongside a trinity of wine goblets in readiness for good news or bad. As we move out-of-doors to the aluminum-sided houses painted in rich Mediterranean blues and deep-algae greens, we spy slope-back slatted lawn chairs and shadows of romping squirrels, and, looking up, birch trees looming on the horizon. On the way into the heart of town, American flags hang nobly from every house as we pass by small ponds laden with lily pads and modest ducks on our way to restaurants specializing in substantial portions of Welsh rarebit, lamb stew, and garlic-laced bruschetta (which is where, and why, the Sweeties came in), cows grazing on amber-waving grain while an occasional hawk floats a lazy figure-eight overhead. Somewhere, I just know it, there's a cheese factory just outside of town.
"Cheese?" Boots asks with a raised head, but I can barely hear him for the chatter outside my window: "Oh no sweetie, let me get that for you." "Are you sure, sweetie darling? I wouldn't want you to hurt your back." _______________________________________
"Girls who put out are tramps. Girls who don't are ladies. This is, however, a rather archaic usage of the word. Should one of you boys happen upon a girl who doesn't put out, do not jump to the conclusion that you have found a lady. What you have probably found is a lesbian." ~ Fran Lebowitz
<:^)
Tuesday, March 3
Crosswords, Puzzles and Games
I was failing at my ninth attempt at a particular kind of How Well Do You Follow Directions? crossword puzzle last night when it occurred to me for the thousandth time that I have always had trouble figuring out instructions. Even when I am making Jell-o, I have to review the recipe on the box several times, and it is not unusual for me to accidentally combine two recipes. I did that very thing two Christmases ago with the praline cheesecake, which you would think impossible given the number of times I have already made this dessert.
Anyway, back when I was in grade six and Napoleon was invading Italy, our school suddenly found itself short of classrooms and, lo and behold, our little group was shipped off by bus every day to an institution I fondly remember as Northbrae. You cannot imagine my thrill at being so far removed from that place I was supposed to call home. Instead of the usual lunchtime grill (which now makes me hungry for melted cheese sandwiches. Funny where the brain takes you), I found myself playing pony in the schoolyard with several other like-minded girls, or blushing beneath the stares of little Norman Bignol (an odd name, given his stature and the mention of Napoleon up there). Indeed, the only blight on my entire year at school was the comment Mrs. Smith -- she had thick blonde hair and wore a lot of what in those days we called rouge -- made on my interim report card: Jennifer fails to pay attention to instructions. You can't know -- or maybe you can -- the terror I felt going home with that comment in my hand, despite the list of A and A+s.
Much to my surprise, however, my father neither said nor did anything outright. Instead, he picked up his elegant Parker Brothers' pen and wrote in a beautifully legible (and on that occasion excessively large) script across my entire report card, I agree, thereby burying any hint of a good mark. I have to confess here, just as he would wish I suppose, that I was as mortified as he had intended, and I often subsequently wished that instead I had been beaten or ridiculed, as was so often the way in my father's house.
Anyway, late last night I went back to one of those directional puzzles for what felt like the nine thousandth time, and although I aimed for perfection I was already lost by step #4. I am not sure what it is I am having trouble with exactly: the consonants, the vowels, left vs: right, or the re-copying. All I know is that I have not ever in all my thirty-seven years got one of those bloody things right. I think I could assemble a jet engine with greater dexterity and ease, instead of the jumbled mess of scrawl I leave all over the lines and margins of the puzzle pages. It's a mystery so large that I am helpless to describe it -- like one of the great wonders of the world...the Leaning Tower of Pisa or the Grand Canyon perhaps...or maybe even something as monumental as the discovery of Jell-o. Who can say? All I know is that the next time I make praline cheesecake I'm going to use a ruler.
<:^)
Anyway, back when I was in grade six and Napoleon was invading Italy, our school suddenly found itself short of classrooms and, lo and behold, our little group was shipped off by bus every day to an institution I fondly remember as Northbrae. You cannot imagine my thrill at being so far removed from that place I was supposed to call home. Instead of the usual lunchtime grill (which now makes me hungry for melted cheese sandwiches. Funny where the brain takes you), I found myself playing pony in the schoolyard with several other like-minded girls, or blushing beneath the stares of little Norman Bignol (an odd name, given his stature and the mention of Napoleon up there). Indeed, the only blight on my entire year at school was the comment Mrs. Smith -- she had thick blonde hair and wore a lot of what in those days we called rouge -- made on my interim report card: Jennifer fails to pay attention to instructions. You can't know -- or maybe you can -- the terror I felt going home with that comment in my hand, despite the list of A and A+s.
Much to my surprise, however, my father neither said nor did anything outright. Instead, he picked up his elegant Parker Brothers' pen and wrote in a beautifully legible (and on that occasion excessively large) script across my entire report card, I agree, thereby burying any hint of a good mark. I have to confess here, just as he would wish I suppose, that I was as mortified as he had intended, and I often subsequently wished that instead I had been beaten or ridiculed, as was so often the way in my father's house.
Anyway, late last night I went back to one of those directional puzzles for what felt like the nine thousandth time, and although I aimed for perfection I was already lost by step #4. I am not sure what it is I am having trouble with exactly: the consonants, the vowels, left vs: right, or the re-copying. All I know is that I have not ever in all my thirty-seven years got one of those bloody things right. I think I could assemble a jet engine with greater dexterity and ease, instead of the jumbled mess of scrawl I leave all over the lines and margins of the puzzle pages. It's a mystery so large that I am helpless to describe it -- like one of the great wonders of the world...the Leaning Tower of Pisa or the Grand Canyon perhaps...or maybe even something as monumental as the discovery of Jell-o. Who can say? All I know is that the next time I make praline cheesecake I'm going to use a ruler.
<:^)
What's Cooking
[Chairs 7 through 12]
John Cleese
And speaking of irreverence, his eulogy for fellow Monty Python member, Graham Chapman, is one of the pant-wettingest clips I have ever seen. I also appreciate that he has a history of depression and has had to wrestle with aspects of his character that he, and others, have found unsavoury. His character will lend diversity and contrast to the themes and to the other players. I also love Fawlty Towers -- who doesn't? -- my favourite anagram Flowery Twats -- and this at a time when I couldn't merely whip them up on a computer anagram site. John Cleese was a gawky apparent 6'4" by age 13, and he gave up a career in law for one in comedy. Wikipedia states (I know, I know), In 2005, [Cleese] offered a part of his colon, removed due to diverticulitis, for sale on his official website. The proceeds are reportedly to be divided between Cleese himself and his surgeon. He is also attributed as having said, "If you wish to kill yourself but lack the courage to, I think a visit to Palmerston North will do the trick." I don't even know what or where Palmerston North is, and still his words are terribly funny. Also, at dinner and throughout the play, I would like to discuss the lifelong annoyance he seems to have had with his mother, which I think that I, as author, could help ameliorate, first by describing my relationship with my mother, and then through coercive, persuasive speech.Dolly Parton
How could anyone not love this once-poor, ultra-gifted, humourous, emotionally supportive, self-deprecating, generous, entrepreneurial, philanthropic woman? How could she not lend a multifaceted exponential quality to the piece? And how exciting to blend her sounds with those of Arvo Part, Randy Newman and Cheryl Wheeler! I can hear the quartet now, singing in four-part harmony: I'm a little bit country, I'm a little bit minimistically choral. And there's no telling what this will do for the backdrop, let alone the backstory. I hope she says yes, and that she doesn't mind the insertion of an occasional Dolly Parton joke -- preferably her own.Paula Poundstone
And now we come to the resonance: dysfunctional childhood; abandonment issues; recent familial troubles; motherhood; thumb-nail-biter; too-large white cotton underwear wearer; a woman who makes more fun of herself than anyone ought to; undervalued (yes, I have felt that way at times); a woman who shares her world and her history not in order to lay claim to some sort of unique, irreparable, tragic past (thank God, because this play isn't a tragedy. There simply isn't enough hubris to go around), but to share and to give hope to people who are having a shitty day or shitty week or shitty life. (And yes, that happens. Thus the expression.) If I could insert myself into the play -- and who says that I can't? -- I would place myself to her right.Charles Kaufman
He is reclusive and, in my opinion (although I have not seen his latest), writes a better screenplay than almost anyone in North America. I want him to act not only as adviser to the script, but as one of twelve original guests. Besides, Oscar Wilde was busy.Randy Newman
Who wouldn't want Randy Newman in her play? Although I don't find him exactly absurd, I am intrigued by his lyricism and by the fact of what I recall as his Epstein Barr Syndrome and a faint memory of his description of crawling up his driveway, entirely out of steam. The first time Don stayed as an overnight 'visitor' in my apartment, he broke into song just as the early morning light was appearing through the cracks in the Venetian blinds. The tune and words to this charming song (and memory), Simon Smith and His Amazing Dancing Bear, belong to Randy Newman (and Don), and I offer some of these words up below.Cheryl Wheeler
Speaking of Don and music and how I got him hooked on the country channel (after watching a video, on my way out the door to work at the bar one damp December day, of a child on Christmas morning whose parents were drunk -- or is that my projection? -- and who, sad and sadly, had no toys), and one of the first most memorable pieces we saw on this channel was Cheryl Wheeler singing Dead People's Houses. She disappeared from our lives for many years, only to resurface at an uncanny time a few months preceding Don's illness and death. I shall not go into those details here, but she is among my top ten favourite writers and singers, and after I saw her here in Toronto at Hugh's Room a couple of years ago, I sent her an article I synchronicitally discovered that focused on High Park and the sport of curling, because she had not heard of such a sport and had said so at her small concert. In ordinary company, she might not be everyone's cup of tea, but these are no ordinary guests and this is no ordinary play.What I have to work on now are seating arrangements, place cards, menu, music accompaniment, and lighting. There is so much work to be done, and I have many mentoring playwrights as well as religious icons to honour. (I would have invited Tom Stoppard, but I would have then had to spend the entire evening frantic over his jealousy.)
Seen at the nicest places where well-fed faces all stop to stare,
Making the grandest entrance is Simon Smith and his dancing bear...
They'll love us, won't they?
They feed us, don't they?
Oh, who would think a boy and bear
Could be well accepted everywhere?
It's just amazing how fair people can be!
<:^)
Monday, March 2
The Way We Were
I have a thousand things in my head today, all in one great run-on sentence...such as...why did I leave two televisions on and now have to listen to Charlie Rose in the background talk all about money, in stereo, because I'm too lazy to get up from this chair where I have been editing since early morning and basking in a really lovely last evening where we honoured five generous writers, which was almost as wonderful as John coming into the store yesterday and saying that when he heard I'd be back he said "Yay!" (apart from my daughter, I can't remember the last time anyone was as vocally excited to see me) (if ever), and wishing I could inspire that in the world, which would make me a megalomaniac, and when I think of having to be lumped in with Barbra Streisand and Mel Gibson and Dr. Phil I just shudder the same way I did when I tried to Comet the kitchen sink early this afternoon keeping my injured finger out of the mix and worried at the same time about the dog who is coughing a lot and wondering if it would have been -- would have felt -- so bad except that, at the same time that I was thinking about the dog and scouring the sink, wouldn't you know in the background, on Channel 61, James Harriot's heart-diseased dog was lying down to die in the back forty and there I stood at the wall sobbing and wondering who are we crying more for -- all our dead dogs or the people we have loved who have left us? -- which leads me to wonder in a stupidly tangential but not embittered way why some people (well, really, name two...) never answer their email and why when I go looking for letters in the outdoor box I find mostly bills and flyers for Extreme Fitness -- look at me: if I wanted to be extremely fit would I want or need flyers? -- which takes me to other kinds of fitness and therapy and back to t.v. -- if you've ever been in therapy, In Treatment is so vindicating, and, if you haven't, not going feels completely validated by the fact and the theme of this show -- and isn't Gabriel Byrne just so handsome and thank God they didn't make him get rid of his Irish accent, which is the reason I googled him and discovered some interesting facts (if they're true) about his study of archaeology and linguistics, and how he wrote the first drama in Irish on (for?) Ireland's national Irish television station, and how he was allegedly (I can't stand that word: how many fish have been let off great hooks on account of allegedly?) molested by a Latin teacher (amore amas amat?) and speaking of seminarians (semenarians?) and sin, why oh why did mareseatoats buy that white bread that I say I can't stomach and yet seem to keep toasting (and toasting) and slathering in peanut butter -- how can I possibly be allergic to peanuts and not to peanut butter? -- and brown sugar cinnamon and sit eating with tea, a cup of which I have here beside me as I languish here too lazy to get back to the editing and too tired to do anything else -- oh my god, I forgot to feed the fish...poor Edith! poor Truman! forgive me! although I did remember Boots's needle at 11:00, which reminds me of the London, Ontario television station (CFPL?) who used to put out an ad every night that said, "It's 11 o'clock -- do you know where your children are?" and a few years later, when I was 18 and back in London babysitting my much younger brother after years of not having seen him, the commercial came on again, only this time it said, "It's 11 o'clock -- do you know where you parents are?" which I thought funny enough, especially in light of the fact that my father was out somewhere bombed with his wife, which takes me to a whole other world and its mustier places where I'd rather not go so I best get back to my work and try to erase this memory tape in my head.
Architects may come and
Architects may go and
Never change your point of view
Simon and Garfunkel
Architects may come and
Architects may go and
Never change your point of view
Simon and Garfunkel
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