On the Road (3)

With 10 minutes to midnight, I must write quickly to close the day on this celebration of my day of birth. With a few best wishes by email and phone, it was the beginning of a "sisterly day" as my little sister says. We goofed away the morning but finally roused ourselves enough to visit old friends of our parents, Ron and Nancy, who happen to be living in New Liskeard.

It was a great visit. Chelsea, their frisky 9 yr old spaniel met us enthusiastically at the door with her people, just as happy, behind. Drinks all around (who could resist after all the sun was over the yard arm somewhere in the world), and a song or two with Ron playing what I think was a mandolin, and reminiscing. Wonderful memories of Canyon life, times and people. Time flew as it always does when one is having a great time and all too soon we had to take our leave. The plan had been to shop so off a-shopping we did go. I managed not to spend -- a tremendous accomplishment for a professed shopaholic -- and we came home to a wonderful spaghetti dinner plus a freshly iced cake à la efforts de Ryan and Heather. We're also celebrating Syb's birthday as she is 60 tomorrow! Civility is continuing to reign (thank Heavens).

Now, still stuffed I am heading to bed on an air mattress in Bert's office, wondering if I'll be able to get up to attend little sister's 6am yoga class. Stay tuned (this may prove more of a challenge than I'm capable of overcoming)!

On the Road (2)

Day 2 dawned into a kind of grey day. After breakfast, the four intrepids headed out to the Temiskaming Nordic Ski Club and its numerous trails. If you ever get the chance, visit this place. $5 buys you boots, poles and skis for the entire day! What a bargain! We met up with 2 of my younger sister's friends and despite our varying degrees of ability, managed without incident about 6 km of beautiful trails that meandered through ancient pines.

No lynx or fox sightings today (only my little sister has ever been so lucky) but just being out in the fresh air, skiiing a marvelous trail and pushing ourselves just enough to break a continual sweat was reward enough. I fell three times trying to ski-skate so stuck to classic after that.

The chalet comes equipped with a roaring stove, and a fully equipped kitchen so we sat down to pea soup, yogurt and tea for lunch, punctuated by a couple of homemade chocolate chip cookies. We then drove the scenic tour from Portage Bay Road into Cobalt, stopping to check out an interesting stained glass store and a wonderful native arts store then on through Haileybury where the many ice huts indicate ice-fishing is going full bore, and finally closing the circuit back in New Liskeard. No traffic jams in this place!

Now, as my sister says "It's wine time," so I have to depart now and imbibe!
BTW, only a couple of insults and digs on the part of all so we're behaving very well for siblings! Let's hope it continues.

On the Road

I'm road-tripping with my two older sisters on route to New Liskeard, home of my baby sister so it's iffy if I'll have time to blog on a daily basis. Rest assured, we've arrived safe and sound after having cruised the highway at 120 - 130 km/hour (yes, my sibling has a lead foot)...clear roads, sunshine and not too much traffic, and no cops.

We stopped to peruse the Artisan Craft Shop in Deep River - a spot not to be missed if you appreciate fine art created by local artisans: woodwork, jewellry, weaving, paintings, pottery, glasswork, etc. I managed to escape without spending a sou but it was a close call as I had to ignore the siren call of a pair of earrings and a beautiful hand-made purse.

Sitting in the backseat I had time, while listening to my sisters' conversation, to appreciate the many signs of wildlife on the roadside: tracks of animals of varying sizes, coming/going. It amazed me -- and I was somehow comforted -- to realize how many of those tracks led to the road, the track-maker obviously having safely crossed it.

I practised my harmonica, working my way through my entire repertoire (a very short one, of course) while my sisters either guessed the song or moved on in conversation. A friend once asked me, after listening to everything I knew how to play, if I knew any other song besides Oh Christmas Tree...so that'll give you some idea of my ability with the old mouth organ.

It'll be interesting to see how long we four ladies last without resorting to our typical sibling rivalry and true (non-chronological) ages after 3 days of intense one-on-one company. Stay tuned...

Northland's Minnie Sutherland©

You’re a goner, Minnie Sutherland,
perhaps were the day you were born.
Too late the System will determine
What happened the Eve of New Year’s Day and why,
Assign blame, and adjust its nuts and dolts.

It’s Hull. Dark. Bright. Promenade du Portage peppered with revelers.
Everyone intoxicated with life, with joy, with booze.
You, your cousin. Street cops, seat-belted nurses too?

What bitter irony, Minnie Blind,
a Nightingale should put out your lights.
You didn’t walk into a car, Minnie Cree, but into a stereotype.
Cop, unthinking, uncaring: “Maudite sauvage! Au cris!
Laissez-la dormir dans le neige.”[1]

Three men...a bridge...Ottawa, Minnie Femme Fatale,
conscious, unconscious,
is darkness, is light, your mind or the sky and stars?

Protectors: cruisered cop, street medic find, debate Minnie Hurt
Draped -- Society’s trophy -- on a cold cop car seat
Once briefly on a hood like a forty year old ornament.
Then…no siren, no hurry: Bright red lights:
U R G E N C E - E M E R G E N C Y
a slow recovery, Minnie Sick, Minnie Poor,
not so quick to bounce back
from New Year’s celebrations.

Thank God for strangers’ care.
But care’s not careful
When they
inadvertently
catheterize
your neck
and you drown
in your own
wonderful
Canadian
native
blood
Under arrest…cardiac arrest.

So…they’ll blame your cracked head, Minnie Dead.

But across this old, cold, vast North Land,
Everyone knows:
Natives
disappear or die sooner than
the Trespassers
who dilute brown skin
with white, with drink, with drugs, with attitude
Until you, Minnie Sutherland,
no longer
exist
at
all

But for your spirit.


[1] Damn squaw! Christ! Let her sleep if off in the snowbank.”
Related article
Unsolved murder (page down)
Book

In Memory of Sybil Mae Smith Beamish

Mom

I was five, I remember, when

You used to

fall asleep

reading to me

stories I knew by heart.

And

I'd correct you

not knowing

you'd worked so hard the whole day through and

had given all you had yet

still made time to read aloud

to me.

And braiding my hair, plait after plait.

My crowning glory was your ill fate

to achieve

amidst kids' squabbles and breakfast dishes...

I did love the ribbons!

I remember the comfort of your arms when I was small;

a hug, a kiss, a smile I had to return even though I was mad.

And singing us awake so early in the morning!

How ever did you do it?

And winter-time on an iced-down slide Dad had made.

You, like a kid, exhilarated,

enjoying the ride, the cold, the starry night

and I, your company.

Funny, I don't remember any other mothers there.

Tea-towel shrouded chelsea buns

rising in the front vestibule.

Door shut tight; thermostat jacked up high...and

"Don't you go in there! I want these to rise!"

Boy, were they good!

The first soft touch of a kitten

nuzzling a bottle I held

I owe to you.

Calling long distance - remember?

"Kittens free to good homes."

and I, listening at the kitchen door

awestruck at your generosity and my good fortune.

Did you want it as badly as I?

Thank you

for making Christmas sparkle

and Santa so real.

And teaching me manners and etiquette

I didn't want to learn

but you persevered in

civilizing me.

I haven't forgotten

any of these things and more

though

you may not recall them

as I have

in my mind.

I wrote them down to show you

we're no different now than then.

An Ode to My Father

Upriver Days
©

With hair slicked back, straight as a pin,
you'd lean into the wind and steer that boat
SLAM! BAM! over waves almost flipping me
into the mud-brown Abitibi.

Half-faced hillocks whose sands sullied the river,
scant beaches, bush breaks logger-made in the northern scrub
slowly slide by as we head upriver,
Johnson-farted fumes trailing in our wake.

We'd bounce the Lobstick's rapids before reaching
The Spot
then fish for hours on hot, still days
as Red Sucker Creek sluggishly bled into the Abitibi.

And once, I remember...
As soon as you'd take a fish off my line,
re-hook a minnow, and
settle back with your own rod,
I'd catch another and the cycle would begin again.
God, it was fun. But who'd believe my catch?

I'd pee over the side of the boat - precariously perched.
You'd kindly look the other way, light a cigarette
to give this modest little kid
a modicum of privacy.
It hardly interrupted our fishing.

Going home at night, shiv'ring in the cold and dark,
we'd strain to spot the lights of the dam
that signalled Mom and home and warmth and bed.

Watching your knife, so sharp, honed thin,
fillet flesh from bone,
the smell of scales and guts and roe
-- enough to make you puke!
I'd gamely package the entrails and carry
the stinky, newspapered mess outside.
I wish I'd learned your technique.

Those were upriver days when a kid and her Dad
would face wet, wind and wild,
scatter ducks,
feed mosquitos,
and come home with pike.

To Dye or Not to Dye

…that is the question. As a soon-to-be 56 year old woman, I am really getting tired of societal pressure to dye my hair. What the Hell is wrong with grey? Or white for that matter?

While I was having my hair cut the other day, the hairdresser kindly suggested it was time to consider a “reverse tint” as my current colour was too “harsh” for my skin tone. I felt insulted yet tempted simultaneously! My hair is dark brown with sprinklings of grey, predominately framing my face. Personally, I like it. The grey sparkles in the light. It makes me feel good. It is, after all, Nature’s dye job. The real McCoy. But the seed was planted. I found myself wondering what I would look like with a little bit of blonde here and there. What would be people’s reactions? Maybe I’ll do it before my next holiday, I found myself thinking.

My oldest sister, a grayophobe who regularly dyes her hair, has sot so subtle ways of hinting it’s time for me to start dyeing too. “I saw Sally the other day and she was sitting beside her sister Kate and you know, Sally looked so old! She’s only a year older than Kate but Kate dyes her hair and it makes her look so much younger than Sally! I wonder why Sally doesn’t dye her hair!” Hint, hint. She goes on, “And haven you seen Travesty lately? She’s let herself go completely. Her hair is totally white! She looks like an old lady!” Big hint.

I admit a dye job can give a woman a more youthful aura but who’s that woman really kidding? There’s not a heckuvalot she can do about her wrinkles unless she’s botoxing or having cosmetic surgery done. So her face or body usually gives her “age” away anyway. Who hasn’t been fooled by a lovely looking blonde who turns around only to reveal the face of an old crony! Aghhh! What is wrong with being and looking your own age? What is wrong with being AUTHENTIC? The REAL deal? YOURSELF?

Let’s look at l’Oreal’s website because a walk down the pharmacy aisle shows they offer a world array of “colour”. L’Oreal exhorts you to discover the beautiful, exhilarating world of colour – and they’re not talking paint. The key words are mood, trends, flattering, a boost, and chasing away grey…as if it’s some kind of predator outside your door. Darlings, it’s implied: age can be a predator so be assertive: chase it away!

L’Oreal says “express the exciting inner me!” Ahhhh. Now we’re getting there. People don’t want to be their true selves; they want to project how they see themselves internally, and a dye job will do just that, along with false fingernails and a few good cosmetics.

Some say it’s simply part of being well-groomed. Does not dyeing your hair imply that you no longer care how you look? I say not. Most men do not dye their hair and opt into the “distinguished look”. Why can’t women be allowed to look “distinguished”? But let’s take a look at the stats. Science Daily says: Around the world, millions of people use hair dyes. More than one in three women over age 18 and one in ten men over age 40 throughout Europe, North America and Japan use some type of hair coloring, the researchers report, and permanent dyes account for about three-quarters of the global use.

Ahh, so here’s another can of worms. Men too are now under the dye gun! One in ten! Are men swallowing the same sales pitches as women? Just for Men is a dye product targeted, duh, just for men. Their site takes a slightly different, obviously masculine approach to promote their product: “When people see all you have to offer, good things happen. Why let gray hair get in the way? Stay in the game.” In other words, your masculinity, your success and your acceptance by other men (supposedly "good things") hinge on avoiding dastardly grey! Grey is getting in your way! Without a dye job, you’re considered too old for the football game, the hockey game or the dating game. Who knew?

The above statistical reference leads us to consider something even a little darker than your current shade of dye: apparently, there is increased risk of bladder cancer for those who use or apply permanent hair dye. These types of dye often contain chemicals called arylamines. When absorbed by your skin (hands or scalp), it’s filtered through your kidney to cleanse your blood then concentrated in your urine which sits in your bladder until expelled. So who wants an increased chance of bladder cancer just to look good? You won’t be looking too good no matter your hair colour when your bladder goes belly-up, so to speak. Do you really want hair to dye for? Maybe my title should have been “To die or not to die, that is the question.”

OK, OK. Let’s rein it in a little. You use a rinse, a non-permanent hair colour. So by all accounts you’re still OK in the health department. But what about damage to our environment? Think what you’re putting down the drain in applying this goop and then shampooing it away every week. What’s in your hair dye anyway? You likely don’t know and don’t care. If you do care, you’ll want to know in 2006 the European Commission banned 22 hair dye chemicals deemed harmful to human health. This is part of their ongoing effort to identify what hair dye substances are actually safe for human use.

So after all this ranting, do I judge others for dyeing their hair? No, I’m as susceptible to the ads as the next person. Am I going to dye my hair? I hope not although I do waver from time to time. I really do want to be authentic. I want to be the real me. I don’t want to be obsessing whether my roots are showing, or having to worry about strange chemicals on my head and in my bladder and who cares if colour is too harsh for my skin. I may be just the teensiest bit jealous when all my sisters look younger than I do but I’m willing to live with it. I want to see what I’ll really look like when my hair turns from salt and pepper to Robin Hood flour white. I hope my youthful countenance and body will make up for the snow on my roof, which after all, I have earned. I hope I live to see that.

The Mime

Toonsis was a cat, made famous years ago on TV’s Saturday Night Live, who was often seen at the wheel of a car. Dolly did her Toonsis imitations from time to time from our kitchen window where she would sit and mime her complaints to the hot tub occupants -- her Mistress and Master -- in the backyard below the window. “I want out,” she would mime her mouth opening, closing. “I want out!” she would mime, “It’s time to walk the fence. It’s sundown.”

She’d fix us bathers with that emerald-green glare while miming, her mouth opening and closing meaningfully. We hot-tubbers would put other words in her mouth, laughing at the comedic comments being attributed to her but finally I would cave in and let her out for her nightly acrobatics. I always wondered how quickly could I react were an owl to appear out of the dark sky with talons at the ready? I’d already lost one of my beloved cats this way and was determined not to lose another. Dolly often sat on her Wooden Fence to enjoy watching the Sun melt down on the horizon, her ears alert, her small contained self a black shadow feline outlined against the magenta or crimson or golden molten sky – a fiery cat.

The Littlest Pony's Path

At that time, Dolly had two mistresses, Daughter (mistress junior) and Mistress (senior). Dad, soon to be known as “the Master”, tended to ignore Dolly and she him at this time of their life except at Cheese-Cuttings. But that’s a story for another time.

Daughter announced she was moving out and taking Dolly with her. But how could that be? Dolly had a fenced-in yard, a fence she acrobatically strolled very night on the look out for Cat Ballou or the Great Owl who lived in the Boreal Forest near the Ottawa River north of the house or the Raccoons scrimmaging in the Neighbour’s Backyard. She had the Swaying Grass of the Unmowed Hillside to hunt Moles and Mice or Figments of her Imagination. She had the hot-tub edge to mince around like a Tightrope Walker. She had the Stars and the Moon most nights, and the Aurora Borealis on many special nights. She had Plants to sniff and Flowers to gaze at, a warm deck to sunbathe on. How could she leave that behind?

Mistress convinced Daughter an apartment was not the place for Dolly. It would be too small. After all, the Littlest Pony, as she was also known, made regular crazed runs from the top floor of the house downstairs to the main level, careened around the corner into the kitchen, cheetahed across the dining room, slewed down the hall; flew frantically down the basement stairs, rounded the rec room recklessly and ended with a flourish of a finish in the laundry room only to retrace her steps and race back up to the third floor. Sometimes Mistress deigned to chase her. Where would Dolly run in an apartment? Reluctantly, Daughter saw there was no wisdom in keeping her and thus Dolly (gratefully) was left behind, Daughter knowing she could always visit this strange little vixen she’d brought into her parent’s lives and home and hearts.

You're Not My Type

Cat Ballou, the neighbouring Romeo, was known to swoon about outside the kitchen’s patio door, flop his huge fawn and furry self upon his back, expose his very large, very fluffy belly and reach ardent topaz eyes and white-tipped paws towards the disdainful Dolly who sat watching from the other side of the window. Talk about a strange courtship! Cat Ballou was Pépé LePieu epitomized except he was all male cat, not skunk. “My dahling, won’t you come out...to play?” his eyes would emote, no doubt purring enticingly.

Now and then Dolly would deign to acknowledge him by spitting at the window while emitting a hair-raising scream which would bring the entire household running, fearing the worst. Naturally, the more often heard, the sooner ignored. This had absolutely no effect on Cat Ballou whose ever hopeful romantic efforts continued unsuccessfully -- despite the screaming and spitting -- until Dolly moved away.

Should I Stay or Should I Go?

Venturing Forth was always fraught with many variables for Dolly: the cold or lack thereof, the wind and strength thereof, the presence or absence of rain or Cat Ballou, the local Romeo who was very much enamoured of Dolly despite her obvious vehement and vocal disdain for him. But more about Cat Ballou later.

Winter was a particular trial for both Mistress and Dolly for the latter could never make up her mind in less than 5 minutes whether to stay or to go. For Mistress, this meant standing with the door open a five inch crack whilst rain, wind, snow, hail assailed the door! For Dolly, this meant sniffing the wind, checking for danger, cringing at incoming snow or hail but taking an awful long time to do all this.

Of course, Mistress usually made Dolly’s mind up for her by abruptly closing the door on that tiny rose-pink nose – the only part of her which could determine if the conditions were ideal. At that, Dolly could get quite huffy and indignant – Well! You could’ve waited! her body-language would say. On occasion when Mistress was her less-than-patient self, her Foot saw fit to unceremoniously push Dolly out the door despite the weather and Her Protests. “Fresh air is good for everyone,” was Mistress’s opinion.

What's in a Name?

Megan had a problem. As a child might suck a thumb to feel secure, to feel safe Megan too liked to suck and made do with the next best thing to a thumb. While relaxing under the warm strokes of her Mistress’s hand, she would slowly swing her tail around, pull it in towards her whiskers with her strange, mittened paws and begin to suckle the tip… never quietly – oh no…slurping like a pig at the trough. Most unladylike.

Of course, following all that loving and tail-sucking, very self-satisfied, she would elegantly stroll about the house, tail wafting gently aloft, its erect elegance marred only by the evident pinched, wet tip which looked more like the working end of a just-dunked water-colour brush. We, Her People couldn’t help but giggle behind her back. Like anyone with a bad habit who can’t quit despite maturing, Megan never managed to kick the tail-sucking habit. And so, she gradually became better known as Baby, given her baby-like penchant for sucking her tail much like a baby sucks its thumb.

Baby was a fine name amongst family but visits to the Vet were a Problem. Mistress couldn’t bring herself to admit this squirrelly, squawky marmalade tabby struggling to be free of her arms was her “baby”. And so, for reference in public, she became Dolly. Dolly, Baby, it was all the same to her. Call her and she’d come running, as responsive to either name as Mistress could wish. And a better companion, Mistress couldn’t ask for. Whether gardening, laundering, cleaning or computing, Dolly was Mistress’s inseparable companion, observing, attending, participating, discussing. Particularly if it was reading the paper, all three stretched out on the living room rug in the morning sun. Nothing was better than discerning exactly which article Mistress would read next then to lie completely across it. Very satisfying. Then discussing with Mistress why Mistress thought she should move and why she very often just wouldn’t.

Discussions, you say? Well yes. Everything had to be discussed for, despite their lack of common tongue, Mistress and Dolly talked about everything and anything: where to put the groceries, whether or not Dolly liked the latest food offered, what Mistress was writing on the computer, and why Dolly shouldn’t sleep on the keyboard, and more often, whether the weather was temperate enough for Dolly to Venture Forth.

In the Beginning

She came into our lives unannounced: a red-headed spitfire, a little wild thing as barnyard cats tend to be. Maybe she had to be meaner or crazier to survive her humble beginnings because she was so much tinier than the average cat. Reputedly, red-heads are hot-tempered and independent, and so she was in all her glorious marmalade fur. She had extra toes making her paws looks like big-thumbed mittens, despite their dainty pink-skinned under pads. A pink rosebud nose was framed by a white fur moustache accentuated east and west with delicate but long white whiskers. All this was topped with large, expressive, all-knowing, emerald green eyes, and perky ears sloughed with white fur.

It was Daughter who brought her home, introducing her to Dad and me as "Megan". Megan didn’t take kindly to being held or petted but would squawk loudly, complainingly, anytime someone presumed they could pick up this small wee thing for a cuddle. Okay. Squawk isn’t quite the right word. It was more of a blood curdling scream. A cuddler she most definitely was not, and she let you know it.

I (unknowingly to one day become Megan’s “Mistress”) persevered, insisting on holding Megan just a wee bit every day despite the loud complaints and tiny paws pushing stubbornly against my chest. Megan slowly began to enjoy this attention but only on her terms and only for so long. Petting too she learned to tolerate; eventually even seeking it out. Perhaps it was the joy of a full body massage or perhaps she’d simply been taken from her mother too soon. Whatever the reason, she soon earned a new name. But that's another story. And so begins the Saga of Mistress, Mister and "Megan".

Obese! Moi???!!!!

I will always remember my mother relating her shock at a doctor’s description of her: obese. Doc had stepped out of the examining room momentarily and being a nosey parker, Mom snooped into her medical file. Obese. She was as shocked and angry as if she’d been called a four-letter name. But all it really meant was: she had an unhealthy amount of body fat (in other words, excessive) as evidenced by her height and weight.

I too ran into this same shocker at a health fair last year. The medicos there had a little gizmo that took my numbers, measured me and spit out the diagnosis: obese!

All my friends disagreed. “No way you’re fat,” they said. After all, I’m a woman of average height (5’6”) and weight (168 lbs). I feel fit and energetic. I walk, exercise and am likely more active than the norm. From January to November I eat very healthily but I admit December is usually a bust! Would a body mass index (BMI) calculator really put me in the obese range?

According to WebMD, if your BMI is 30 or greater, you're obese. Right now my BMI is 27 so I’m not considered obese, but I am tagged as "overweight." A person with a BMI of 18.5 to 24.9 is considered to be at a healthy weight. To be within that “norm”, I should weigh at most 154.7 lbs which gives me a BMI of 24.2.

Of course, you say, there are variables to consider, and that’s true. We all don’t fit into the BMI chart target zones due to body type, genetic make-up, metabolism, et cetera, but let’s not fool ourselves. If you consider the BMI tool as a good rule of thumb to know where you stand health-wise then, why not assess yourself and see how you’re doing? It just might give you the incentive and the motivation to help you with that annual New Year’s resolution to improve your health. After all, your health is your wealth. Guard it with your (best) life!

God versus Gosh

We’ve all heard the “Oh my gosh” ubiquitous to American television shows and society in general. We also often see the acronym OMG which may or not refer to the same expression or its alternate. Let’s face it, we all know they really mean to say: Oh my God. So why don’t they just say it?

Because Christians have been taught it is wrong to take God’s name in vain. Matter of fact, it is the 3rd of the 10 commandments. Early in life, possibly in Sunday school, I was taught this. But I admit I don’t really know why it’s so bad to make reference to God. For Heaven’s sake (am I swearing?), even my mother-in-law, a kind and lovely woman who was a God-fearing Catholic, would say in French “mon doux” thus avoiding the more explicit “Mon Dieu”. She didn’t wish to be blasphemous (that is, impiously irreverent); she was a very pious woman.

Point 1: So…the first word of the 3rd commandment I was taught as a kid gives you the first clue and Rule No. 1: do no wrong which is why so many people opt for gosh. They’re hedging their bets. I think they’re probably thinking “God” but just saying “gosh” for safety’s sake. God knows what they’re really thinking.

Point 2: There’s the part in the 3rd commandment about God being His or Her name. Simply naming God is a no no. In this site it says “to use His name:
- is to bring attention to who He is (I say, the more publicity the better – no?).
- means you are acknowledging His existence (is that such a bad thing these days?).
- is to call upon the One has proclaimed who and what He is by His name.” (Well, OK – let’s move on the point number 3)

Point 3: I didn’t as a kid and I can’t honestly say now, I truly understand the “in vain” part of the commandment. So let’s think it through: in my mind, in vain means for naught or for nothing as in the expression “it was all in vain.” So this implies that when we OMG, we’re calling upon Him for nothing, and we’re wasting His time. Hence, Rule Number 3: don’t call on the Big Guy for just nothing. It’s akin to crying wolf and we all know how that ended up.

Point 4: The same site quoted above says our kind lost how to truly pronounce God’s original name but states regardless, we shouldn’t fool around with the name most of the world has come to associate with Him (or Her) as this is very serious stuff. So here’s Rule Number 4: don’t mess around with things you don’t understand. You don’t cry “Fire” in a dark theatre and you don’t OMG just for the Hell of it. You just might end up there....I guess.

Personally, I am frequently guilty of OMG'ing but haven't felt guilty or in the wrong. Usually I reserve OMG for when I’m in awe of or overwhelmed by something. For example, hearing of a horrible accident, or learning of something incredible or heart-rending, like 2004’s tsunami or the destruction of the World Trade Centre. Prior to writing this mini-essay, I never gave my use of the expression a second thought. After all, if God does exist, he must attend these or similar happenings. If God does exist, he is supposed to be love. How can I or anyone rationalize the contradictions of it all? I know, I know. This is where faith comes in.

So, do I now hedge my bets like my dear mother-in-law with her “Mon doux”? I don’t know. I’ll certainly be more aware of the history and meaning behind OMG, and no doubt will reconsider whether or to what extent I believe in the infinite self-named “I am.”

If this is Monday..

In completing a cheque today, I absentmindely asked the clerk, "Is it the 13th today?" "No, the 14th," he corrected adding, "I guess when you're retired, the days all seem the same." THAT pressed my buttons. My immediate response was, "Au contraire; my days are NOT all the same. I've simply lost track of the date!"

Losing track of the date shows how wonderfully I have disconnencted myself from an agenda or a calendar. This to me is success! When I worked, the first thing I did was open Outlook to see what appointments, meetings or tasks I'd allocated to that day and at what time. The day, date and time drives everything in a work a day world, poor sods.

I still maintain an agenda but I've gone back to a paper one, as I still like to actually write, that is, in cursive. However, my appointments and meetings are fewer, thankfully, and my time is filled with what I want to do, not what an employer wants me to do. Big difference. Sorry, buddy. I feel sorry that you're still tied to that old world, and I'm free to explore this new one! Who gives a good gol-darn what the date is so long as I don't miss my swimming class, my coffee with friends and whatever the hell else I chose to do?

The Lake Talks in Winter

It's after nine pm when my dear little canine buddy, Spencer, and I finally head out for our daily constitutional. We're seldom out this late but the day was busy. Our usual route is very dark; only an occasional street light shows us the way but this permits the night sky to throw diamonds our way. Heavenful stars. Such riveting beauty. Just one of the wonderful perks of living outside the light-polluting realm of the city.

The road is ridged with icy grooves where tire tracks have frozen but made safe with gritty slip-saving sand. Ice crackles under every footstep and Spencer seems to take special delight, like a child, in breaking up any icy spots just to hear the crunch. As we turn the darkest corner, I stop, hold my breath. Yes, even the dog is holding his, his ears perked up. "Listen, Spencer! Listen!" We approach the shore. He listens, we listen, to the other worldly growling and groaning of the lake from under its massive load of ice.

This strange sound leaves me feeling a little vulnerable. I wonder if it's possible a coyote could creep up upon us. I'm not really worried; there are occupied homes close enough but there's that old primal brain signalling a survival "what if" when walking in a dark still wild place all alone but for the dog. We soldier on, creak-cracking road ice every step of the way.

Haiku Reflections on Winter

Today, I shall try some haiku.

For more information, this site is helpful to adults and this one for kids which gives you this mnemonic for the structure:

I am first with five

Then seven in the middle --

Five again to end.

My efforts (not all respecting the 5, 7, 5 rule):

A grim gray wintery day

Walk the dog?

OK.

Woodpecker peeks

'round leaf-bare birch

seeking frozen suet.

January thaw:

Icicles -- Winter's claws! -- drip

Harmless water now.

Black-capped chickadees

cry, swoop, alight, feed, and flee --

skier's wintry friends

Paw prints in the snow

Careful steps in same imprint - -

Let's guess who was here.

Icy roads slip, slide

past homes warmly yellow-lit

in Evening Blue.

Our gay Christmas tree,

shed of her glory, must wait

boxed until next year.

Making haiku's fun!

Challenge? No rhyme, no meter

Just 5, 7 and 5.

Iron my shirt - a commentary

I'm usually the last one to comment on politics but...in a newsclip the other day, I couldn't help but think about the optics of a placard being waved at one of Hilary Clinton's rallies the other day. The placard read "Iron my shirt". Its meaning was clear. "Hey, woman, get back in the kitchen where you belong." Yeah, get back to your subservient role.

Of course, those days are long gone but the misogynist attitude of that placard-holder (of course, a man) was loud and clear. Get out of politics, woman! Well buddy, I hate to tell you but those days have been gone for eons. What cave have you been living in? Today's women are entering politics, not to be foot soldiers but to shoot for the highest positions, and if your type thinks different, well, you better stay home and learn to iron your own darn shirts!

I couldn't help but wonder about the optics and the commentators' reactions if that same guy with his same message had stood up in one of Barack Obama's rallies. He probably would have been pilloried for a racist message because it would have inferred "Hey, black man, get back to ironing the master's shirts." Yeah, get back to your subservient role. Both racism and sexism are on par in my opinion.

Ironic isn't it that such a sexist placard merely garnered a few raised eyebrows amongst commentators yet its negativity has had a positive effect on Ms Clinton's campaign. It was akin to waving a red flag in front of not just one bull but a sea of bulls...the female voters who may have been undecided. And the results are now in.

Cynic that I am, it makes me wonder: could Ms Clinton's campaigners been slick enough to have placed that negative placard to achieve such a positive reaction? It's not beyond the realm of possibility even though it flies in the face of all that is honourable and right.

What's easier to believe: that campaign leaders are smart enough to plant such a placard to reap the positive after-shock or that there are still such men out there who really do believe a woman's hand doesn't belong at the helm of power but on the handle of an iron? Somehow that we can consider both scenarios is a sad commentary of our times.

Colonoscopized

Today was "C" day. For those of you who are squeamish about body parts, stop reading now. The rest of you nosey people can carry on if you want to know the details of having a colonscopy.
As mentioned yesterday, I took my requisite 2 packages of a purgative, one 8am, the other 6pm, and made regular rabbit runs to la toilette. After a light breakfast of boiled egg, toast and coffee, I dined on every assortment of Gaterade I could find: 180 cal/bottle but who's counting? No lightheadedness, nothing except a little stomach grumbling and yes, hunger, especially when catching the odd TV FOOD commercial last evening!

I made it through the night with only one visit to the salle de bain and managed the hour-long trip into town. Thank heavens! I couldn't picture myself doing the side car squat next to the busy highway. Overall it felt very good to be empty particularly after having over-indulged for the past 30 days.

As I waited at the doctor's office (yes, office; it wasn't done in a medical facility), a large tall man came out, obviously just having had his C done. He looked a little gray and said to me "I'd better sit down for awhile while this wears off..." He sat for 15 minutes before slowly putting on his coat and walking out. Ummm. This didn't inspire confidence. If a big guy like that feels a little grim afterwards, how would I feel?

My health card was checked against a list (nosey parker that I am, I peered at the list to see if I knew anyone who'd preceeded or would follow me -- so much for privacy laws), then I was told to disrobe from the waist down but I could keep on my socks. Good thing; it was bloody cold, lying on a cot with a paper sheet over my nether parts. In no time, the doc arrived, took my blood pressure "Good, good" and I was ushered into the C room, my paper sheet trailing behind my behind. What's the point of modesty when someone is about to insert God knows what up your bottom?

Doc checked my arms. Of course being a little dehydrated despite my case of Gatorade, he managed not to find a vein in my arm but in the back of my hand to give me a little something to make me feel happy. "Happier," I corrected. "Yes, happier," he smiled back. He's an oriental looking man, with an exceptionally kind face and voice and extremely black hair. I was tempted to ask if he dyed it.

Post-valium, I didn't feel any different. My sisterinlaw said it made her feel like a million bucks and she would've like more so I had great expectations. I still felt like a loonie.

I felt a bandage type of sticky thing being slapped onto one cheek (not on my face!) and the anal tour began. I kept my eyes on the screen. Interesting. The walls were a lovely pinkish colour, very tidy, very healthy looking from my perspective. I couldn't see anything nasty. Things got a little crampy as the camera was pushed a little deeper and had to navigate more twists and turns but nothing unbearable. Doc directed his technician, lower, higher, here, stop there. I could see one tiny whitish protuberance, very small. Snip it was gone. I didn't feel a thing as it was cauterized.

"All done," and with that Dr. C. ripped off the bandage or tape or whatever it was; at least he made it quick. I was rolled back in the original room and asked how I felt, was I good to sit up? As I sat, he explained the snipped part would be tested but the likelihood was it was nothing to worry about. I dressed and hubby took me out for lunch.

If having a C meant avgolemono soup, then it was worth it! It's my favourite soup and there's no taste like the mix of chicken, lemon and orzo. Maybe there was something to the something he gave happier me cuz I stumbled entering the Mystiko restaurant (formerly Papagus and worth a visit!) and again, leaving it. My legs simply felt a little heavy.

So there. All done. Life is once again good and if you haven't had a colonoscopy, now at least you know what to expect. Ciao!

A Power-less Day

Strange day, today. Having prepared for a medical procedure tomorrow, I am totally empty thanks to a powerful purgative. It's a good feeling tho after that stuffed feeling resulting from seasonal overindulgence. I was planning my day this morning when the power went out and stayed out until after 4pm due to high winds. At least I managed to get showered! What to do? Embrace the day. Without the computer and TV to distract me, I actually got one short story written! Then I managed to just sit and read a book, stopping periodically to listen to the wind howl.

Would the hot tub retain enough heat to get in a soak? Nope. The wind had blown off the cover and it was a cool 78 degrees! Had to weigh the cover down with a big rock. I couldn't call anyone; the phones wouldn't work and my husband has the cell. The battery to back up our clock radio had died and none of the new ones I put in would work but there's another solution. My little MP3 player has radio. At least I felt connected to the world. No need for lights; there's alot of natural light in our place. No problem with heat. The old propane "fireplace" was pushing out the BTU's; nice and cosy. But of course the toilets don't flush and I hadn't filled up buckets. I could always steal some from the hot tub if needed. For today, the rule was: regardless the hue, no flushing for you!

As my system is empty and I cannot eat, there was no need to worry about food or heating things up or cooking. It was a lovely day all in all. Of course, the power came on in time for me to cook hubby's supper...wouldn't ya know it!

The Complainer or Kvetcher

Many conversations are an exchange of complaints or a one-way dosage. I kvetch, you kvetch, everyone’s happy to have been heard. Jobs, spouses, children, other family members, service organizations, neighbours, slights, rejections, love life, law suits, he said/she said, you name it, we can all find something to complain about. It’s the basis of many a talk show today. You know, the old “You think you got it bad; listen to this!” It sells TV shows, products, newspapers and keeps the internet alive.

In a conversational context, I believe listening to some complaints isn’t a bad thing so long as you can be helpful to the complainant, assuming that person wants help or advice. More frequently, however, the complainer doesn’t want resolution, or help or even pity. It’s simply become a habit to complain and often the speaker is unaware s/he has turned into a whiner. Or s/he's made it part of their conversational shtick. Such can always be counted on to depart a delicious tidbit – “Listen to this!” about the horrors of their life to which they present a “this can’t keep me down!” or relay it in a comical perspective. While this can be wonderfully entertaining, for – let’s face it – it can give the listener a sense of “Well, at least my life isn’t THAT bad!” it becomes a drag if it’s a persistent conversational pattern.

Some listeners live vicariously through the talker’s experience; others can be judgemental and wonder why the kvetcher doesn’t take positive steps to remedy their situation. So what to do? Lisa R. Van Wagner has a wonderful page on kvetching in which she relays parts of Barbara Held’s "Stop Smiling, Start Kvetching: A 5-Step Guide to Creative Complaining. Check it out: http://www.recoveryroadmap.com/Inspiration/Kvetching.html In the meantime, monitor your own conversations. Are you still re-hashing some old hurt, regurgitating some past slight? Are you addicted to the negative because of the attention it gains you? Has it – horrors! – become part of your personality? Is this how you want to be seen or known…as the whiner?

From the listener point of view, absorbing a whiner’s download can be, amongst many other things: fun, disturbing, entertaining or worrisome or boring. Just bear in mind, you don’t want to become too much of an enabler. Some relationships are built on I whine, you listen. Sometimes it’s worth asking yourself what you’re getting out of lending a kvetcher your ears. Who is listening to you?

The Verbal Diarrhoea-ist

Another acqaintance, Jobe, a notorious long-talker, pauses frequently when speaking at length, apparently to re-marshall his thoughts. When this happens the others in the conversation often mistake the pause as a full stop and verbally jump in only to be immediately and archly informed he is not done! Being polite, everyone is forced to continue in the listener role. I’ve noticed some listeners simply walk away in the middle of Jobe’s discourses as they cannot tolerate what to them is his rudeness. I’ve also noticed at parties that no one cares to be caught alone in an aside with Jobe for it is akin to being caught in a spider-web of “conversation” from which there is no escape. Of course, if anyone persists in breaking away or interjecting themselves into Jobe’s conversation, he thinks they are rude! I have made efforts to sustain my attention span and continue to listen well past my own tolerance level as I’m a kind and optimistic person, and believe I just might learn something. But even kind optimists have their limits.

So what is really going on here? Is Jobe trying to shift the “power” while he holds the floor? Do we the listeners allow ourselves to become passive out of politeness while he is holding forth? Is there any way to signal him that he’s surpassed the listener’s capacity? One solution is to state as soon as you discern you're enmeshed in a monologue, “I’ve only got 5 minutes.” Definitely worth a try! Or stick with the those who don't give a damn what Jobe thinks and...walk away.

Jobe does seem aware of his problem (or is it our's?) but can't seem to fix it. He suffers from a lack of awareness of "conversational limits". I really don't know how to solve Jobe's problem for indeed it is his. My problem is simple. I need only ask myself, "How much of my time am I willing to give this guy?" then act on it. But remember: everyone needs a little attention even if it's only (to quote the old Brownie vow) to lend an ear.

The Ongoing Battle of the Sexes

("Listen!" continued)
Garth and Sarah (pseudonyms) are friends of mine. As Sarah and I are very verbal, and of course, women, when we get together with Garth, it often falls to him to be the almost silent (male) listener. No doubt this frustrates him, for I admit it would me, were the tables reversed.

When Garth speaks, it’s often to educate us (for instance, how to do something technical or esoteric) or to relate his perspective which he presents with authority. Garth lacks awareness of conversational “time” so although he is a good listener, he is also a long talker having no sense of how long he’s been holding the floor. So two things are happening: one is his topic; the other is his timing.

He loses listeners’ attention as he goes on too long usually on a topic that holds little interest after the initial 2 minutes. Tip to the conversationalist: monitor your listener(s). Ask yourself: Am I boring them? Have I lost them (too technical a topic, too indepth, too informative)? Have I spoken too long? Is it time to let someone else speak? There's nothing to be lost by granting another the floor.

As for the women in this “three-way” conversation, remind yourselves to be inclusive. No one likes to be left out. Remember what you learned in kindergarten: be aware and share!

The Usurper

No doubt in the course of a conversation you’ve run into the usurper: this person tells the punch line to the joke you’re in the process of telling, s/he steals your thunder by jumping in with the latest news you had started to impart or steals your stories or ideas and retells them as his or her own.

Again, I believe usurpers need attention, need to increase their feelings of self-worth to feel one-up or better than the person upon whom they practice their one-up-manship. Right or wrong, I try to call them on it when they do it if only to help bring about some self-awareness of what they are doing. I’ve learned it better serves the purpose to discuss this with the usurper in private. Often the usurper expresses surprise at what they’ve done, seemingly totally unaware. Don’t be fooled. Usurpers know exactly what they’re doing.

Are you an ITWP?

Now for a confession: I’m an insert-the-word person or ITWP. Yes, guilty! You’ve all met me. I’m the person who, when you pause in your conversation seeking the right word, jumps in and supplies it. Yes, I’m right up there with the usurper! I hereby state, reader, that I’m aware of it and working on it because it is unpleasant conversational trait. Although in my own defense, I am becoming less and less of an ITWP because my own "word" memory is becoming so bad, I too often can't find the right word. Also, I'm starting to actually like ITWPs as their word insertion help often facilitates the conversation since charades (my alternative when I seek a word) takes so long.

The Over-talker

We’ve all met the over-talker, someone who in the midst of conversation will talk over - and take over - the conversation of others to assert his or her point of view. They do this loudly, do not stop, and don’t want to be stopped. They’re either rude or needy of everyone’s immediate attention. In my opinion it's a 2-choice solution: either give them that attention OR, depending on the context of the conversation, interrupt and tell them to wait their turn if what you’re listening to or were saying was important enough to warrant that feedback. I admit I’ve been an over-talker on occasion and am not proud of the fact. I try to recognize it when I do it, stop and take the time to think about why I’m doing it. No one has ever put me in my place but I wince when I do it because it is just plain wrong (unless there's some kind of urgency to a situation but that's rare) in a conversational context.

Helluva life

"My life was hell." Yup, there's always someone whose life was hell and they just have to tell you about it and not just once or twice. Let’s face it: we’ve all had personal hells of one sort or another. Possibly some of us live it daily. For the more fortunate, their hell is behind them. But there is a type who feels obliged to revisit their personal hell. It is almost as though they have become attached to their hell and must continue to relive it verbally. They haven't used the experience to gain insight, further develop themselves or to move on.

Now I don’t mind hearing it once, or even, I’ll admit, twice. I’m curious, I’m concerned and it helps me to know a person better to know what kind of baggage they’ve carried (or have worked to let go of) but I don’t need to hear about it repetitively. If such experiences become a conversational crutch, it says to me this person hasn’t moved on. Hasn’t learned anything from their experience. This person is getting some kind of emotional pay out in replaying their hell. Is it pity, victimization, how brave they were, how much they had to suffer, blaming? I wish these people would stop and reflect on exactly what that life lesson their hell imparted to them. How did it make them a better person? Or are they stuck? Stuck in the past and the drama of that past?

Let’s face it. Many of us have lived a hell that is dramatic, and drama isn’t that easy to come by daily unless you’re a doctor, an actor or maybe a police constable. So maybe we’re hooked on the drama of the moment or minutes of our personal hell which is why we don’t want to let it go. I tend to ask these Hell-on-earthers why they are telling me this. Sometimes it works as they reflect on why they continue to bathe in the waters of the past. It begs the question: why are they so comfortable there and not here in the moment? I too have fallen prey to repeating history. But I’ve found little satisfaction in it. The satisfaction I have found, though, is when I move on, when I make peace, when I feel free of the “ties that bind”. I hope you, reader, will keep that in mind too if you find yourself stuck in a past moment or dwelling on a bad incident without finding forgiveness or some other kind of resolution.

Happy 2008

Dear Reader, I've been remiss. In dealing with my temperamental computer yesterday, I overlooked sending my best wishes that everything in your world (and mine!) be good, healthy and sane in world in 2008. Happy New Year! Bonne et heureuse année!

Blah-blah-blah

To work at resolving my own listening inadequacies, I’ll relate some conversational no-no’s. I hope in addressing these, I may determine my own foibles or strategies or perspectives which in turn, may improve my listening skills or yours. I place no blame on those speakers and scenarios I describe but outline them only to better see how I can change my own reaction. If you see yourself in any description or scenario, then rest assured I too see myself there. In other words, we're all guilty!

Blah, Blah, Blah
Some people are just naturally chatty (I know I am!). They natter on about their families, their problems, their opinions, their activities. They want an audience, they don’t really want commentary, advice or solutions. They want attention. They might be nervous and just filling in the open air (some people can’t tolerate the silence that occurs occasionally). Sometimes verbalizing out loud enables them to actually figure out what is actually on their minds as we often don’t recognize an issue or problem or situation until we verbalize it.

When I encounter people like this, I just tend to listen. Who or what does it hurt? Is it that important that I speak? I make a conscious decision to listen, to actively listen. When I find it hard to listen, then I work at determining what it is that is impeding my ability to listen. Do I want to solve their problem? Have I had a similar experience? Do I know of a similar situation that might help them? Are they boring me?

Yet I try not to internalize as it inhibits my attention span. I work at this type of listening, and offer up my ears in the name of friendship and good relationships. If the blah-blah-ber is always in blubber mode, then I tend to avoid them for, in keeping with Desiderata advice: “avoid loud and aggressive spirits for they are vexatious to the spirit.”