apple cores
fossils
one sock
pizza crust
dead leaves
sour milk
party hats
ashes
swimming
fancy feast
pencil shavings
jewellry
children
wrapping paper
memories
real friends
humour
fillings
cigarette butts
poetry
tides
turmoil
cellulite
wine corks
squeezings
dog bones
books
cookie crumbs
love
Thursday, December 31
Wednesday, December 30
Synchronicity
One entry found.
Main Entry: syn·chro·nic·i·ty
Pronunciation: \ˌsiŋ-krə-ˈni-sə-tē, ˌsin-\
Function: noun
Inflected Form(s): plural syn·chro·nic·i·ties
Date: circa 1889
1 : the quality or fact of being synchronous
2 : the coincidental occurrence of events and especially psychic events (as similar thoughts in widely separated persons or a mental image of an unexpected event before it happens) that seem related but are not explained by conventional mechanisms of causality—used especially in the psychology of C. G. Jung
taken from Merriam-Webster's Online Dictionary
The subject keeps coming up among groups of women of which I am a member. I keep trying to avoid it. I quake at the very mention of the words fate and meant to be, not because I do not believe in the power and the magic of synchronicitous events, but because too many people rely on a notion that practically everything that happens in our lives -- the people we meet, the stories we write, the houses we buy or don't buy, the trips we take, the illnesses we encounter, the good fortune, mediocre fortune, misfortune...are all relegated to worlds (often religious worlds of which I am not a member) and actions beyond our powers of choice and control.
Who, then, is culpable? Who is thanked? What happens to the logic of like attracting like; of great, and not so great, minds thinking alike? Of hard work and no work leading to the paths we find ourselves on? To one thing, therefore, leading to another? How do we teach our children in meaningful ways that there are consequences to actions, and that sometimes, life is beyond our control? That lottery winnings and terminal cancers can and often do infect the same families, the same lives?
And who then is left to celebrate and be reverentially grateful for those rare, perhaps divinely inspired moments, those magical, mystical once-in-a-lifetime coming together of events and people and ideas -- the ones we work toward, hope for, imagine; the ones that inspire us, energize us, make us want to do better and be better?
I would rather work my whole life through savouring that rare possibility than think that every aspect of my life has been pre-planned. For good or for ill, I want a hand in my existence -- my own hand -- and I want to know that when I lie down at night I am responsible for my own mistakes and blessings, and that I should not, cannot, and do not have to wait on the will of anyone to tell me what I need to, what I ought to, what I must do to make my life, and the lives of the people around me, happier, healthier and more loving.
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
Hamlet, Act I, Scene IV
Main Entry: syn·chro·nic·i·ty
Pronunciation: \ˌsiŋ-krə-ˈni-sə-tē, ˌsin-\
Function: noun
Inflected Form(s): plural syn·chro·nic·i·ties
Date: circa 1889
1 : the quality or fact of being synchronous
2 : the coincidental occurrence of events and especially psychic events (as similar thoughts in widely separated persons or a mental image of an unexpected event before it happens) that seem related but are not explained by conventional mechanisms of causality—used especially in the psychology of C. G. Jung
taken from Merriam-Webster's Online Dictionary
The subject keeps coming up among groups of women of which I am a member. I keep trying to avoid it. I quake at the very mention of the words fate and meant to be, not because I do not believe in the power and the magic of synchronicitous events, but because too many people rely on a notion that practically everything that happens in our lives -- the people we meet, the stories we write, the houses we buy or don't buy, the trips we take, the illnesses we encounter, the good fortune, mediocre fortune, misfortune...are all relegated to worlds (often religious worlds of which I am not a member) and actions beyond our powers of choice and control.
Who, then, is culpable? Who is thanked? What happens to the logic of like attracting like; of great, and not so great, minds thinking alike? Of hard work and no work leading to the paths we find ourselves on? To one thing, therefore, leading to another? How do we teach our children in meaningful ways that there are consequences to actions, and that sometimes, life is beyond our control? That lottery winnings and terminal cancers can and often do infect the same families, the same lives?
And who then is left to celebrate and be reverentially grateful for those rare, perhaps divinely inspired moments, those magical, mystical once-in-a-lifetime coming together of events and people and ideas -- the ones we work toward, hope for, imagine; the ones that inspire us, energize us, make us want to do better and be better?
I would rather work my whole life through savouring that rare possibility than think that every aspect of my life has been pre-planned. For good or for ill, I want a hand in my existence -- my own hand -- and I want to know that when I lie down at night I am responsible for my own mistakes and blessings, and that I should not, cannot, and do not have to wait on the will of anyone to tell me what I need to, what I ought to, what I must do to make my life, and the lives of the people around me, happier, healthier and more loving.
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
Hamlet, Act I, Scene IV
Tuesday, December 29
New Year's Resolutions
To worry even less, or not at all, about the people who do not truly care for me, so that I can get on, and keep on, with my day. I made some headway with this last year, but slipped and fell and bonked my head along the way.
Finish projects, even if it means making less money.
Adhere, along with Sarah, to the weight loss plan, remembering what I said about fitness before Lainey was born...and to do the physio exercises every day, even if they take an hour or more. To remember that I bought a treadmill and why I bought a treadmill, although I must say that the cats look sweet when they are sleeping in a row, and oh, those presents!
To try and accept what I cannot change, even if that means borrowing from the Serenity Prayer and repeating, as my mother would say (and did about a hundred times a day) -- so be it.
To gear up for travel by airplane. Yikes.
To try and be satisfied with current progress and not, the second something has been accomplished, dash forward to the next item. For example, the kitchen tiles weren't dry and I was lamenting the state of the wallpaper and that we ought to get at the cupboards right away.
To remember that last year's resolutions proved somewhat fruitful, and to remember that change is therefore possible.
To continue letting go of the irrevocable past.
To not be shy to ask.
And to always, as my mother also said a hundred times a week, always darling, consider the source -- and for the rest of you, credit them while you're at it.
Yes we are [friends] and I do like to pass the day with you in serious and inconsequential chatter. I wouldn't mind washing up beside you, dusting beside you, reading the back half of the paper while you read the front. We are friends and I would miss you, do miss you and think of you very often. I don't want to lose this happy space where I have found someone who is smart and easy and doesn't bother to check her diary when we arrange to meet. ~Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body, 1992
Finish projects, even if it means making less money.
Adhere, along with Sarah, to the weight loss plan, remembering what I said about fitness before Lainey was born...and to do the physio exercises every day, even if they take an hour or more. To remember that I bought a treadmill and why I bought a treadmill, although I must say that the cats look sweet when they are sleeping in a row, and oh, those presents!
To try and accept what I cannot change, even if that means borrowing from the Serenity Prayer and repeating, as my mother would say (and did about a hundred times a day) -- so be it.
To gear up for travel by airplane. Yikes.
To try and be satisfied with current progress and not, the second something has been accomplished, dash forward to the next item. For example, the kitchen tiles weren't dry and I was lamenting the state of the wallpaper and that we ought to get at the cupboards right away.
To remember that last year's resolutions proved somewhat fruitful, and to remember that change is therefore possible.
To continue letting go of the irrevocable past.
To not be shy to ask.
And to always, as my mother also said a hundred times a week, always darling, consider the source -- and for the rest of you, credit them while you're at it.
Yes we are [friends] and I do like to pass the day with you in serious and inconsequential chatter. I wouldn't mind washing up beside you, dusting beside you, reading the back half of the paper while you read the front. We are friends and I would miss you, do miss you and think of you very often. I don't want to lose this happy space where I have found someone who is smart and easy and doesn't bother to check her diary when we arrange to meet. ~Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body, 1992
Thursday, December 24
Holiday Fare
Every Christmas is the same and every one a little bit different.
Behind me on the treadmill stands a procession of gifts that we will be taking away with us to Ottawa. Downstairs, other gifts sit wrapped, ready to be delivered on Christmas Eve. Still others hide in the closet (oh oh...), waiting to be unleashed on Christmas morning.
From here on my cushioned chair I can hear Rita MacNeil and the Men of the Deeps singing out from the old Panasonic TV, and I wait for the song about Cape Breton, and think of my mother. I love the seasonal chorus, but I lament the dearth of Christmas classic movies, and wonder why I don't just up and buy them and keep them for this holiday occasion.
I hear Mary sneezing as she wipes away the dust and cat hair from five colourful little beds, beds they hardly ever use but that are theirs all the same. They must be tired holed up in the bedrooms, waiting for the grout to dry.
I wish I could get into the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea, or, better still, pour some wine. I almost never drink, but because I know that I am going to want more than my share of wine over the next four nights, I want some now. I'm funny that way.
Tomorrow, I have a lot of work to do around the house. I have to get the kitchen back in order, and dust away the chalky residue that has risen, and fallen, everywhere, coating everything. That is the nature of new tiles.
I have never had new tiles at Christmas before. Come to think of it, I have never had new tiles ever.
And I have never shared Christmas Eve dinner with Mike and Stephan, but I am looking forward to the evening with great pleasure. Mike is making green lasagna, and undoubtedly I am going to eat too much of it and too much bread. Afterward, we will go to Eva and David's for dessert, and then to the downtown late-night Christmas concert.
Add to this that I have never had Christmas dinner with Sarah's other family, but I look forward to that, too -- especially because I do not have to cook (shame on me) and, if I am lucky, will not have to do a lot of dishes because I am a gracious and most dignified guest. (Ha!) Mind you, doing dishes can be a lot of fun, especially if I'm washing.
I think back now to Christmas Day in Ottawa, when Don was alive and the boys were at home, and how they, the boys, would push themselves away from that table faster than you could say, "I'm not doing dishes!" And they never did. (They left that to their sister and to me.) They did other things -- played Christmas music, ate cookies, cast shadow puppets on the kitchen walls. We laughed a lot, always, and I thought -- I hoped -- that Christmas Day would always be the same.
But that is not the way that real life is, at least not for the majority of people that I know, and certainly not for me.
For people I know, as for me (and as I said), every Christmas is the same and every one a little bit different. I think that's because the people that I know and admire tend to live life in harder ways...taking risks, loving broadly, stepping up or down accordingly, sometimes unwittingly, making room for letting go and urging in.
Whenever I have lonely moments at Christmas -- whenever I lament what might have been -- I think of all the Christmas cards and letters, the family and the friends, the dinners and the concerts, the gifts that sit waiting on the treadmill, the sweet lisping sounds of Rita MacNeil leading the harmony of Cape Breton voices (their esses held too long, their tees too hard), and I know that nothing, and that no one I have loved, is far behind me, and that through every change the steady sameness sweetly follows me.
Behind me on the treadmill stands a procession of gifts that we will be taking away with us to Ottawa. Downstairs, other gifts sit wrapped, ready to be delivered on Christmas Eve. Still others hide in the closet (oh oh...), waiting to be unleashed on Christmas morning.
From here on my cushioned chair I can hear Rita MacNeil and the Men of the Deeps singing out from the old Panasonic TV, and I wait for the song about Cape Breton, and think of my mother. I love the seasonal chorus, but I lament the dearth of Christmas classic movies, and wonder why I don't just up and buy them and keep them for this holiday occasion.
I hear Mary sneezing as she wipes away the dust and cat hair from five colourful little beds, beds they hardly ever use but that are theirs all the same. They must be tired holed up in the bedrooms, waiting for the grout to dry.
I wish I could get into the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea, or, better still, pour some wine. I almost never drink, but because I know that I am going to want more than my share of wine over the next four nights, I want some now. I'm funny that way.
Tomorrow, I have a lot of work to do around the house. I have to get the kitchen back in order, and dust away the chalky residue that has risen, and fallen, everywhere, coating everything. That is the nature of new tiles.
I have never had new tiles at Christmas before. Come to think of it, I have never had new tiles ever.
And I have never shared Christmas Eve dinner with Mike and Stephan, but I am looking forward to the evening with great pleasure. Mike is making green lasagna, and undoubtedly I am going to eat too much of it and too much bread. Afterward, we will go to Eva and David's for dessert, and then to the downtown late-night Christmas concert.
Add to this that I have never had Christmas dinner with Sarah's other family, but I look forward to that, too -- especially because I do not have to cook (shame on me) and, if I am lucky, will not have to do a lot of dishes because I am a gracious and most dignified guest. (Ha!) Mind you, doing dishes can be a lot of fun, especially if I'm washing.
I think back now to Christmas Day in Ottawa, when Don was alive and the boys were at home, and how they, the boys, would push themselves away from that table faster than you could say, "I'm not doing dishes!" And they never did. (They left that to their sister and to me.) They did other things -- played Christmas music, ate cookies, cast shadow puppets on the kitchen walls. We laughed a lot, always, and I thought -- I hoped -- that Christmas Day would always be the same.
But that is not the way that real life is, at least not for the majority of people that I know, and certainly not for me.
For people I know, as for me (and as I said), every Christmas is the same and every one a little bit different. I think that's because the people that I know and admire tend to live life in harder ways...taking risks, loving broadly, stepping up or down accordingly, sometimes unwittingly, making room for letting go and urging in.
Whenever I have lonely moments at Christmas -- whenever I lament what might have been -- I think of all the Christmas cards and letters, the family and the friends, the dinners and the concerts, the gifts that sit waiting on the treadmill, the sweet lisping sounds of Rita MacNeil leading the harmony of Cape Breton voices (their esses held too long, their tees too hard), and I know that nothing, and that no one I have loved, is far behind me, and that through every change the steady sameness sweetly follows me.
Tuesday, December 22
Crosswords, Puzzles and Games
I came downstairs this morning to find Sneakers dealing what was apparently another round of cards in what was apparently a bridge game that was apparently interrupted by bouts of rose-snacking. I know this for a fact because just as I hit the bottom stair I heard Galoshes call, "You can't trump me!" and when I turned the corner I noted that Slippers was lying on her back and downing rose petals much the same way you or I would chow down on a bag of jujubes or heavily salted popcorn. Her lips were bright pink and her purring could be heard all the way across the street at the corner store (more on that another day).
I decided to sit there quietly for a few minutes, incognito as it were, as I had not yet before seen them all together like this over a card game. Other things, yes -- skiing, snow boarding, all the water sports, and of course the winter sled team, but never at a table in an attitude reminiscent of those awful velvet paintings. I don't know much about the trump games, either, and I have a hellish memory for cards that have already gone before my eyes in any given game. Mind you, after watching that bunch I'm not sure I figured out anything.
They seemed more preoccupied with social niceties than with actual learning. Sneakers, in fact, was dootied up in his silk bathrobe, reminding me a little of a portlier Orson Welles, and oh my god -- the cigar smoke! (And all this at eight o'clock in the morning. No doubt this was a holdover game.) He kept belching into his lapel, then grinning maliciously at Galoshes, who was himself quite a spectacle, his goggles draped around his neck like Howard Hughes and his back legs up on the table -- crossed. I don't typically think of Galoshes as arrogant, but I have to tell you, he cut quite a pose there at the dining room table.
"You can't trump me, I said!" he said, at which point Boots squished up his triangular face (and I can't even repeat who he reminded me of) and hurled an epithet or two toward his partner.
"Do you even know the rules of this game?" asked Boots (which were the exact words I had in my own head), at which moment Ralph interrupted, "Let's be adults about this, shall we, and get on with the game."
I could hear that he intended this as a command, too, not as a question.
Slippers rolled over beneath the arching baby's breath, practically cooing, and Galoshes yelled at her: "Haven't you any sense of decorum?" and Sneakers, who had by now gone into the kitchen and come back out again, carrying one of those bowls from the 1960s meant for chips and chip dip in which he had somehow concocted an Orange Bavarian Cream, shouted, "Heads up!" and I had no idea what he meant until I peeked through the rungs of the stair railing and saw a mittful of mandarin flying over the poker chips (do you need poker chips for trump games? I asked myself) landing in Galoshes' lap.
"Quit picking on me, all of you!" Galoshes yelled back, "and let's get on with the game."
Heavy smoke filled the air, and I coughed quietly into the sleeve of my nightgown and missed half of what Sneakers was saying -- something about synthesis, whereupon Boots roared, "For gawd's sakes -- are we going to have to sit through another dialectic diatribe from you? Thesis. Antithesis. Synthesis. Who bloody cares? I'd be happy if someone at this table knew how to play this game properly, and to hell with philosophy!"
Ralph interjected, "Speaking of philosophy, how do you feel about being written about? I had a look at one of the short stories which she claims is for the baby, but you know as well as I do that there are other venues and other babies and yeah, sure, it might be that this is all intended for a modest audience, but you know how those things go."
"I, for one, certainly do." Boots hissed spit as he spoke. "I have been the subject -- or should I say victim? -- of some of her other so-called work, and it's none too pleasant being depicted as an anal retentive bore."
"If the catheter fits," muttered Galoshes, and Slippers sat upright, several shiny petals falling from her tiny mouth. "I think you mean enema bag," she said, and Boots hissed again. "Whatever," he said. "Whose deal?"
I sat there, my arm going numb from leaning into the railing, wondering why they seemed so angry with me and why I hadn't shaved my legs in so long. Hadn't I done my best for them? Had I not taken them in off the streets when no one else wanted them? Wasn't I timely with food and water and treats? Hadn't they slept on my face for all these years?
God knows what I had had to sacrifice in the wake of their dilemmas, and yet, clearly, they didn't seem to care. I tried not to feel hurt; to understand that here in the early morning they, at the very least, were spongy tired and likely hangover (fully aware as I was of Sneakers' penchant for brandy and Ralph's longstanding [and some would say kindred] relationship with Austrian beer).
The next thing I knew one of them had leaned over and had turned on the stereo and they were humming along to Carly Simon's song about the Carter family -- and then I found I missed her... mor-or-or-ore...than I'd ever have guessed -- and I peeked through the bars and saw Boots chucking Ralph under the chin and Sneakers handing a cigar to Galoshes. "She's not so bad," Boots said, and I thought, "Ah, there's synchronicity for you," and I looked again and saw that Slippers had lain back down under the roses and seemed to be counting the remaining petals.
The dog, apparently, slept through the whole thing.
<:^)
I decided to sit there quietly for a few minutes, incognito as it were, as I had not yet before seen them all together like this over a card game. Other things, yes -- skiing, snow boarding, all the water sports, and of course the winter sled team, but never at a table in an attitude reminiscent of those awful velvet paintings. I don't know much about the trump games, either, and I have a hellish memory for cards that have already gone before my eyes in any given game. Mind you, after watching that bunch I'm not sure I figured out anything.
They seemed more preoccupied with social niceties than with actual learning. Sneakers, in fact, was dootied up in his silk bathrobe, reminding me a little of a portlier Orson Welles, and oh my god -- the cigar smoke! (And all this at eight o'clock in the morning. No doubt this was a holdover game.) He kept belching into his lapel, then grinning maliciously at Galoshes, who was himself quite a spectacle, his goggles draped around his neck like Howard Hughes and his back legs up on the table -- crossed. I don't typically think of Galoshes as arrogant, but I have to tell you, he cut quite a pose there at the dining room table.
"You can't trump me, I said!" he said, at which point Boots squished up his triangular face (and I can't even repeat who he reminded me of) and hurled an epithet or two toward his partner.
"Do you even know the rules of this game?" asked Boots (which were the exact words I had in my own head), at which moment Ralph interrupted, "Let's be adults about this, shall we, and get on with the game."
I could hear that he intended this as a command, too, not as a question.
Slippers rolled over beneath the arching baby's breath, practically cooing, and Galoshes yelled at her: "Haven't you any sense of decorum?" and Sneakers, who had by now gone into the kitchen and come back out again, carrying one of those bowls from the 1960s meant for chips and chip dip in which he had somehow concocted an Orange Bavarian Cream, shouted, "Heads up!" and I had no idea what he meant until I peeked through the rungs of the stair railing and saw a mittful of mandarin flying over the poker chips (do you need poker chips for trump games? I asked myself) landing in Galoshes' lap.
"Quit picking on me, all of you!" Galoshes yelled back, "and let's get on with the game."
Heavy smoke filled the air, and I coughed quietly into the sleeve of my nightgown and missed half of what Sneakers was saying -- something about synthesis, whereupon Boots roared, "For gawd's sakes -- are we going to have to sit through another dialectic diatribe from you? Thesis. Antithesis. Synthesis. Who bloody cares? I'd be happy if someone at this table knew how to play this game properly, and to hell with philosophy!"
Ralph interjected, "Speaking of philosophy, how do you feel about being written about? I had a look at one of the short stories which she claims is for the baby, but you know as well as I do that there are other venues and other babies and yeah, sure, it might be that this is all intended for a modest audience, but you know how those things go."
"I, for one, certainly do." Boots hissed spit as he spoke. "I have been the subject -- or should I say victim? -- of some of her other so-called work, and it's none too pleasant being depicted as an anal retentive bore."
"If the catheter fits," muttered Galoshes, and Slippers sat upright, several shiny petals falling from her tiny mouth. "I think you mean enema bag," she said, and Boots hissed again. "Whatever," he said. "Whose deal?"
I sat there, my arm going numb from leaning into the railing, wondering why they seemed so angry with me and why I hadn't shaved my legs in so long. Hadn't I done my best for them? Had I not taken them in off the streets when no one else wanted them? Wasn't I timely with food and water and treats? Hadn't they slept on my face for all these years?
God knows what I had had to sacrifice in the wake of their dilemmas, and yet, clearly, they didn't seem to care. I tried not to feel hurt; to understand that here in the early morning they, at the very least, were spongy tired and likely hangover (fully aware as I was of Sneakers' penchant for brandy and Ralph's longstanding [and some would say kindred] relationship with Austrian beer).
The next thing I knew one of them had leaned over and had turned on the stereo and they were humming along to Carly Simon's song about the Carter family -- and then I found I missed her... mor-or-or-ore...than I'd ever have guessed -- and I peeked through the bars and saw Boots chucking Ralph under the chin and Sneakers handing a cigar to Galoshes. "She's not so bad," Boots said, and I thought, "Ah, there's synchronicity for you," and I looked again and saw that Slippers had lain back down under the roses and seemed to be counting the remaining petals.
The dog, apparently, slept through the whole thing.
<:^)
Sunday, December 20
~ Bi Lines ~
Prayer for a New Mother
The things she knew, let her forget again ---
The voices in the sky, the fear, the cold,
The gaping shepherds, and the queer old men
Piling their clumsy gifts of foreign gold.
Let her have laughter with her little one;
Teach her the endless, tuneless songs to sing,
Grant her her right to whisper to her son
The foolish names one dare not call a king.
Keep from her dreams the rumble of a crowd,
The smell of rough-cut wood, the trail of red,
The thick and chilly whiteness of the shroud
That wraps the strange new body of the dead.
Ah, let her go, kind Lord, where mothers go
And boast his pretty words and ways, and plan
The proud and happy years that they shall know
Together, when her son is grown a man.
Dorothy Parker
The things she knew, let her forget again ---
The voices in the sky, the fear, the cold,
The gaping shepherds, and the queer old men
Piling their clumsy gifts of foreign gold.
Let her have laughter with her little one;
Teach her the endless, tuneless songs to sing,
Grant her her right to whisper to her son
The foolish names one dare not call a king.
Keep from her dreams the rumble of a crowd,
The smell of rough-cut wood, the trail of red,
The thick and chilly whiteness of the shroud
That wraps the strange new body of the dead.
Ah, let her go, kind Lord, where mothers go
And boast his pretty words and ways, and plan
The proud and happy years that they shall know
Together, when her son is grown a man.
Dorothy Parker
Friday, December 18
Apples and Oranges
Last night the subject of social networking came up again. I can't help myself. Whenever I hear that word networking, especially in conjunction with the people around me who are on each other's social sites (I am on those sites, too, yes I am), Patsy's party comes back into my head. I waver between...should I send out a contact or should I wait? Should I bother to even think about it, or am I rude not to be the one doing the asking? And what if I send out a contact and the person doesn't answer? (That's happened to me once, and I am not eager to have it happen again.)
Anyway, shortly following this, an email discussion arose among a group of women (who were part of the earlier discussion) about friendship...how a person's family members are often found in one's friends and so on -- a thought I go back and forth on as well, because although blood and water are often mentioned in an analogous way -- for good or ill, there is nothing that can be compared to one's family (or to one's friendships, for that matter. But in my head, they are separate entities). I also believe it is because families are so entwined that they are often fraught with these complex internal problems, much the way certain friendships are. Honesty is hard, even on a good day.
I also find an abundance of this kind of discussion makes me nervous, despite the fact that I have as many friends as I think a person has a right to.
Perhaps I am not as trusting as most people are. Perhaps I don't like people as easily as others do. Perhaps I have come to an age where I don't want to be everyone's friend, but would rather bask in and savour the people I feel are closest to my heart and I to theirs.
Besides, some of the greatest friendships -- the deepest ones -- take years to develop.
So you can see where my head was today, up and down, back and forth, always peripherally aware that pecking orders are hard to eradicate, even among the nicest people, and that sometimes we make friends with people who can't read us as well as our family can...which is part of the point.
All this was rattling around in my cheesehead as I was flying in from physiotherapy, when I put my hand in the mailbox. Voila! A Christmas card popped up from one of my favourite-ever people, along with her handwritten and terrible funny letter. (In fact, it was because of this woman's bribe that social networking entered my life in the first place.) Immediately my psyche began healing, and my anxiety about not being popular, and about not wanting to be popular (that's a problem all its own), began to abate.
About an hour later I decided I wanted a Pepsi, hoping it would cure this flu-attached nausea that I am experiencing today. (Mind you, the three -- THREE -- delicious lemon tarts I ate yesterday might be at the root of my unease.) As I opened the inner front door, what did I discover, all the way from Florida, but a beautiful boxed basket of oranges, all dootied up in their holiday fare. I knew who had sent them even before I opened the envelope.
I sat back down on the couch, holding the basket on my knees, remembering with love my first real boyfriend, a friend of mine now for so many decades I am afraid to count that high. We haven't seen one another in years, but he knows me better than almost anyone else in my life. In fact, I don't even have to have a discussion around all of this with him because I know exactly, and intimately, what he would say. (Pretty much what Don would have said: "You goofball!")
The phone rang -- my daughter -- and we started to talk about the holiday season and gifts. I told her about a woman I heard yesterday on CBC Radio, who had called in to a talk-in show to discuss the (de)merits of Christmas gift giving. She relayed a story about how she and her husband cottoned on to an idea a few years ago in reaction to over-doing with their children, and how now, each Christmas, they give four presents apiece -- "something you want, something you need, something to wear, something to read" -- which I thought brilliant.
I told my daughter, Sarah, what this woman had said, and about the oranges, and we were comparing all of this to the background screaming of the frenetic gift-giving taking place on the Ellen DeGeneres Show. Sarah said, "You know, Mum, it's really about the oranges, isn't it?"
After I got off the telephone, I went to the front door again to plug in the beautiful outdoor lights, all blue in memory of my mother.
As I went to open the door, I spied something lying in shadow at my feet. There sat the dearest little Christmas tree, made by our friend Mike on account of my having said earlier today that this year we would have no tree. He had trimmed a tree-like bough and decorated the branches with a cranberry, a red velvet bow, and a Christmas tree angel, and placed the tree on a tiny homemade stand...all of this accompanied by his artistically rendered, and perfectly funny, miniature homemade card.
I couldn't help myself. I started to cry. I felt as if Don were poking me gently in the shoulder from the other side of the universe, saying softly, "Don't you see?"
I hadn't intended to write a blog today. My eyes hurt and my stomach is tipsy. But something about how everything fell together, and how I was given an answer, and relief, compelled me.
And it isn't that I don't value everyone in my life, the new along with the old. In fact, I am able to value the new more adequately when I put my life in perspective. But there is something to be said about the people who know you well, and who put you at the top of their lists no matter what your flaws or assets, no matter what your point of view or proclivities, and who couldn't care less about where you stand in the world, that helps me delineate between apples and oranges.
Sometimes all we need are a letter, a small tree, and a basket of oranges to put us back in our place -- the place we belong.
Anyway, shortly following this, an email discussion arose among a group of women (who were part of the earlier discussion) about friendship...how a person's family members are often found in one's friends and so on -- a thought I go back and forth on as well, because although blood and water are often mentioned in an analogous way -- for good or ill, there is nothing that can be compared to one's family (or to one's friendships, for that matter. But in my head, they are separate entities). I also believe it is because families are so entwined that they are often fraught with these complex internal problems, much the way certain friendships are. Honesty is hard, even on a good day.
I also find an abundance of this kind of discussion makes me nervous, despite the fact that I have as many friends as I think a person has a right to.
Perhaps I am not as trusting as most people are. Perhaps I don't like people as easily as others do. Perhaps I have come to an age where I don't want to be everyone's friend, but would rather bask in and savour the people I feel are closest to my heart and I to theirs.
Besides, some of the greatest friendships -- the deepest ones -- take years to develop.
So you can see where my head was today, up and down, back and forth, always peripherally aware that pecking orders are hard to eradicate, even among the nicest people, and that sometimes we make friends with people who can't read us as well as our family can...which is part of the point.
All this was rattling around in my cheesehead as I was flying in from physiotherapy, when I put my hand in the mailbox. Voila! A Christmas card popped up from one of my favourite-ever people, along with her handwritten and terrible funny letter. (In fact, it was because of this woman's bribe that social networking entered my life in the first place.) Immediately my psyche began healing, and my anxiety about not being popular, and about not wanting to be popular (that's a problem all its own), began to abate.
About an hour later I decided I wanted a Pepsi, hoping it would cure this flu-attached nausea that I am experiencing today. (Mind you, the three -- THREE -- delicious lemon tarts I ate yesterday might be at the root of my unease.) As I opened the inner front door, what did I discover, all the way from Florida, but a beautiful boxed basket of oranges, all dootied up in their holiday fare. I knew who had sent them even before I opened the envelope.
I sat back down on the couch, holding the basket on my knees, remembering with love my first real boyfriend, a friend of mine now for so many decades I am afraid to count that high. We haven't seen one another in years, but he knows me better than almost anyone else in my life. In fact, I don't even have to have a discussion around all of this with him because I know exactly, and intimately, what he would say. (Pretty much what Don would have said: "You goofball!")
The phone rang -- my daughter -- and we started to talk about the holiday season and gifts. I told her about a woman I heard yesterday on CBC Radio, who had called in to a talk-in show to discuss the (de)merits of Christmas gift giving. She relayed a story about how she and her husband cottoned on to an idea a few years ago in reaction to over-doing with their children, and how now, each Christmas, they give four presents apiece -- "something you want, something you need, something to wear, something to read" -- which I thought brilliant.
I told my daughter, Sarah, what this woman had said, and about the oranges, and we were comparing all of this to the background screaming of the frenetic gift-giving taking place on the Ellen DeGeneres Show. Sarah said, "You know, Mum, it's really about the oranges, isn't it?"
After I got off the telephone, I went to the front door again to plug in the beautiful outdoor lights, all blue in memory of my mother.
As I went to open the door, I spied something lying in shadow at my feet. There sat the dearest little Christmas tree, made by our friend Mike on account of my having said earlier today that this year we would have no tree. He had trimmed a tree-like bough and decorated the branches with a cranberry, a red velvet bow, and a Christmas tree angel, and placed the tree on a tiny homemade stand...all of this accompanied by his artistically rendered, and perfectly funny, miniature homemade card.
I couldn't help myself. I started to cry. I felt as if Don were poking me gently in the shoulder from the other side of the universe, saying softly, "Don't you see?"
I hadn't intended to write a blog today. My eyes hurt and my stomach is tipsy. But something about how everything fell together, and how I was given an answer, and relief, compelled me.
And it isn't that I don't value everyone in my life, the new along with the old. In fact, I am able to value the new more adequately when I put my life in perspective. But there is something to be said about the people who know you well, and who put you at the top of their lists no matter what your flaws or assets, no matter what your point of view or proclivities, and who couldn't care less about where you stand in the world, that helps me delineate between apples and oranges.
Sometimes all we need are a letter, a small tree, and a basket of oranges to put us back in our place -- the place we belong.
Wednesday, December 16
Closed for Repairs
I was at the Reference and Research Library today doing some referencing and research, and what do you know if I didn't turn the knob on the microfilm printer just a little too hard to the right -- or was it to the left? -- when snap! Who could know that that enormous multi-million dollar machine would have any parts on it that my tiny hand could harm? Not me, that's for sure, although I was careful to cover up my mishap when I asked for help because, really, that might have been my wrist clicking or someone's overly loud watch or even a dancing fetishist tapping a little too loudly in his shoes and not the little dial after all. I mean, a person wouldn't want to jump to any hasty conclusions, would she? That's practically tantamount to lying, and what kind of mother would I be if I condoned that sort of thing? While it's true that I didn't actually see anyone dancing, I would bet you two chocolate bars and a bag of chips (which reminds me of that joke about the priest and the young altar boy, although in that story it was a bag of chips and a Pepsi and they weren't in a library) that almost everyone in that room wore a watch except me.
And anyway, this clicking occurrence happened after I was unable to properly thread the film through the windy (long i) machinery and adjust the millimetre (or whatever those numbers were) setting and decide whether I was to hit the P or not. In fact, I still don't know what the P stands for, and I still haven't decided (although everyone else in the room seemed to know, but heaven's to Betsy, most of them -- not all mind you, but most of them -- looked no older than thirteen, and we all know that kids nowadays can do anything), and furthermore I can't remember which one (the P or the non-P, if there even was a non-P) I was supposed to hit (either/or...), all I know is that pushing one button made the print dark and not pushing didn't -- or something like that. My point being that you can only imagine how exhausted I was by this time and you can see how I could not be held accountable for any slightly overly-zealous wrist action, which after long thought I am sure wasn't my wrist at all but something close to what I suggested earlier.
And besides that, there was all that business about setting the pages correctly within the printing framework, which I wasn't quite (but almost) able to do without help, and the roll that kept slipping off -- who knew that I had it on upside down? -- and then when the words came up on the screen in reverse no one told me that there was an adjust dial and that spinning the whole thing around wouldn't work well either (and in fact I saw that this was true with my own eyes, which is why I had to keep changing machines), especially when the whole thing went into cardiac jam. If those two much older-than-I-am women hadn't been caterwauling next to me I am sure things would have run much more smoothly too, but it isn't for me to judge who they allow into the library and who they keep out. I could tell these women were incompetent because they were at least fifty years old and they kept trying to instruct the other on how to run the machines, when all along I could have told them if they'd only asked. Mind you, after they laughed out loud when I tripped over the chair, well, let's just say they didn't endear themselves to me in any special way and if they had had some minor hope that I might offer my assistance, they were wrong. But as I said, it's the kids nowadays who know everything, not old women -- although come to think of it, that isn't entirely true either. In fact, when that sweet young man who occupied the first chair I had taken (I got all the way up to four) asked me how to turn off his machine -- and he couldn't have been more than seventeen -- I was more than happy to show him. Good thing I did, too, because my scarf was sitting underneath his coat right where I had left it.
Swing your partner round and round
Allemande left and a dosey-do...
<:^)
Archived January 2008
And anyway, this clicking occurrence happened after I was unable to properly thread the film through the windy (long i) machinery and adjust the millimetre (or whatever those numbers were) setting and decide whether I was to hit the P or not. In fact, I still don't know what the P stands for, and I still haven't decided (although everyone else in the room seemed to know, but heaven's to Betsy, most of them -- not all mind you, but most of them -- looked no older than thirteen, and we all know that kids nowadays can do anything), and furthermore I can't remember which one (the P or the non-P, if there even was a non-P) I was supposed to hit (either/or...), all I know is that pushing one button made the print dark and not pushing didn't -- or something like that. My point being that you can only imagine how exhausted I was by this time and you can see how I could not be held accountable for any slightly overly-zealous wrist action, which after long thought I am sure wasn't my wrist at all but something close to what I suggested earlier.
And besides that, there was all that business about setting the pages correctly within the printing framework, which I wasn't quite (but almost) able to do without help, and the roll that kept slipping off -- who knew that I had it on upside down? -- and then when the words came up on the screen in reverse no one told me that there was an adjust dial and that spinning the whole thing around wouldn't work well either (and in fact I saw that this was true with my own eyes, which is why I had to keep changing machines), especially when the whole thing went into cardiac jam. If those two much older-than-I-am women hadn't been caterwauling next to me I am sure things would have run much more smoothly too, but it isn't for me to judge who they allow into the library and who they keep out. I could tell these women were incompetent because they were at least fifty years old and they kept trying to instruct the other on how to run the machines, when all along I could have told them if they'd only asked. Mind you, after they laughed out loud when I tripped over the chair, well, let's just say they didn't endear themselves to me in any special way and if they had had some minor hope that I might offer my assistance, they were wrong. But as I said, it's the kids nowadays who know everything, not old women -- although come to think of it, that isn't entirely true either. In fact, when that sweet young man who occupied the first chair I had taken (I got all the way up to four) asked me how to turn off his machine -- and he couldn't have been more than seventeen -- I was more than happy to show him. Good thing I did, too, because my scarf was sitting underneath his coat right where I had left it.
Swing your partner round and round
Allemande left and a dosey-do...
<:^)
Archived January 2008
Horror in the City
Stephen Smysnuik
STAFF REPORTER
Contract workers smashed out windows with hammers and crowbars while about 10 dismayed residents watched from behind the home's old iron gates and a newly installed chain-link fence.
There were some gasps and yelps from the spectators.
"Oh my God, how can they do this?" one of them muttered.
Dyan Kirshenbaum, vice-president of the Casa Loma Residents Association, yelled out: "I hope you're prepared to pay for the damage!"
But they watched helplessly as the workers at 7 Austin Terrace demolished the architectural elements they say makes it worthy of consideration for historical preservation.
The 100-year-old house was designed by John Lyle, the architect who designed Union Station and the Royal Alexandra Theatre, and it was built for John Bayne Maclean, founder of Maclean's magazine. There are few surviving Lyle structures in the city.
Robert Levy of the Casa Loma Residents Association claimed Tuesday's demolition of the windows and the portal to the front door was 15 minutes of "targeted destruction."
"If they take out the historical elements, (it) makes it harder to designate it," Levy said.
However, the owner of the property said the workers were securing the building for the winter and to prevent trespassing, which has been a problem in the past.
"Everything that was done today was in our rights as the property owner," said John Todd, president of 1626829 Ontario Limited. The company purchased the property for $2.3 million in October 2008.
He said a city building inspector was on the scene and approved the work being done.
Adam Brown, a zoning lawyer who represents Todd, said, "There's nothing heritage about any part of that building.
"Today, the building is not listed or designated. My client bought it ... but it's not listed as a designated building. It's a vacant building."
Councillor Joe Mihevc called the demolition "dastardly," given that developers knew a historical designation was being sought.
"We quite dutifully told the developer that we were looking at designation for, well, obvious reasons. It's a Lyle building."
While the legality of the demolition is still under dispute, Mihevc said they are acting "within the context of the law" – minor adjustments to a house such as new windows or doors don't require a permit.
But this case was decidedly different.
"I think their strategy is a shameful one, where they try to determine what are the heritage elements to be considered and to destroy them, demolish them, get them out of the way in an effort to undermine the eventual heritage designation," Mihevc said.
An application was submitted to the city to build townhouses, and also for a demolition permit. A preliminary community meeting was held in October but the plans were not well supported, Mihevc said. Both permits were denied
Mihevc said demolition permits are never granted until council is satisfied with the future plans.
With files from Jesse McLean
Toronto Star
STAFF REPORTER
Contract workers smashed out windows with hammers and crowbars while about 10 dismayed residents watched from behind the home's old iron gates and a newly installed chain-link fence.
There were some gasps and yelps from the spectators.
"Oh my God, how can they do this?" one of them muttered.
Dyan Kirshenbaum, vice-president of the Casa Loma Residents Association, yelled out: "I hope you're prepared to pay for the damage!"
But they watched helplessly as the workers at 7 Austin Terrace demolished the architectural elements they say makes it worthy of consideration for historical preservation.
The 100-year-old house was designed by John Lyle, the architect who designed Union Station and the Royal Alexandra Theatre, and it was built for John Bayne Maclean, founder of Maclean's magazine. There are few surviving Lyle structures in the city.
Robert Levy of the Casa Loma Residents Association claimed Tuesday's demolition of the windows and the portal to the front door was 15 minutes of "targeted destruction."
"If they take out the historical elements, (it) makes it harder to designate it," Levy said.
However, the owner of the property said the workers were securing the building for the winter and to prevent trespassing, which has been a problem in the past.
"Everything that was done today was in our rights as the property owner," said John Todd, president of 1626829 Ontario Limited. The company purchased the property for $2.3 million in October 2008.
He said a city building inspector was on the scene and approved the work being done.
Adam Brown, a zoning lawyer who represents Todd, said, "There's nothing heritage about any part of that building.
"Today, the building is not listed or designated. My client bought it ... but it's not listed as a designated building. It's a vacant building."
Councillor Joe Mihevc called the demolition "dastardly," given that developers knew a historical designation was being sought.
"We quite dutifully told the developer that we were looking at designation for, well, obvious reasons. It's a Lyle building."
While the legality of the demolition is still under dispute, Mihevc said they are acting "within the context of the law" – minor adjustments to a house such as new windows or doors don't require a permit.
But this case was decidedly different.
"I think their strategy is a shameful one, where they try to determine what are the heritage elements to be considered and to destroy them, demolish them, get them out of the way in an effort to undermine the eventual heritage designation," Mihevc said.
An application was submitted to the city to build townhouses, and also for a demolition permit. A preliminary community meeting was held in October but the plans were not well supported, Mihevc said. Both permits were denied
Mihevc said demolition permits are never granted until council is satisfied with the future plans.
With files from Jesse McLean
Toronto Star
Monday, December 14
Generation Mine
I have just come in from physiotherapy -- what a sweet man, with a set of helpful exercises and explanations -- and I am supposed to be transferring my old email (what I want to keep, that is) from one email address to another before the new computer can be set up. I also have about twenty-five words (mostly names, actually) to look up before my volunteer shift tomorrow, and I haven't had breakfast.
But something has been gnawing away at me lately, and considering that my blog font size has suddenly shrunk -- I have no idea why -- I feel this might be the day for a longer-than-shorter entry.
Apart from feeling completely fed up with the savvy, energetic, disingenuous generation that comes behind my own (there are many, many exceptions, of course and obviously -- Sarah; Noam; Stephan; Richard; Claire; Lisa; Tawnie; many of the young women and men I met at the Fowl Supper, most especially Jasmine; 98% of the students I have had the privilege to teach [almost none of them born in Canada]; many young customers from Gloria's store; all the staff at Fran's Restaurant across from Massey Hall...), I feel too-much-otherwise disenchanted and disheartened.
It isn't just their sense of entitlement, it's the arrogance, the aplomb, the lack of interest in anyone but those most like them; their avariciousness; their coyness; the canny way they have of honing in on exactly what they need and want, and eliminating everyone and everything in their paths. In fact, the mediocre and worst (there's a sorry comparison) among them have no compunction in taking -- not asking, not even borrowing, but taking -- any idea that is not their own and calling it their own, and becoming utterly indignant and malicious when caught red-handed.
Oh, they are bright, there is no doubt about that. The mothers and fathers who have paid for their education, and who have tried to give them more than they need, have seen to that. And, for the same reasons of course, they wear a mix of expensive and très shabby-chic clothing, jewellery, shoes, boots, and whatever else looks good on them as they surreptitiously admire themselves in the downtown windows. They own all the up-to-the-minute gadgets -- blackberries, IPods, IPhones (if there is such a thing), big-screen televisions, and a dozen other electronic things I cannot name -- and they are better traveled than Marco Polo. You can find them any time of day on Facebook, Twitter, MySpace, youtube, their blogs (just like this one, but with far better graphics), their cell phones, and they tend to wear either all-dark or neutral colours, or wrap themselves up in jazzy scarves, cocky hats, and fashionable eyeglasses.
When they absolutely have to, they will reply to your email, engage in minor discussion about the business at hand, and sometimes even pretend to listen to what you are saying. Their tendency is rather toward the soft-spoken or moderate, a fact of their fiddle dee dee natures (as they peer up at you from beneath their bangs or the brims of their jaunty caps), although they can let go in email among their kindred selves in a hurling fit of cutthroat epithets (I have been copied on email, unbeknownst to two of the culprits of whom I speak, and I was gobsmacked), and although they ping pong between either absent salutations or the dreaded exclamation mark (Hello! Hello! Hello!), they are absolutely appalled and affronted if you do not get back to them immediately. IMMEDIATELY. And lo and beware their punitive natures.
They are self-congratulatory, but not congratulatory; invasive but never generous; informed but radically stupid; straightforward but dishonest, and they lack any general understanding that some day, like the rest of us, they will grow old, perhaps even decrepit, and die. (Not even a gym membership can prevent that.)
Sadly, I know I am not alone in my thinking. Truth be hard told, I wish I were alone in my thinking, then I would know that it is only I who has to change. But I have listened to a dozen dozen dozen parents lament even their own children and the fact that somewhere along the line, we have made a big mistake.
And while I might think of staying away from this critical diatribe during this holiday time of year, I don't have to worry: these are not young people who would ever be reading or seeking out my blog or my opinions.
In fact, if you spend ten minutes with any one of them, you will know more about their attitudes, accomplishments and accolades than you will ever know about your own -- and the one thing they will most assuredly and unregrettably forget, if they ever knew it at all, is your name.
But something has been gnawing away at me lately, and considering that my blog font size has suddenly shrunk -- I have no idea why -- I feel this might be the day for a longer-than-shorter entry.
Apart from feeling completely fed up with the savvy, energetic, disingenuous generation that comes behind my own (there are many, many exceptions, of course and obviously -- Sarah; Noam; Stephan; Richard; Claire; Lisa; Tawnie; many of the young women and men I met at the Fowl Supper, most especially Jasmine; 98% of the students I have had the privilege to teach [almost none of them born in Canada]; many young customers from Gloria's store; all the staff at Fran's Restaurant across from Massey Hall...), I feel too-much-otherwise disenchanted and disheartened.
It isn't just their sense of entitlement, it's the arrogance, the aplomb, the lack of interest in anyone but those most like them; their avariciousness; their coyness; the canny way they have of honing in on exactly what they need and want, and eliminating everyone and everything in their paths. In fact, the mediocre and worst (there's a sorry comparison) among them have no compunction in taking -- not asking, not even borrowing, but taking -- any idea that is not their own and calling it their own, and becoming utterly indignant and malicious when caught red-handed.
Oh, they are bright, there is no doubt about that. The mothers and fathers who have paid for their education, and who have tried to give them more than they need, have seen to that. And, for the same reasons of course, they wear a mix of expensive and très shabby-chic clothing, jewellery, shoes, boots, and whatever else looks good on them as they surreptitiously admire themselves in the downtown windows. They own all the up-to-the-minute gadgets -- blackberries, IPods, IPhones (if there is such a thing), big-screen televisions, and a dozen other electronic things I cannot name -- and they are better traveled than Marco Polo. You can find them any time of day on Facebook, Twitter, MySpace, youtube, their blogs (just like this one, but with far better graphics), their cell phones, and they tend to wear either all-dark or neutral colours, or wrap themselves up in jazzy scarves, cocky hats, and fashionable eyeglasses.
When they absolutely have to, they will reply to your email, engage in minor discussion about the business at hand, and sometimes even pretend to listen to what you are saying. Their tendency is rather toward the soft-spoken or moderate, a fact of their fiddle dee dee natures (as they peer up at you from beneath their bangs or the brims of their jaunty caps), although they can let go in email among their kindred selves in a hurling fit of cutthroat epithets (I have been copied on email, unbeknownst to two of the culprits of whom I speak, and I was gobsmacked), and although they ping pong between either absent salutations or the dreaded exclamation mark (Hello! Hello! Hello!), they are absolutely appalled and affronted if you do not get back to them immediately. IMMEDIATELY. And lo and beware their punitive natures.
They are self-congratulatory, but not congratulatory; invasive but never generous; informed but radically stupid; straightforward but dishonest, and they lack any general understanding that some day, like the rest of us, they will grow old, perhaps even decrepit, and die. (Not even a gym membership can prevent that.)
Sadly, I know I am not alone in my thinking. Truth be hard told, I wish I were alone in my thinking, then I would know that it is only I who has to change. But I have listened to a dozen dozen dozen parents lament even their own children and the fact that somewhere along the line, we have made a big mistake.
And while I might think of staying away from this critical diatribe during this holiday time of year, I don't have to worry: these are not young people who would ever be reading or seeking out my blog or my opinions.
In fact, if you spend ten minutes with any one of them, you will know more about their attitudes, accomplishments and accolades than you will ever know about your own -- and the one thing they will most assuredly and unregrettably forget, if they ever knew it at all, is your name.
Saturday, December 12
~ Bi Lines ~
The Whistling Girl
Back of my back, they talk of me,
Gabble and honk and hiss;
Let them batten, and let them be-
Me, I can sing them this:
"Better to shiver beneath the stars,
Head on a faithless breast,
Than peer at the night through rusted bars,
And share an irksome rest.
Better to see the dawn come up,
Along of a trifling one,
Than set a steady man's cloth and cup
And pray the day be done.
Better be left by twenty dears
Than lie in a loveless bed;
Better a loaf that's wet with tears
Than cold, unsalted bread."
Back of my back, they wag their chins,
Whinny and bleat and sigh;
But better a heart a-bloom with sins
Than hearts gone yellow and dry!
Dorothy Parker
Back of my back, they talk of me,
Gabble and honk and hiss;
Let them batten, and let them be-
Me, I can sing them this:
"Better to shiver beneath the stars,
Head on a faithless breast,
Than peer at the night through rusted bars,
And share an irksome rest.
Better to see the dawn come up,
Along of a trifling one,
Than set a steady man's cloth and cup
And pray the day be done.
Better be left by twenty dears
Than lie in a loveless bed;
Better a loaf that's wet with tears
Than cold, unsalted bread."
Back of my back, they wag their chins,
Whinny and bleat and sigh;
But better a heart a-bloom with sins
Than hearts gone yellow and dry!
Dorothy Parker
Friday, December 11
Sports
It's Friday Night Girls and Marge is at the Mental and Mareseatoats and I are going swimming at the Y. Why? Because I am fat and have to get slim faster than slower, especially given my age and my apparent aversion to adverbs.
Speaking of adverbs, I watched the new Fifth Grader show again and I love it. I might have a faulty memory when it comes to what's-her-name, but if we're speaking about grade one spelling (y-a-k) and grade four grammar (Find the proper word in the following sentence: The chocolate cake and all the money are to be donated to Jennifer), I am a whiz!
When I was in grade seven, I fell deeply in love with my own grammar teacher, Mr. What's-His-Name. Carney? Corny? Curry? Carey! That's it! His son was a year older than me, and the lead singer of a band that performed The House of the Rising Sun during our grade eight dance. I had NO idea until I was thirty that the song was about prostitution. I thought it had something to do with China.
That was the same year I sat in the school auditorium and watched the movie about Jack being every inch a sailor who died beneath the deep blue sea. (This I understood because my mother was from the east coast and had a family full of dead fishermen). (Well, okay...coal miners. But it's practically the same thing.)
Anyway, I was in love with Mr. Carey, although that love tarnished slightly when I, having achieved a perfect score in spelling for the entire year, was given a 98%. I went to Mr. Carey, hands on hips, and I demanded to know why he had not given me a perfect mark. "Because no one is perfect, Jennifer" (a fact I clearly elicited from his misuse of a subordinate conjunction. Had no one taught him about sentence fragments?).
That was a very bad year for me indeed, however, because it was the same year that the class's top student, Patsy Munro, the doctor's daughter, was having a birthday party and neglected to invite me. I think the absence of an invitation might have had something to do with my newness, my frog eyes, and my stepfather bringing me a kitten to Home Economics class and all the kids finding him very very weird.
Anyway, everyone else in the grade seven class was to go to Patsy's party except me. (Isn't that sad?) I suffered in silence throughout the remainder of that year, as well as the next, consoling myself with the fact that Patsy Munro had sticks for legs and danced like a pony. I didn't let on that I was hurt, and in my heart I knew that good sportsmanship forbade me a public begrudging.
The months went on, and I worked away to improve my already perfect spelling, etc. The addition of one-inch-heel boots (and later to my Sunday shoes) seemed to increase my popularity exponentially, and as my hair grew in I was rapidly invited into the inner circle of the more popular girls. Patsy Munro was not among them. I made a mental note that what goes around comes around, but I continued to be friendly toward her whenever she gave me a chance.
When grade eight finally came to a close and, with it, the approaching Awards Day, I asked my mother if, for the closing ceremonies, I could wear my special pink lace dress -- the one she had bought me on the occasion of the Port Credit Ballroom Dance Championships where Alvin Suhiro, who came up to my breast-line (I had no breasts to speak of) and I won first prize (a certificate for a 45, which he offered to me) for the spot dance.
Anyway, on the day of the ceremonies, I sat at the back of the auditorium with my best friend, Sandy, and waited.
Then began the announcements: French Award: Jennifer Askew. English Award: Jennifer Askew. Track and Field Award: Jennifer Askew. Poetry Award: Jennifer Askew. First Prize Public Speaking Award: Jennifer Askew. Proficiency Award: Jennifer Askew.
Back and forth I walked through thundering applause, back and forth past Patsy Munro, prize after prize, pink lace dress and one-inch heels, back and forth past the doctor's daughter, a pink velvet bow in my long black hair.
There was only one small drawback that day.
My mother, who was supposed to come to the award ceremonies, got waylaid by my stepfather and a bottle of vodka.
The better news was that at that point in my life, I knew all about good sportsmanship -- just ask Patsy Munro -- and so I had a pretty darned good time eating butterscotch sundaes with my best friend Sandy out at the diner on Lakeshore Road.
Later, instead of going home, we walked across the bridge and over to the graveyard, where we talked about Stephen Boulton and George Hughes and how handsome they were and how, surely, one day they would ask us to marry them.
The more you sweat in practice, the less you bleed in battle. Author Unknown
Archived March 2007
Speaking of adverbs, I watched the new Fifth Grader show again and I love it. I might have a faulty memory when it comes to what's-her-name, but if we're speaking about grade one spelling (y-a-k) and grade four grammar (Find the proper word in the following sentence: The chocolate cake and all the money are to be donated to Jennifer), I am a whiz!
When I was in grade seven, I fell deeply in love with my own grammar teacher, Mr. What's-His-Name. Carney? Corny? Curry? Carey! That's it! His son was a year older than me, and the lead singer of a band that performed The House of the Rising Sun during our grade eight dance. I had NO idea until I was thirty that the song was about prostitution. I thought it had something to do with China.
That was the same year I sat in the school auditorium and watched the movie about Jack being every inch a sailor who died beneath the deep blue sea. (This I understood because my mother was from the east coast and had a family full of dead fishermen). (Well, okay...coal miners. But it's practically the same thing.)
Anyway, I was in love with Mr. Carey, although that love tarnished slightly when I, having achieved a perfect score in spelling for the entire year, was given a 98%. I went to Mr. Carey, hands on hips, and I demanded to know why he had not given me a perfect mark. "Because no one is perfect, Jennifer" (a fact I clearly elicited from his misuse of a subordinate conjunction. Had no one taught him about sentence fragments?).
That was a very bad year for me indeed, however, because it was the same year that the class's top student, Patsy Munro, the doctor's daughter, was having a birthday party and neglected to invite me. I think the absence of an invitation might have had something to do with my newness, my frog eyes, and my stepfather bringing me a kitten to Home Economics class and all the kids finding him very very weird.
Anyway, everyone else in the grade seven class was to go to Patsy's party except me. (Isn't that sad?) I suffered in silence throughout the remainder of that year, as well as the next, consoling myself with the fact that Patsy Munro had sticks for legs and danced like a pony. I didn't let on that I was hurt, and in my heart I knew that good sportsmanship forbade me a public begrudging.
The months went on, and I worked away to improve my already perfect spelling, etc. The addition of one-inch-heel boots (and later to my Sunday shoes) seemed to increase my popularity exponentially, and as my hair grew in I was rapidly invited into the inner circle of the more popular girls. Patsy Munro was not among them. I made a mental note that what goes around comes around, but I continued to be friendly toward her whenever she gave me a chance.
When grade eight finally came to a close and, with it, the approaching Awards Day, I asked my mother if, for the closing ceremonies, I could wear my special pink lace dress -- the one she had bought me on the occasion of the Port Credit Ballroom Dance Championships where Alvin Suhiro, who came up to my breast-line (I had no breasts to speak of) and I won first prize (a certificate for a 45, which he offered to me) for the spot dance.
Anyway, on the day of the ceremonies, I sat at the back of the auditorium with my best friend, Sandy, and waited.
Then began the announcements: French Award: Jennifer Askew. English Award: Jennifer Askew. Track and Field Award: Jennifer Askew. Poetry Award: Jennifer Askew. First Prize Public Speaking Award: Jennifer Askew. Proficiency Award: Jennifer Askew.
Back and forth I walked through thundering applause, back and forth past Patsy Munro, prize after prize, pink lace dress and one-inch heels, back and forth past the doctor's daughter, a pink velvet bow in my long black hair.
There was only one small drawback that day.
My mother, who was supposed to come to the award ceremonies, got waylaid by my stepfather and a bottle of vodka.
The better news was that at that point in my life, I knew all about good sportsmanship -- just ask Patsy Munro -- and so I had a pretty darned good time eating butterscotch sundaes with my best friend Sandy out at the diner on Lakeshore Road.
Later, instead of going home, we walked across the bridge and over to the graveyard, where we talked about Stephen Boulton and George Hughes and how handsome they were and how, surely, one day they would ask us to marry them.
The more you sweat in practice, the less you bleed in battle. Author Unknown
Archived March 2007
Wednesday, December 9
James Delorey
Every year I tell myself it will get easier.
Every year I wrestle with the idea of lawyers, which only echoes back to my litigious father, who once sued three young university students (who were his tenants) for the return of twenty-five dollar's worth of silverware.
Every year I remind myself that this is probably not something to write about publicly. But not two minutes go by before I am also reminding myself that sometimes by sharing we are able to help someone else.
I almost don't want to count the number of years since I last heard from my older son. Mind you, it's impossible to forget that Christmas phone call -- me to him -- where he said he would call right back but never did. I am fairly certain that the Christmas gifts I have sent to his in-laws' home (because I do not know where my son lives; he will not tell me, and he does not speak to his sister) have never been opened. From what I have heard about his in-laws, they would like to keep everyone as far from 'their' grandchildren as they can...even from their grandchildren's father. But somewhere out there are two toddlers -- Isabella and Simon, ages three and one -- who I do not yet know.
I wish I could be more like my daughter, who understands the value in what and who she has, and the value of letting go. But then again, one's siblings are an easier trial than one's children, if only because some brother/sister trouble is not entirely unexpected.
Despite all the complexities of our lives, of his life, trouble is the last thing I expected from this child, my son, at least in these ways.
~
Yesterday, I watched the 10 o'clock news. I watched it deliberately, because of James Delorey, the sweet-faced seven-year-old who lost his life to hyperthermia in the Cape Breton woods. Typically, I don't seek out tragic news stories because I find them unbearable. I don't need to see the faces to know who, and what, have been lost.
But there was something about this child's face. He had that same look in his eye my older son had when he was seven, which I mostly attribute to merriment; a sense of kind, teasing playfulness belonging to a boy who liked to have fun. I read, too, that James Delorey couldn't speak, and that he loved pizza. His teachers said that he was calm and nice, and that his photograph pretty much portrayed who he seemed to be. And whether he took off with his dog for an ordinary hike, or whether the flight syndrome associated with certain types of autism overtook him, James Delorey never found his way home.
Like everyone who has seen this story, I feel devastated for this boy and for his family. I can't believe he didn't live. I thought for sure that with so much rallying, and given that his dog stayed with him to keep him warm, this child would survive. I keep looking at his picture, and fantasizing that the story will turn out differently and that the news from the IWK Health Centre will be positive. I wish there were something I could -- we could -- do. I can't imagine what this Christmas will be like for his family, and all the Christmases following. Their loss, and his, is unfathomable. It stops me in my tracks more than a thousand miles away.
I sit here in my chair and look again at my life, at the lives of my children, and of their children, and realize how lucky we are.
James Delorey died when he was seven. My son is still alive.
Every year I wrestle with the idea of lawyers, which only echoes back to my litigious father, who once sued three young university students (who were his tenants) for the return of twenty-five dollar's worth of silverware.
Every year I remind myself that this is probably not something to write about publicly. But not two minutes go by before I am also reminding myself that sometimes by sharing we are able to help someone else.
I almost don't want to count the number of years since I last heard from my older son. Mind you, it's impossible to forget that Christmas phone call -- me to him -- where he said he would call right back but never did. I am fairly certain that the Christmas gifts I have sent to his in-laws' home (because I do not know where my son lives; he will not tell me, and he does not speak to his sister) have never been opened. From what I have heard about his in-laws, they would like to keep everyone as far from 'their' grandchildren as they can...even from their grandchildren's father. But somewhere out there are two toddlers -- Isabella and Simon, ages three and one -- who I do not yet know.
I wish I could be more like my daughter, who understands the value in what and who she has, and the value of letting go. But then again, one's siblings are an easier trial than one's children, if only because some brother/sister trouble is not entirely unexpected.
Despite all the complexities of our lives, of his life, trouble is the last thing I expected from this child, my son, at least in these ways.
~
Yesterday, I watched the 10 o'clock news. I watched it deliberately, because of James Delorey, the sweet-faced seven-year-old who lost his life to hyperthermia in the Cape Breton woods. Typically, I don't seek out tragic news stories because I find them unbearable. I don't need to see the faces to know who, and what, have been lost.
But there was something about this child's face. He had that same look in his eye my older son had when he was seven, which I mostly attribute to merriment; a sense of kind, teasing playfulness belonging to a boy who liked to have fun. I read, too, that James Delorey couldn't speak, and that he loved pizza. His teachers said that he was calm and nice, and that his photograph pretty much portrayed who he seemed to be. And whether he took off with his dog for an ordinary hike, or whether the flight syndrome associated with certain types of autism overtook him, James Delorey never found his way home.
Like everyone who has seen this story, I feel devastated for this boy and for his family. I can't believe he didn't live. I thought for sure that with so much rallying, and given that his dog stayed with him to keep him warm, this child would survive. I keep looking at his picture, and fantasizing that the story will turn out differently and that the news from the IWK Health Centre will be positive. I wish there were something I could -- we could -- do. I can't imagine what this Christmas will be like for his family, and all the Christmases following. Their loss, and his, is unfathomable. It stops me in my tracks more than a thousand miles away.
I sit here in my chair and look again at my life, at the lives of my children, and of their children, and realize how lucky we are.
James Delorey died when he was seven. My son is still alive.
Tuesday, December 8
Tiger Woods
I am sitting here in the midst of telephone appointment-making and ticket-purchasing (MCC Christmas Eve concert, physiotherapy for hips, feet and shoulder [ugh], retrieval of feline sinus x-rays, and so on), and behind me, in another room, the women of The View are, again, talking about Tiger Woods and infidelity.
I don't know why the world is agog and agape that this man, still an emotional boy, is having trouble remaining faithful to his wife.
How old was he when he was thrust into the world of golf? Two?!
From Wikipedia: "At age three, he shot a 48 over nine holes at the Navy Golf Club in Cypress, California, and at age five, he appeared in Golf Digest and on ABCs That's Incredible.[43] In 1984 at the age of eight, he won the 9–10 boys' event, the youngest age group available, at the Junior World Golf Championships.[44] He went on to win the Junior World Championships six times, including four consecutive wins from 1988 to 1991.[45][46][47][48][49]"
How uber controlling was his father, a retired United States Army lieutenant colonel and Vietnam War veteran?
How long -- how many seasons -- in the eye of the camera has he been?
How many endorsements has he tied himself up in?
How long has he been admired by people who do not know him and dictated by people who do?
How difficult is it to live up to the claim of "best golfer in the world -- ever"?
From Wikipedia: "Woods has won fourteen professional major golf championships, the second highest of any male player, and 71 PGA Tour events, third all time.[6] He has more career major wins and career PGA Tour wins than any other active golfer. He is the youngest player to achieve the career Grand Slam, and the youngest and fastest to win 50 tournaments on tour.
Woods has held the number one position in the world rankings for the most consecutive weeks and for the greatest total number of weeks. He has been awarded PGA Player of the Year a record ten times,[7] the Byron Nelson Award for lowest adjusted scoring average a record eight times, and has the record of leading the money list in nine different seasons. He has been named Associated Press Male Athlete of the Year a record-tying four times, and is the only person to be named Sports Illustrated's Sportsman of the Year more than once."
And what about his wife, Elin Nordegren, a Swedish model and daughter of former minister of migration Barbro Holmberg and famous journalist Thomas Nordegren?
No pressure there.
My hunch (and various statistics help support the notion that) these two people come from highly controlled, emotionally demanding, pressure cooker backgrounds and, as such, have not had a moment to deep-breathe their way into adulthood. None of this refutes the "reasons but no excuses" clause -- not at all -- but a person cannot be surprised that they have problems. Cam' on!
Anyway, I have a yellow cat to jab (diabetes) and a volunteer shift to attend, but I could go on, and on, just as non-windedly as those women on The View, debating the shocked responses of a public who, if they have eyes and ears, really ought to know better.
I don't know why the world is agog and agape that this man, still an emotional boy, is having trouble remaining faithful to his wife.
How old was he when he was thrust into the world of golf? Two?!
From Wikipedia: "At age three, he shot a 48 over nine holes at the Navy Golf Club in Cypress, California, and at age five, he appeared in Golf Digest and on ABCs That's Incredible.[43] In 1984 at the age of eight, he won the 9–10 boys' event, the youngest age group available, at the Junior World Golf Championships.[44] He went on to win the Junior World Championships six times, including four consecutive wins from 1988 to 1991.[45][46][47][48][49]"
How uber controlling was his father, a retired United States Army lieutenant colonel and Vietnam War veteran?
How long -- how many seasons -- in the eye of the camera has he been?
How many endorsements has he tied himself up in?
How long has he been admired by people who do not know him and dictated by people who do?
How difficult is it to live up to the claim of "best golfer in the world -- ever"?
From Wikipedia: "Woods has won fourteen professional major golf championships, the second highest of any male player, and 71 PGA Tour events, third all time.[6] He has more career major wins and career PGA Tour wins than any other active golfer. He is the youngest player to achieve the career Grand Slam, and the youngest and fastest to win 50 tournaments on tour.
Woods has held the number one position in the world rankings for the most consecutive weeks and for the greatest total number of weeks. He has been awarded PGA Player of the Year a record ten times,[7] the Byron Nelson Award for lowest adjusted scoring average a record eight times, and has the record of leading the money list in nine different seasons. He has been named Associated Press Male Athlete of the Year a record-tying four times, and is the only person to be named Sports Illustrated's Sportsman of the Year more than once."
And what about his wife, Elin Nordegren, a Swedish model and daughter of former minister of migration Barbro Holmberg and famous journalist Thomas Nordegren?
No pressure there.
My hunch (and various statistics help support the notion that) these two people come from highly controlled, emotionally demanding, pressure cooker backgrounds and, as such, have not had a moment to deep-breathe their way into adulthood. None of this refutes the "reasons but no excuses" clause -- not at all -- but a person cannot be surprised that they have problems. Cam' on!
Anyway, I have a yellow cat to jab (diabetes) and a volunteer shift to attend, but I could go on, and on, just as non-windedly as those women on The View, debating the shocked responses of a public who, if they have eyes and ears, really ought to know better.
Monday, December 7
Hats Off!
After seeking out our favourite booths (Mike Brown's Buzzz; Richard Fisher Pottery; Roach Tackle; Michael Lehrman Designs, and Creations d'Octobre) at the One of a Kind Show yesterday, we went on a little stroll for hats, which is no small feat considering my big head.
It seemed, too, as if luck might be in my favour, given the number of hat sellers there were.
Alas, limp-legged walks down alphabetic aisles were proving fruitless (hatless?), so many of these milliners unaware that cheeseheads such as mine exist; others offering up reconstructed animals (recycled seal just doesn't work for me, no matter my leather boots), and still others charging phenomenal fees for a piece of cloth ($295.00 and up at one booth I checked).
Finally, I spotted a stall sporting a multitude -- a veritable manna from heaven hats -- the hat maker's French name the synchronicitous translation of mine, which could only mean that I had fallen into a pool of chapeau luck.
I dashed forward, bad leg and all, and dove toward a red felt number that looked as if it could accommodate a head even bigger than mine. As I reached upward, a young woman popped up from around a portable wall.
"Here, let me help you!"
"Oh no, thank you. I am a little awkward about these things, and I have someone with me--"
"Yes, but the problem isn't often the hat. It's that the wearer doesn't know how to place the hat on her head."
"Well, yes, that might be true in some cases, but I have a relatively long hat experience, and I think I'm okay--"
"Try this one! It would be perfect for you."
"It's lovely, but as you can see, it's too small. And really, I'm okay with looking on my own, thank you. But if I need help I will ask--"
"What colour are you looking for?"
"Please," I insisted, trying to keep a level tone, whereupon the young woman finally had the good sense and grace to move along to the next customer.
I reached out for another hat -- this one in red, which is a colour I have been told suits me (unlike swearing and cigarettes) -- and another woman burst forth from behind a second portable wall. She had a blue hat in her hand, which she promptly squeezed down over my head, covering my eyes. "Perfection!" she said.
"It's too small," I said. And wrestling with the hat, I added, quietly, "I'm not actually looking for blue."
"We have a hat stretcher!" she shouted.
"You do?" I asked, my eyes widening, my attention suddenly rapt. After all, a hat stretcher is far more appealing than a head shrinker. (I tried one of those in Ottawa several years ago, and she was dreadful.)
"Here, try these!" The woman flung several hats in my direction, all of them, as it turned out, either too small or, for my taste, unattractive.
"It's not the hats," she said. "It's how you place them on your head. Most people don't know how to wear them."
I thanked her, and hobbled off around the corner to the next artificial wall of hanging headgear.
I kid you not -- and I have a reliable witness -- three other sales clerks popped out from behind their various walls in exactly the same manner, spewing the same spiel. "We have a hat stretcher. It isn't the hat -- it's how you wear it." As the mantra worked its way into my lexicon, I noted that the hats themselves were not entirely appealing in any case. In fact, I counted minimal varieties dyed in the same series of colours: pink, red, brown, black and blue. I was beginning to feel as if I was in a Flintstone's cartoon.
As I was about to walk away entirely, a short, strident woman burst forth, thrusting a red hat in my direction.
I turned to her, and as politely as I could muster, I said, "I'm okay, thank you."
"We have a hat stretcher!" she roared.
"Yes, I've heard." I looked her square in the eyes, still smiling. "There are so many of you, and I am just one person who is actually a bit shy. But I will ask--"
"Madame! We are only doing our job! We are here to help you. If you do not want our help, that is perfectly fine!" She grinned snidely. "We are here to help our customers find the hats that they need. We call this service!"
"Yes," I said, losing steam. I turned and doddered off, my hat dreams squelched for another year.
As I shuffled down the aisle I heard her yelling after me, "It isn't the hat, Madame. It's how you wear it!"
It seemed, too, as if luck might be in my favour, given the number of hat sellers there were.
Alas, limp-legged walks down alphabetic aisles were proving fruitless (hatless?), so many of these milliners unaware that cheeseheads such as mine exist; others offering up reconstructed animals (recycled seal just doesn't work for me, no matter my leather boots), and still others charging phenomenal fees for a piece of cloth ($295.00 and up at one booth I checked).
Finally, I spotted a stall sporting a multitude -- a veritable manna from heaven hats -- the hat maker's French name the synchronicitous translation of mine, which could only mean that I had fallen into a pool of chapeau luck.
I dashed forward, bad leg and all, and dove toward a red felt number that looked as if it could accommodate a head even bigger than mine. As I reached upward, a young woman popped up from around a portable wall.
"Here, let me help you!"
"Oh no, thank you. I am a little awkward about these things, and I have someone with me--"
"Yes, but the problem isn't often the hat. It's that the wearer doesn't know how to place the hat on her head."
"Well, yes, that might be true in some cases, but I have a relatively long hat experience, and I think I'm okay--"
"Try this one! It would be perfect for you."
"It's lovely, but as you can see, it's too small. And really, I'm okay with looking on my own, thank you. But if I need help I will ask--"
"What colour are you looking for?"
"Please," I insisted, trying to keep a level tone, whereupon the young woman finally had the good sense and grace to move along to the next customer.
I reached out for another hat -- this one in red, which is a colour I have been told suits me (unlike swearing and cigarettes) -- and another woman burst forth from behind a second portable wall. She had a blue hat in her hand, which she promptly squeezed down over my head, covering my eyes. "Perfection!" she said.
"It's too small," I said. And wrestling with the hat, I added, quietly, "I'm not actually looking for blue."
"We have a hat stretcher!" she shouted.
"You do?" I asked, my eyes widening, my attention suddenly rapt. After all, a hat stretcher is far more appealing than a head shrinker. (I tried one of those in Ottawa several years ago, and she was dreadful.)
"Here, try these!" The woman flung several hats in my direction, all of them, as it turned out, either too small or, for my taste, unattractive.
"It's not the hats," she said. "It's how you place them on your head. Most people don't know how to wear them."
I thanked her, and hobbled off around the corner to the next artificial wall of hanging headgear.
I kid you not -- and I have a reliable witness -- three other sales clerks popped out from behind their various walls in exactly the same manner, spewing the same spiel. "We have a hat stretcher. It isn't the hat -- it's how you wear it." As the mantra worked its way into my lexicon, I noted that the hats themselves were not entirely appealing in any case. In fact, I counted minimal varieties dyed in the same series of colours: pink, red, brown, black and blue. I was beginning to feel as if I was in a Flintstone's cartoon.
As I was about to walk away entirely, a short, strident woman burst forth, thrusting a red hat in my direction.
I turned to her, and as politely as I could muster, I said, "I'm okay, thank you."
"We have a hat stretcher!" she roared.
"Yes, I've heard." I looked her square in the eyes, still smiling. "There are so many of you, and I am just one person who is actually a bit shy. But I will ask--"
"Madame! We are only doing our job! We are here to help you. If you do not want our help, that is perfectly fine!" She grinned snidely. "We are here to help our customers find the hats that they need. We call this service!"
"Yes," I said, losing steam. I turned and doddered off, my hat dreams squelched for another year.
As I shuffled down the aisle I heard her yelling after me, "It isn't the hat, Madame. It's how you wear it!"
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