deep navy blue

Mas'ud & Najiyah

2009-07-27T17:01:00.000-07:00

In the span of twenty six minutes, I had five visitors: two smartly dressed businessmen with coffees (we discussed the Tour de France - mais naturellement); then an older woman with wispy white hair and extremely bright pink lipstick and rouge (reminiscent of the make-up I did on myself as a kid with coloured Smarties) and she told me all about her trouble with telemarketers - oh, and that her name was Cherry Blossom; and then, the finale, a truly lovely couple from Tripoli that, by the end of our brief chat, had invited me to visit (or live with) them in Libya - "You would LOVE it!" they said. (Desert? 35°C on a cool day? You bet I would!)

I was sitting there on a perfect long wide bench in half-sun, downtown across the street from my interview destination. I had arrived early to sit and reflect on what I might say. How I would answer questions. I had forgotten though, you know, about my curious ability to attract conversations. I was not to be alone or have time to think (fret really). I said goodbye to the Libyan couple and the woman took my face in her hands and patted my cheeks, smiling. Yes, I'd just met her 10 minutes ago. So sweet.

The interview went very well but (I'm not a fan of the word "but") all the others had gone well too. Most, in fact, so well that it almost felt like we would go for lunch/dinner together. All ran over the designated time. At one, I was given a tour like I was part of the family already. Introductions. Hellos. "Here's the light switch for this room." O.K.. Then there was that word. But. "But we have others to talk to...". You see, the competition is huge right now. You need to be able to really wow. Shoot lightning from your fingertips.

So I thought later that I should have added more to that morning's interview. Turn the tables a bit. Introduce urgency. Something along the lines of:
"If you don't hire me, I'll be leaving for Libya tomorrow. I warn you. You better hire me now or you'll miss out. I'll be wandering the Sahara looking for desert glass (so like ice!) and you'll be here in chaos without me. You better just say yes now or I'm gone.
There are camels there too.
You'll be sorry.
Look! I've got one sandal on already."

Maybe the trick is to be the last interview, not the first.

photo credit: marek.wykowski
Me captured perfectly.

The Brink

2009-05-07T13:25:00.000-07:00

So I'm not going to Antarctica. I came close but no cigar. It was all so very exciting (i.e. besides the letdown ending). But I know all about letdown endings and, worse, letdowns that never seem to end but go on and on. So I was somewhat prepared. I think there's always something to learn from letdown endings and, if you consider carefully, hidden bonuses. I did get to spend oodles of time reacquainting myself with chemistry in a quiet and superb library that I love and, so nice, I got to speak with colleagues that I had lost touch with. All were so positive and supportive, pointing out skills and attributes I wasn't aware of and/or had forgotten I even possessed. Being bombarded with compliments tickles. I really need to spend more time with those people.

An aside: I think compliment therapy would be excellent. Someone sits in a comfy chair and their friends and family form a circle around them and remind them of everything they're great at until they can't take it anymore and beg "Oh Stop!".
(Note: Some family members might just stand there in silence, racking their brains. Oh dear.)

I thought, maybe, the final decision had come down to my (semi-) joking that I could build a mean snow-fort but, it turns out, knowing how to build a snow-fort really DOES come in handy in Antarctica. I kept quiet about my deep fondness for ice...though they surely must have sensed my cantaloupe-wide smile at the mention of an entire continent of it.

In my overboard way of preparing (like learning those % solution formulas again. Seriously, what was I thinking?), I happened upon a new and superb book on blue whales, "Wild Blue: A Natural History of the World's Largest Animal" by Dan Bortolotti. (The interviews with him on his site are fabulous.) And, O.K., blue whales really had nothing to do with interview preparations though the largest population of them was once (i.e. before whaling) in the Antarctic. So a question or two might have been thrown in and if it had been, oh indeedy, I was prepared.

One beauty of a great book. No doubt Dan is being showered with compliments. Yeah Dan!

Adopt a blue whale (and get a little whale in a box).

Under Control

2009-04-13T11:55:00.000-07:00

Being several years behind in (among a multitude of things) movie-watching, I recently saw The Aviator and discovered Howard Hughes and I have/had a few things in common. I say had because, besides him being, uh, no longer with us, I got over a few of those commonalities...O.K. obsessions. That's a good thing. I'm sure. I was perhaps mere days away from locking myself in my screening room* and peeing into milk bottles perfectly aligned in rows and having my assistant push my lunch through the cracked door with a Kleenex. Besides all the planes I've designed**, there's our thing with peas. He liked his all the same size and not touching. I only WISH I had thought of the same size parameter but I was definitely on the same page with him in regards to them not touching. Ditto with noticing specks of lint on others. This I haven't overcome yet but have it under control for the most part, wisely weighing whether or not to mention it. For example as I climbed the stairs at the gym this morning, wishing aloud that it was an escalator, I said to the woman in front of me "Hello! There's a long white fluff on your bum." In hindsight, I should have used the words "thread" and "shorts" but, ah well, she was most grateful. Really, she was. I'd never reach over and grab it. No, no. Too forward and intrusive.

I was having lunch with my mother a month ago and was about to remark on her beautiful amethyst-coloured necklace ~ a simple circle, mesmerizingly translucent. Then, in the same moment I realized what it was (a thin ring of red onion from her salad) she noticed it and quickly popped it in her mouth. It's always such a relief when the other person notices and takes care of things for me. Those fluffy white threads on the lady's bottom, so feather-light and wagging in the breeze? Impossibly undetectable by her but, on her black shorts, seen as a nice tail to everyone else. So I think bobbing her was a good call.

* No, I don't really have a screening room. I'd be up on movies if I did...or be a shadow puppet expert, at the very least.
** Planes? Mine are paper only and sail so very nicely across a room.

Fishy Fishy

2009-02-25T17:29:00.000-08:00

There's a wall of photos beside my desk at home. Next to the really fetching photo of my grandmother fishing on the beach, tanned and in her glory days, there's one of me. I'm standing in the same position as her. I'm in a yellow bikini - the bottom a little skirt that's blowing a bit in the ocean breeze. I'm wearing a big smile and squinting into the sun, a white fishing rod in my hands, expectant. (That rod was magic by the way. I caught everything.) There's NOT A SOUL on the beach behind me...clear to the horizon. I'm seven years old.
A couple days ago I watched "49Up" . You may have heard of this series. I hadn't (fully). I suppose I've been on the moon as it's only appeared every seven years since it started with "7Up" way back in 1964. A young Michael Apted started by interviewing a diverse group of seven-year-olds from across the U.K., asking them about their lives and hopes.

A couple of them;
Lynn (7 years old and sounding like a puny Elizabeth II): I'm going to work in Woolworth.
Neil (7 and equally regal): When I grow up, I want to be an astronaut. And if I'm not an astronaut I want to be a coach driver...and I'll tell people what to look at out the window.
Loved it!

It was television's first experiment in recording people in their real lives. Huh, think that idea will catch on? Nah, me neither.
Something that's quite remarkably apparent in the films, and Michael Apted has been asked about it in many interviews, is that there seems to be a core personality that each participant reveals at seven that really doesn't go away.
At the beginning of the early episodes of 7Up, the Jesuit maxim is quoted "Give me the child until he is seven and I will give you the man."
So as I'm watching the film, I glanced over at that photo of me at seven. And, holy flip, yes, it clearly personifies me perfectly today. No matter what would have happened to desert a beach. No matter what warnings had been shouted my way. I would be there standing, gripping my magic fishing rod, smiling and ever-hopeful. "Here, fishy fishy."

Interview from NPR:

It Works

2009-02-10T10:58:00.000-08:00

On Aamer Haleem's show The Point yesterday, one of the topics was the wisdom of (teachers specifically) handing out junk food to kids as an incentive for good behaviour/performance. I'm not sure what was concluded because I didn't listen to it. The radio was still on, yes, but as soon as I heard the subject, I was in a candy trance looking at pictures online of tempting licorice babies and shiny jelly beans.
Grade 5 was the year I learned more, academically, than any other year. It was all thanks to the teacher, Mr. Walsh. A wonderful, jovial, positive, brainard, giant of a man that *shocking* even seemed to like fifth graders. Why, he even liked sickly little Peter who couldn't ever keep his lunch inside of him so had a permanent shadow shaped like a janitor with a bucket of sawdust. And the girl that, when she pooed in her flared-leg checkered polyester pants (so chic), he drove - O.K., speeded - her home immediately in his giant faux-wood-paneled station wagon with all the windows cracked a good bit. No, don't ask HOW I know that he speeded. Or that the car seats were beige vinyl. Yes, he was very special.

I'm certain that if I tracked down any of my classmates from that year, they'd agree. No other supported and encouraged like Mr. Walsh did. Not even our parents. But one of the clever and effective elements to his methods; spearmint leaves, chocolate covered peanuts, bags of potato chips, or six packs of Coke (in the groovy little glass bottles).
That would never be allowed today. Child obesity! Allergies! Diabetes! Yes. Oh indeed. All very serious. But, at that time, me imagining my mitts on a small bag of spearmint leaves if I aced a test on the world map was ever-powerful.
Capital of Tunisia? Tunis! Hmm. Maybe a poor example of my skills. Largest lake in Mongolia? The super salty Lake Uvs!
Huh, what's that? Moldova? No idea. Was it officially a country when I was in grade five?

I think candy may still quite possibly be an incentive for me. If I complete a task well, maybe just maybe there will be a bag of blue whales waiting at the end. There hasn't been. Yet. But my optimism runs deep. (Unlike Lake Uvs by the way - it's very shallow for such a big lake.)

Photo credit: Charlie's Chocolate Factory Ooh! Gummies!

342 Others

2009-01-29T13:04:00.000-08:00

My friends Barb and David are away in sunny Mexico. So smart, they are. I, on the other hand, found myself *surprise* shoveling the smarty-pants' driveway (again!) today. I really HAD checked the long-range forecast before volunteering myself up. I'm not that friendly, you see. And I have a very short memory. Or I block out traumatic experiences. It was to be bitterly cold (oh ho, and it has been) but yesterday, today, tomorrow and the day after: snow. Oodles. Ya. Hoo. Popeye arms.

It took me a while to make the hike over to their place as the snow that had fallen (deep and blowing around) was like walking on a deep sand beach. As I'm sure B'n'D are doing - but they're barefoot and without the 5 kilo's of snowsuit that I'm packing. Also, as I shoveled, my thermal long underwear worked their way down my legs pulling down on my over-all type snow pants. With three layers on top + my downy/puffy mitts, yes, I was somewhat like an astronaut about to take cookies out of the oven...or try to grab a tool box handle but have it escape and float away* into the cold beyond. Any adjustments were not an option. My legs became moveable from the knees down only. It's tough to heave scoop-fulls when your legs are unable to separate by more than a mitten-width. It became a bit comical. A penguin just trying to get the job done.

On the way home, some amazingly huge icicles stopped me in my awkward little tracks. Probably three metres long and a half metre wide hanging from a church's metal roof. Giant crystal stalactites. I LOVE ice!
Besides me, there are 342 others with an interest in ice in the profile section (though some list it as ICE which probably means something totally different...and not Immigration and Customs Enforcement - because who would be interested in THAT?)
My favourite was "Kitty", who enjoys ice and also "glitter, popcorn, and wind".
But (I'm guessing of course) maybe never at the same time. Am I right, Kitty?
Conchita, a Capricorn from Toledo, Ohio lists ice and nothing else as an interest. I understand, Conchita. Ice could be all-consuming.

* It really wasn't the puffy gloves. Probably more the zero gravity thing. Heidemarie noticed that a grease gun she was using to lubricate a solar panel joint had exploded in her tool bag. As she tried to clean it out, the bag slipped away and drifted off.

Photo: Because the photos of the tool box in deep outer space are a bit fuzzy, Yves Saint Laurent's Mondrian dress at his retrospective haute couture fashion show at the Pompidou Centre in Paris in 2002.

Fade To

2009-01-14T19:50:00.000-08:00

This kind of thing may come as a surprise/shock to people who let their towels hang unevenly from the bar (i.e. normal people) but I've organized the books on my shelves by spine colour, then tonally fading from left to right (of course). Alphabetical order, by author or title, makes more sense but would create a chaotic mix of colour and height.

With this set-up I've learned that white is used with surprising frequency in the world of art book publishing. I even double-checked this when I went to the National Gallery bookstore. LOTS of white covers and spines. This doesn't really make sense though considering the topic, does it? Or is it...brilliant? Thanks to Penguin Publishers, I also have half a shelf of orange. There's quite a lot of blue and green. Hmm...to collect books by spine colour alone. Crazy? I'd rather like a red to pink section.

It was from my block of black, which I really adore, that I pulled a notebook last night. A diary from 11 years ago. Imagine! Yes. Writing with a PEN on PAPER. Oh, the world was a different place.

January 14th '98
I went to visit Joe at the hospital today. Ken told me Joe had been away on a cruise and tripped while disembarking and broke both his knee caps. "What?! Mafia?" I asked. (An aside: Ken and Joe were both in their late 70s. The old guard. Boys that had been Y members for 50 years - since it was a Men's Club - talking guy things, building fires maybe, steaming together in their towels. I loved this crew. Still active, all smart/witty, always positive. Joking around with them was so much fun and they've all disappeared now.)
So there I was with a pot of happy gerberas standing in the doorway of Joe's room. There was an older gentleman in the bed beside him with a visitor. I waved to them and shrugged a bit as Joe was asleep and snoring, his legs slung up in this awkward-looking immobilizing super-contraption. The room mate motioned enthusiastically for me to come in.
"I'd rather not wake..."
"JOE!" the man hollered, "There's a girl here to see you!"
Joe moaned a bit but didn't wake-up.
His room mate was now thoroughly enjoying this, the visitor looking somewhat concerned.
"JOOOOOOOOEEEEE!" he yelled.
In a sleepy fog, Joe opened his eyes. His head rolled around on his pillow as he tried to focus, his eyes finally coming to rest on the empty bottle on his side table.
"Heh. Who drank all my Listerine?" he slurred.
Silence then...everyone burst out laughing.

Added two days later Jan 16th '98: Ken and I visited Joe. Endless ribbing of poor Traction Boy then presentation of a new/full bottle of Listerine on departure. Cheers!

Photo credit: Leader Collection. Mentone Police Boys’ Club 1961.

Fly Away

2009-01-01T18:41:00.000-08:00

New Year's resolutions. Do you make them? If you do, I won't ask you what they are. To me, it's like asking someone what they wished for. I suppose some people might find public announcement and the resulting being held accountable by others a reason to do something.
So there I was this morning in a spin class - the regular Saturday morning group collected for a special one on this first day of the new year. A small percentage were a bit hung-over but, heh, there - so gold star. It was mostly yapping for the full hour, talk of where might be the very nicest place to live. Note: it's -25°C here today. Enough said? Thought so - oh, except Jill may not agree of course. New Zealand and Costa Rica got the most votes.

Then F started to ask everyone what their resolution was, starting at the opposite side of the room. Everybody had something. "Spend more time with the kids." "More yoga." "Learn the piano." "Sell my house and move into an apartment so I never have to shovel again. Seriously!"...and on and on.
As it neared me I thought about what I *could* say. Examples: "Avoid getting in a car. Not just this year but forever." (Maybe too extreme/extremist? But I plan to as long/often as possible.) "Overcome my fear of jumping off high precipices." To be honest, even from atop a short fence spooks me. It's true. I developed this phobia after seeing a film earlier this year, Enduring Love, which I saw ONLY because Daniel Craig was in it. It showed a very graphically-disturbing image of how legs might shish-kebab a body if the person were to jump from a hot air balloon. Oh and, I'm sorry to say, I can't recommend the film...and not only because of the balloon scene but for everything else. I understand there are some that, somehow, enjoy things like the balloon scene but, to them, I predict that will be the only part they enjoy.
And now *poof*, I'm thinking about being shish-kebabed again! Ach! If I don't get over it, it may torch my Amazing Race dreams. There's sure to be leaping in that. I'll freeze, afraid to jump, and all the other teams will speed by.

The question arrived at me and I made a big zero with my hand.
"None? No resolutions?" asked F.
"No, the opposite. Too many to mention." I said.

✈✈✈

One of the latest additions to the collection at the main branch of our (the nation's capital) library;
"How to Fly a Plane" by Nick Barnard. "It truly is a magical experience. With more than 120 colour photographs, this practical little book shows you everything you need to know to fly a plane, from the basics of aerodynamics, to a step-by-step training flight, to contact information for training schools that will literally get you off the ground. So you can strap yourself in and prepare for takeoff!"

O.K. New Year's Resolutions (in this order obviously): Read book. Get pilot's license.
Happy New Year! Whatever you plan to accomplish ~ all the best. X

Big Bin

2008-12-17T17:48:00.000-08:00

Sesame squirrel. Not to be confused with Scaredy Squirrel. The market near my (lucky me) place gets regular deliveries from a bagel shop in the west-end of the city. Delicious Montreal-style beauties ~ doughy perfection that are rolled by hand, boiled in honey water, then baked in a wood-burning oven. A man from the bakery arrives in a white van and unloads his sesame-covered haul into a big bin. If you time it just right, you can be the first with the tongs, digging in. I began noticing the beach of sesame seeds that always collected at the bottom of the bin. Thinking of the tweety birds in the park (and hearing my bird-lovin' sister L's voice in my head, encouraging), I had been scooping the tongs in and dumping them in the clear bag with my bagel(s). When I walked up to the cash I would assemble and adjust, jiggling so the seeds would sink to the bottom. High on my crime, I'd place the bag on the counter to deceptively appear as bagel(s) only. I'm sure they wouldn't mind if I was helping myself to the seeds but, then again, I wasn't sure. I suppose this might say oodles about my personality.

Luckily, this seed deception didn't weigh heavily on me for long. I was discovered. I had been too greedy for my feathered friends and, when I placed a bag that contained one lonely bagel atop a small (O.K. sizeable) mountain of sesame seeds onto the counter, the store owner Peter asked with a laugh "A little bagel with your seeds?". So we got to talking and, oh how everything works itself out so beautifully when the truth is revealed (uh, sometimes), now they save the seeds for me. They keep them in a box in their walk-in fridge which I now have access to. This little story just gets better and better doesn't it?
There's only one thing. Bagels really shed A LOT of sesame seeds. I never knew! I almost can't keep up!

I found a spot I thought birds would surely adore. One that I know my bird-lovin' sister would approve. An expansive flat patch (now snow-covered) tucked beside a huge maple tree facing an outdoor Chasmasaurus dinosaur display at (surprise! not the muffler shop) the museum. And, yes, it's well away from traffic (thoughtful of me, no?).
Well, the last time I left a small load of sesame seeds, I ended up passing the lovely spot again about an hour later and, lo and behold, a squirrel was going...well...nuts. You've probably seen a dog find something wonderfully (to them) stinky on the ground and roll around on it? This is what the squirrel was doing. Seeds were flying everywhere. He/she was eating and rolling. Eating and rolling, sinking deeper and deeper into the snow/heaven.
He/she had attracted a small gathering of museum visitors too. The Chasmasauruses were not amused. But I was. The squirrel ate the equivalent of 30 Sesame Snaps. Oompf. He/she is now set for the winter.

Oh, Ernestine

2008-12-05T11:45:00.000-08:00

A useful tip. Here it is: DOUBLE-CHECK YOUR PHONE BILL.
Last month I noticed a new charge on mine. First Rate My Province: $2.95. WTF? Our phone bills have a very long list of "services" down the left side of the bill and a very long list of charges on the right. Within the services list, the company includes ones that you may not subscribe to. For those there's, supposedly, a corresponding "0.00" in the right column. And, no, there's none of those handy "..........." to connect the two sides (because then you may easily discover something).
There's also that blinding strobe light that mysteriously and suddenly appears and attacks your eyes when you open your phone bill. But squint and focus, people.

I had grown accustomed to the look and length of those lists on my phone bill - i.e. exactly what the phone company peoples, with their devilish grins, want and wait for. I don't use them for long distance as I long-ago discovered the wonders of the long distance phone card (I'm sure you have too). With a five dollar card I can talk to a friend in Kuala Lumpur for three hours and still have $4.00 left on it. Or Dubai and have $4.50 left. If I made those call using the phone company, I would pay 500 times that. O.K., probably more. Seriously.
Why, I could even call Charles way back in 1880 and tell him how very tall the buildings are now and all about The Copenhagen Interpretation (I'll have notes) and STILL have a few bucks left. I'm certain.

I flipped back through my stack o' bills quickly (my hair blew a bit) and noted that the $2.95 charge had started appearing in March of last (!) year. But *insert sound of more flipping here* for 5 years before that it had been listed as $0.00. The sneaky devils!

I took a deep breath and called the phone company. Surprisingly (not), I was put on musical hold ~ music that would have driven the lesser-committed/cheap away after 30 minutes. Max. I hit speaker-phone and was in a nice bubble bath when I heard a female voice come on.
She asked, among a motley assortment of other questions, my middle name AND if my dwelling was an apartment, a house, or a unit. I answered "deux-nit" because the question was so ridiculous, she deserved it.
"Deux-nit?" she asked.
"Yes, there's two of them." I answered somberly. I could hear her typing this information into my file.

She told me that they had sent a notice that they would start charging for that service several months before it went into effect. "What month did you send it?" I asked. She couldn't answer this question.
"It was probably in a little pamphlet included with your bill." she offered. Or maybe it was written in the adhesive of the envelope - there, plain as day, beneath the flap, I thought.
"So you're charging me for something I never agreed to and never have or will use?" I asked.
"Yes. I'm sorry."
"That's negative option billing you know. That's illegal here" I said.
Silence and then "I'm sorry." she said. Indeed.
Playing the very irate customer to full effect, I ended up speaking to a supervisor and getting a full refund for all those months and bargained a better deal on my phone. Worth every minute of those two hours.

So my latest phone/internet bill arrived yesterday. After the blinding strobe light, what's this? Super-duper-fast-maximum-high-speed for 20 bucks more a month? No, I never asked for it...because all the packages are the same speed. You know that too, right?
This call should be fun.

Photo credit: LIFE © Time Inc.

Chip Away

2008-11-21T11:11:00.000-08:00

"And what's the baby's name?!!" S asked me excitedly.
I scanned my memory banks. "Parsley" flashed but I knew that (probably) wasn't it. I thought for a moment, replaying meeting new mom, A, pushing her colourful chariot towards T and I. We had done a big trek over the bridge into la belle province (c'est magnifique!), over hill and dale, back over another bridge and then into the liquor store to warm-up. Heh, it was just THERE. So handy. How could we not go in? And ogling all the handsome bottles in that particular monster outlet was rather irresistible. Oh, and then there were the Tangueray samples too.

It had been a couple of months since I'd seen A and now there she was (ta da!) no longer pregnant but with a teeny-tiny sleeping wiggle under a pink blanket in one of those groovy running-stroller-things. She mentioned it was their first walk outside together and they were headed to the liquor store. A fine first outing!
"We just came from there! There's gin samples!" T and I heralded. Then we all checked to make sure we didn't wake-up...uh, the little person.

We had stopped there on the sidewalk beside an Italian restaurant and talked. I remember the restaurant's name, what everyone was was wearing, the smiling old man that nodded and passed, the license plate numbers on the cars that drove by (O.K. not those). But the baby's name? Total blank.
Usually when I meet someone I am likely to meet again, I add a rhyming word to their name. Bread Ted (his daughter, Square Clair, owns a bakery. Eclair didn't come to me at the time). Defense Attorney Bernie (he was). Space Grace (She's full of it - uh, Grace of course - so it's easy but she also asked if the shuttle launch happened the day we met). Sedimentary Rock Jacques (a geologist and his hair was layered too. Helpful.).

Parsley flashed again in my head. Then a sprig of rosemary. Then, out of nowhere, a loaf of linseed bread.
"Kimberly I think" I said.
"Isn't that a lovely name!" said S.
Well, it turns out the baby's name is Lindsey. So close! Nuts. If only I had followed the course a bit further along, I perhaps would have arrived at Lindsley. Which is how someone might pronounce it after a shot of booze.
But, maybe, in the future I should go the full poem mnemonic route. Or use a camera and notepad. Or take a pass on the gin.

It is

2008-11-07T10:28:00.000-08:00

Oh, yes. Indeed.
Photo credit: This Isn't Happiness

A What?

2008-10-31T11:15:00.000-07:00

There's a wallaby on the loose near my village, oops, I mean...city.
Sequence of events: It snowed. Among many trees that did, one beside a fence became laden with snow. Strong winds blew. That tree fell and collapsed the fence. Five excited wallabies seized an opportunity and escaped into the night.

This is all very unusual because this isn't exactly marsupial land. Doggies? Yes. Too many squirrels to count? You bet. Pouched hopping things? No.
But this, of course, was from a zoo south of the village (oops...city) ~ an eight-hectare home to 120 animals, including llamas, ring-tailed lemurs, fennec foxes and sulcata desert tortoises. All of the fence-hopping wallabies are now accounted for (one was found almost 20 kilometers away!). All, that is, accept one: Wendell. Wendell must be very fast (as wallabies indeed are) or, as he weighs around 18 kilograms and is less than a meter tall, he could be hiding well.

The owners said no animals have ever escaped before. A quick aside on how I feel about zoos? Not a fan (at all) because, generally, I think most are so not about the proper care of animals but only about profits. But I heard the interview with the owners of this particular zoo and their motives sounded different...and they seemed truly heart-broken over missing Wendell.
Many concerned neighbours arrived to help in the search, fanning out with bags of food and artificial kangaroo pouches/pillowcases through the surrounding brush and forest.

Wendell was briefly spotted this morning in Athens (no, not Greece), 70 km away from his home. Doink!
Idea for some Halloween trickery tonight: All the kids in that area go dressed as wallabies.

Sixty Six

2008-10-27T13:20:00.000-07:00

I was reading an interview with Julia Kwan. For those unfamiliar, she's a writer, director and producer, based in Vancouver, British Columbia. Years ago, after telling her mom that she was studying writing at Ryerson University in Toronto, her sister told her, “Mom thinks you’re studying calligraphy.” This made me smile. After Ms. Kwan's film (Eve and the Fire Horse) garnered many awards and accolades internationally, among them the Special Jury Prize at the Sundance Film Festival, she said: “Some Chinese magazine interviewed my mother, and she talked proudly about how I had a job at a bank that paid $10 an hour.”
I smiled some more - and laughed - because I can seriously relate. Too funny. If my mother, by some weird circumstance, made it onto the game show Jeopardy and "Your Daughters" was a category, well, poor dear, she'd be stumped and would walk away without any dollars at all. And I mean this in the nicest way. I really do. But I'll stop there because I previously ribbed my mom for her love of garden knickknacks and it's not fair to continue on without allowing her a rebuttal.

I got to reading that interview after watching Eve and the Fire Horse and being a bit enamored by it (it may have been the singing goldfish that did it). Eve, the young protagonist, was born in the Year of the Fire Horse (1966). According to the Chinese calendar, the sign only recurs every 60 years, and children born under it are thought to be alluring, impulsive, highly independent, freedom-loving and impossible to contain. Huh, those sound like perfectly fine qualities to me...but then I may be slightly biased for one reason or another. Phrased another way: luckily my parents knew nothing of Chinese astrology and decided they wouldn't mind such a creature.
You see, in some societies, parents thought otherwise and DID mind. In Japan for example, the birth rate for that year is down a half million as compared to the previous and succeeding years. Such was the prejudice against fire horses.

Julia Kwan: “My grandmother died, and my father told me she was reincarnated as a goldfish. I thought that was beautiful. Then, when I was 8 years old, I was told in Christian school that grandmother was in hell, because she was a Buddhist.”
That idea seems to have floated in her head for years and became this movie ~ so charming. And so orange! It's a beauty.

Other Perspective

2008-10-07T18:49:00.000-07:00

Something has happened to my mother and, maybe (oh oh), it has happened to yours too. An affliction of sorts. Something she was sure she'd never catch when she witnessed her own mother suffering from it so. (Her mother had the indoor strain I believe.) It's imperceptible by just looking at her (she's cute as a button isn't she?)...but, tragically, her mind is working away. Thinking of how and when she can get MORE.
"What ever could it be?" you ask, full of concern I'm sure. Well, let me take you out to her garden. Stand for a moment. Close your eyes if you like. You sensed that didn't you? And there it was again! A distinct feeling that you're being watched? No, not the neighbours. Oh, I'm sure they're behind the curtains over there but I'm not talking about them. These eyes are low amidst all the greenery. They have little wings, or a pointed hat, or they're holding a ball that lights-up at night, or they're sitting on a lily pad. Yes! Those! Families of gnomes...or fairies. Little frogs holding fishing rods. Reflective globes on sticks. Stone Buddha heads. In every direction! Where many a flowering plant and shrub has failed, knickknacks and figurines now flourish in abundance!

In a subconscious (?) attempt to pass the gene on, my mother occasionally presents me with a box (wrapped so nicely/innocently with a silky bow) with eyes inside it. But I am a city girl and I am immune! Apartments rule and space is used frugally. In my habitat, the postage stamp-size parks of green are the gardens. And the pretty one, there, behind my building is my yard (and the yard of all my neighbours). I like the sharing with the nice men and all the doggies. And it's better than any yard a house could have because there's no fence around it and EVERYONE is free to come and go as they please.

So a couple months ago I placed one smiling little ceramic angel in a red robe at the base of the women's monument in my yard. Granite stones cut like crystals (very sadly) pack the ground in front of it with a name on each ~ women who would have lived much longer lives had it not been for certain men. The angel has been amongst them watching the season change, and the kids play, and dog walkers talk in circles, and the candle-light vigils held right there in front of her. I check her as I pass in the dark, running early in the morning. I once saw a man straightening her as she must have toppled over and a little boy on the weekend was crouched down, inspecting her closely. And I worry about her...because it's getting so cold out. But I can't take her back. Everyone knows her now.

The few others my mother has given me will have to stay inside. No! I haven't succumbed! They're still in their boxes of course! I mean, reealllly. As if!

Hmm, but just thinking...I bet it's quite dark in those boxes. Maybe I should take them all out for a bit.

Vitamin A

2008-09-24T18:48:00.000-07:00

I stepped out of the activity-hive of the CBC Studios building into the sunshine and there they were. Five Buddhist monks, in their lovely orange/saffron robes, walking in a line towards me. Time seemed to stop for an instant and then a little flurry of hellos and nods as we passed. It was a perfect day.

It all started last week when I was listening to CBC Radio and the silky-smooth voiced host, Adrian H., was talking with the news man, Laurence W., about beet leaves and his new discovery that they could be eaten. Adrian had put some in a blender and made a beet leave shake.
Laurence said "Reeeeeeally?!".
Adrian said: "Yes, and I've heard you can eat carrot leaves too!"
Their wonder made me laugh and I emailed the show a recipe for beet greens & fried potatoes topped with a poached egg (from the super fantastic blog Everybody Likes Sandwiches). I received an email back asking if I'd be willing to come in and make it for the show and also talk about the wonders of beet greens. You bet!

But I wondered if the beet greens would be game. You see, when I went to the farmer's market on Sunday, ALL the beets were missing their tops. I checked everywhere. None! Our frosty nights had stolen them away!
I talked to farmers Guy & Diane and they told me there was a tall weedy section of their field that they'd left alone so a few beets may have been insulated. Monday morning I stopped by and it was more than a few; they had a wilty crate-full for me. I heaped thanks on them and filled a bag (as much as I could carry since they had gone through all that weedy trouble). I rushed home, bathed (oops washed) them and put them in a vase of water to encourage some life back. It worked. They perked up into a colourful bouquet.

This afternoon I put the recipe together and neatly packed it, still steaming, along with a shiny white plate, a couple forks and a bundle of beets and headed over to CBC (just a bit) hopped-up on espresso. The interview is now a blur but I can remember the following: how very charming Adrian was; the busy news room; the tall weatherman; and talking with the producer in her office afterward and agreeing that escargots was something we'd never prepare at home but would only order (as a last resort) in restaurants.

Oh, and I missed Colm Feore by 30 minutes or so. He was doing an interview just before I arrived. Oh, Colm. So handsome. So elusive. hee hee

Photo credit: basketgirlsteph

Like That

2008-09-16T10:00:00.000-07:00

I like order. Even lines. Big blocks of solid colour. That's why my eyes hurt a bit when I walked into 10's office (a.k.a. the Ego Chamber). It was like a room loaded with trinkets had exploded. I know he's like this so was bracing myself for it but I still laughed when I walked in. "Whaaaaaaaaaat?" he laughed back, knowing full well. He excitedly showed me his hibiscus blooming. (Isn't he so very special?). The plant was perched on the mini-fridge betwixt the ironing board and the bicycle wheels just beyond the collapsible table. Pretty! The hibiscus I mean.
I enjoyed the view out the expansive windows ~ the sills home to many little treasures; a musical snow globe with a glittery fairy and mushroom inside it; assorted Smurf figurines playing golf; a complete representation of "staplers through the ages"; a jar overflowing with elastics...and on and on. The bright yellow dumpster in the parking lot down below caught my eye. "Maybe when you're away next, I could...um...reorganize your office" I offered.

10 had moved in two years ago and boxes still sat on the floor, unopened. Other boxes obviously had been opened and their contents deposited in piles here and there like a field of busy groundhogs lived beneath the carpet. There were two rolling racks of clothes; a set of Texas long horns hanging on the wall; oodles of framed marathon bib numbers; heaps of award medals; stacks of old books and binders from programs; dozens of framed prints leaning against the walls; rickety flip-charts missing legs. Everywhere. Chaos. Oh, let me take that that back. 10 scanned it all seemingly unfazed. The world was just fine. He didn't feel an (overwhelming and blinding) urge to straighten that pile of magazines FANNED all over the table! Eek! I had to mentally glue my feet to the floor not to sprint over and align them.

"O.K. I give you free reign" he said.
"Whaaaa?" I steadied myself on the window sill. Oh. Boy.
He was away and it took just two hours. I threw out nothing knowing how sentimental/clingy he was to his things. O.K. maybe I just tossed that heavy and hideous circular brown table with wheels that had chuck-wagons molded onto its doors. When I was hauling it to the dumpster two women said to me "Good call." Oh, and a box of chipped coffee cups. Also gone.
I simply organized everything else. The floor became visible. Light flooded in now that the forest was clear. The glittery fairy in the snow globe twirled.

Of course you know what 10 said when he returned from his trip and walked in.
He called me and said first "Wow!" then added "Where's my brown table?".
Shhh. He hasn't noticed the missing cups yet.

Eleven Plus

2008-09-01T18:38:00.000-07:00

Have you noticed that the sun is very hot? No? Not even a bit you say? Oh, stop! But of course you have! But I mean VERY hot (i.e. in a new piercing laser beam hot way). The UV Index was at 9 today. The maximum on the index, categorized by the World Health Organization, is 11+ though I find that "+" a bit silly. 18 is 11+. So is 1,000. So why stop at 11?
For fun (and hoo boy, was it) I checked out the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration's National Weather Service website for the U.S. and someone better check on the lovely peoples of San Juan, Puerto Rico. They were at 12 today. "They" being the few survivors from the 13 they had yesterday.

Did you know that plankton, those drifting little yummies for most of the ocean's aquatic life, can indirectly create clouds that block some of the sun's rays? Yes! When the sun shines onto the top layer of ocean where plankton live, the ultraviolet radiation bothers them. When they are bothered, plankton attempt to protect themselves by producing a compound called dimethylsulfoniopropionate or DMSP. (I've tried to but can't. I generally just leave the room.) This chemical gets broken down in the water by bacteria and changes into another substance, dimethylsulfide (DMS). DMS then filters from the ocean into the air and reacts with the oxygen to form different sulfur compounds. Sulfur in the DMS sticks together in the air and creates tiny dust-like particles that are just the perfect size for water to condense on, which is the beginning of how clouds are formed. So, indirectly, plankton help create more clouds, and more clouds mean less direct sunlight reaches the ocean surface. This relieves the stress put on all the tiny plankton by the sun's harmful UV rays.

But, unfortunately or fortunately, I'm not a plankton - though being a Planktologist would be seriously cool. Nor are my cycling mates. No DMSP. No cloud formations (that I saw). We all returned home from our ride today with the shape of our cycling outfits burned onto our skin. Yes, maybe for life.

Photo: No! Don't stare at it! It's 11+

Ana & Isabel

2008-08-21T10:33:00.000-07:00

The scene: A small Castilian village, the year 1940, and two cutie-pie little girls Ana (7) and her sister Isabel (10) are tucked in their beds after watching James Whale's Frankenstein at a travelling cinema.

Ana: [unable to sleep] Isabel?
Isabel: [opening her eyes] What?
Ana: [whispering] Tell me what you were going to tell me.
Isabel: [whispering] About what?
Ana: The movie.
Isabel: Not now. Tomorrow.
Ana: Now. You promised. Why did he kill the girl, and why did they kill him after that? [pause] You don't know - you're a liar.
Isabel: They didn't kill him, and he didn't kill the girl.
Ana: How do you know? How do you know they didn't die?
Isabel: Everything in the movies is fake. It's all a trick. Besides, I've seen him alive.
Ana: Where?
Isabel: In a place I know near the village. People can't see him. He only comes out at night.
Ana: Is he a ghost?
Isabel: No, he's a spirit.
Ana: Like the spirit Dona Lucia talks about?
Isabel: Yes, but spirits have no bodies. That's why you can't kill them.
Ana: But he had one in the movie. He had arms and feet. He had everything.
Isabel: It's a disguise they put on when they go outside...
Ana: If he only comes out at night, how can you talk to him?
Isabel: I told you he was a spirit. If you're his friend, you can talk to him whenever you want. Just close your eyes and call him: It's me, Ana. It's me, Ana.

Sounds good, doesn't it? I wish I wrote it. But, noooo. It's from "El Espíritu de la Colmena" ("The Spirit of the Beehive") directed by Victor Erice. I think the word masterpiece would be fitting here...and would also be an understatement. The film was released in 1973. That's a year long, long ago just after the Cretaceous period when dinosaurs became extinct and just before the internet. Despite oodles of acclaim and widely regarded as the greatest Spanish film of the 70's/ever, I had never heard of it. Ever. (But then, with apologies to its 4 million citizens, I'd never heard of Moldova either.)

I watched it last evening and it's now added to my short list of very favourites.
El Espíritu de la Colmena. A beauty.

Friendly Competition

2008-08-16T14:57:00.000-07:00

Chasing another ball. Two supremely swell boys from the gym, Frick and Frack, an accountant and a lawyer respectively, want to play golf with me. I've been after them for a while to join me for an early morning ride in the hills but I've had no success. Phrased another way: I think they're both chicken. They needn't be. Frick proposed the idea of golf and, when I agreed, he excitedly went to fetch Frack and then they did a figure eight/waggle dance together like bees that have found nectar. That's a joke. They didn't dance. But they may as well have.

I did mention that although I've been to driving ranges to, ahem, launch golf balls, the last time I played a round was sneaking onto the Sandpiper Resort in Florida 15 years ago. I snuck daily for a week...but still. 15 years ago? They still want to play. More so now. I know what's going here. They want to kick my ass. You see, I relentlessly poke fun. It's payback time.
"I imagine you will be going out every day practicing now, running up and down flights of stairs, skipping rope, and drinking glasses of raw eggs?" I queried. Frack (standing slightly behind Frick) nodded, rolled his eyes, and pointed at Frick like indeed Frick would be doing exactly that. Frack tells me I'll get a good laugh seeing Frick's tee off shot. I imagine mine is WAY funnier. So, sometime soon, we will play a round. I proposed a long bike ride first to make it a biathalon but, no surprise here, they weren't game for that.
They left, pushing and shoving each other like school boys.
I shouted after them to have fun in the steam together...and immediately began pondering my options on an intensive crash-course in golf. But no. This will be an easy give. And I'm certain I will be witnessing more dancing. This time real.
Unless, of course, I have exceptionally good luck. It could happen. Ooh, wouldn't that be good?!

Seeded People

2008-07-24T09:29:00.001-07:00

I made a dash for home around 5 p.m., using a form of sign language (the nice kind) to bid cheerio to my teammates. The weather had been perfect for the volleyball tournament. Sunny, high 20's, and little wind (just a gentle breeze every now and then would swish over). There were a thousand teams playing and we were on Court 2 (of 100) right on the beach. We also (wisely) had an umbrellaed table directly in front of one monolith of a speaker (unwisely) beside the stage. At 11 a.m., bands started the non-stop show and I kissed my eardrums bye-bye. Does mentioning that make me seem old? Well, I'm very childish, I assure you. It was a lovely time and I beaned no one. But more importantly (hee hee) ~ I finally got rid of my pesky bike sock lines. The only thing better than tanned hands is tanned feet and now mine are! I can't keep my eyes off them! Grand.

After a quick shower (and staring at my feet) at home, I called T and we headed to see/hear David Sedaris read from his new book "When You Are Engulfed in Flames". How that small bookstore in this little town was chosen for an appearance is a mystery. And a mystery I excitedly embraced because I think his writing is beyond splendid.
We arrived at the bookstore and people were already packed liked sardines inside, waiting and fanning themselves. A man posted at the entrance directed us to the back parking lot where an open giant tent, with a twinkly pretty chandelier suspended inside, was set up...along with a sound system to pipe David out to us all. T and I stood for a moment surveying for any empty seats. None. The seated people had a good long ogle, as monkeys do, at the new group of arrivals. We are sitting and you are not so we will stare at you. One of my heritable traits (passed down from my father's side) is ignoring stares but T had fun staring back.

Just before 7 p.m. David emerged from the bookstore's back door and, very charmingly, seemed gobsmacked by the size of the herd of listeners. He said he was always amazed that people even went to his readings. "I'm sure there are people here that could read."
The funny thing is, David, they're isn't. Your stories + your voice & delivery = superb.

p.s. If you're a boy and you don't have a blue shirt like that yet, I'd recommend you get one. You'll look fantastic.

So Pleasant

2008-07-03T16:55:00.000-07:00

In all the kilometres (50,000 give or take) I've cycled in the past 10+ years, something rather incredible has happened. Or, rather, HASN'T. I haven't had a flat. Well, we all know where this is leading, don't we?
Heading up to the hills at the pinnacle of hotness on Sunday afternoon - KABLOOIE!!! And that's exactly the noise my back tire made. And here's the REALLY hilarious part: I didn't have a tube OR my pump with me. I had become so very confident in my streak that I stopped carrying them (and a cellphone), delighting in being as light as possible. And I usually cycle with people way smarter than I. Smarter in that they carry these necessities - on every ride. But I was alone on Sunday. So very alone.
I did have some dollars though. So I started looking for a taxi or a pick-up truck with a non-serial-killer-looking-driver that might offer me a lift as I began my long clippy march towards town. None passed. Of course.

One hot hour later I arrived at my favourite bike shop. Another cyclist (also with a flat) was approaching from the opposite direction looking dejected whereas I, by that point, had accepted my misfortune and was (almost) having a swell time - even the drunks that accosted me near the corner beer store didn't phase me.
But (surprise!) the bike shop was closed. I continued on my odyssey towards home wondering if my shoe clips would be totally kaput...ground to little nubs. On that stretch, I passed a Jeep AND, a bit further along, an Audi both with flat tires. The owners waited on the grass beside their vehicles for rescue. It was Flat-o-rama Sunday I thought.

Have I mentioned before that I (sometimes) think of inanimate objects as real? I do. Ones I care about. With your bike, you must! It will try its best to protect you if you do. So, with that revelation, I'll admit that I wanted to carry my bike (a him) the entire way back. I didn't though only because I thought the extra weight would be doubly bad for my clips. I pointed out nice trees and fun mystery objects at the side of the road to distract him. When we arrived home he said "Harumpf" and I rolled him gingerly to a cool corner of the room and apologized. He understood.

Yesterday I walked the wheel with the sliced tire back to the bike shop across the river for a new one. Curiously, because I was carrying the tire perhaps (?), everyone thought I was the Direction Information Officer for the city. Five people stopped me and asked me where things were. The Parliament Buildings please? The museum? How do I get under that bridge? Où est le banque Montréal? It was SUPER DUPER windy and, at times, it took two hands (good thing I have two!) to hold my wheel from flapping wildly sideways. I saw an opportunity for a shorter trip and cut across traffic to the median. Being rush hour, there was a constant and heavy stream...so for quite some time, I became the crazy median-walking-girl-with-the-flapping-tire. I'm sure you've seen her many times. Maybe you've honked. And, oh yes, many did.

Photo: I Googled "kablooie!" just to see what images would come up and, surprisingly and to my delight, this one did.
James Stewart from the 1950 film Harvey. "You can be oh so smart, or oh so pleasant. Well, for years I was smart; I recommend pleasant. And you may quote me."

Ave Maria

2008-05-15T15:48:00.000-07:00

There's two tennis courts near my place that remind me of the charming ones I looked after for a couple summers when I was a teenager. That gig was an early example (oh so very long ago) of how, with just a little effort, you can swing things you desire for free ~ and FREE is one of my very favourite words. It started with me saying hello and stopping to talk to a priest, Father Joe, who was holding a rake (but not raking) and smiling beside the courts next to St. George's Church. I suggested that perhaps I could do the raking in exchange for a free membership (and one for my father too, please I added). He laughed. I told him about my years of experience in our giant yard at home. I also really enjoyed tennis and had certainly had enough of playing against my school's brick wall. Father Joe, also a tennis-lover I learned, liked the idea and gave me a little tour. He also gave me the gate key and asked if I could look after memberships too.

I walked away from our meeting very excited to tell my Dad (he was a fan of all things *FREE* too). I think we high-fived. That evening, I went back with a broom and swept the courts, picking up the little sticks and stones, making sure the surface was perfect. I was well-trained. The hardcourts were tucked snugly beside the lovely grey stone church with high jewel-coloured stained glass windows. There were lilies and daisies and lilac bushes around. So pretty. Wooden benches framed the courts. There was a water fountain. My name, telephone number went up on the sign attached to the gate for memberships. I quickly started to think of the courts as my own.

My father and I were deep into a game one Sunday morning when we (O.K. most certainly I) had rather forgotten that a service was going on. I missed one beauty of a shot that dropped just inside the baseline and, unfortunately, shouted a very unholy word. Loudly. So loud I knew it must have floated inside the church. I froze and made an exaggerated "Oh dear!" face to my Dad. We silently walked to the net and whispered to each other "Enough?". He also tapped me lightly on the head with his racket. Doink.
The next evening we were back playing again and Father Joe approached. He often sat on one of the benches and watched us play or, sometimes, played with another on the court beside us.
"I think something may have interrupted service yesterday and I want to apologize. It won't happen again." I said.
"Tennis is a game that stirs great feeling and emotion. No worries." he said.
Tweety birds sang in the trees around us.
But it did happen again of course...though never by me...on a Sunday morning.

Photo: Maria. I thought that black dress was really outstanding.

Muscat Tomorrow

2008-04-28T11:58:00.000-07:00

There's a delightful park behind my place with ample shade trees, a couple of stone monuments, many benches and picnic tables. Now that the weather is warm and the grass green, it's a popular spot. At one of the tables - the choice one in the corner, they've claimed it - there's frequently a group of three men. They appear in the spring like beautiful flowers. Distinguished, casually (but oh so handsomely) dressed, and very charming. I always get friendly waves and hellos from them when I pass. There's newspapers and exhuberant discussion. Sometimes a couple of them have a coffee. I'm quite smitten with them. Just seeing them there makes me happy.

I've been thinking of the television show The Amazing Race and how much fun it would be to be in/on it. Teams of two race around the world competing to reach each pit stop first. There are clues to decipher, tasks and challenges to complete, and fast forwards and roadblocks along the way. So, naturally, I've been swirling the idea of a perfect team mate. T and I had a superb time in Havana despite being burnt to a crisp on a long trek trying to find the botanical gardens (we never did). She had been in charge of studying the map that day (not blaming of course ~ just mentioning and weighing)...but she's very easy going. A good travel mate indeed. T will talk to any/everyone. Any/everyone talks to me. We both are minimalists and could travel with just a back pack but also agree that a hotel, with a shower and decent food, along the way is imperative though a degree of struggle would be manageable. We both like a big challenge. Then I thought of T's noncompetitiveness - she would no doubt clap heartily for another team as they ran by. Hmm. Maybe not T.
So my friend 10? World traveller, crafty/sneaky, superb driver, reads people well AND over-the-top competitive. He's in Dubai now and heading to explore Oman tomorrow. Excellent training Sir! I just called his hotel, catching him before bed (though I know he can do without sleep - another bonus) to see if he'd be game. "Absolutely, yes." he said.
O.K. That settles it. I'm applying.
And I'll visit the three wise men in the park for counsel.

Driving Fix

2008-04-15T15:28:00.000-07:00

To everyone that needs to drive a car to get places, I'm sorry. Sorry for all of us.
I've been absent for a bit because I've been having a grand time on my bike. You see, all the snow has melted (pretty much) and the roads whisper to me "Come out and play on us". If every person who is capable of riding a bicycle could pull behind them one person that wasn't (in a small chariot ~ fun!), the world might be a quieter/cleaner/nicer place. In fact, I'm certain it would be. I admit that I do like driving but if I am to drive a car, I want to drive fast. Very fast. Faster than that car over there. And that, obviously, could potentially be a problem. Speed limits? Ridiculous. So this is what I propose, a grand idea: race tracks. But open only to those who absolutely MUST get their driving fix between cycling themselves and their incapable loved-ones around (and strangers too, would be a nice gesture) but NO CARS ON THE ROADS. None! Only bikes.

O.K. Perhaps just one day a month cars will be allowed but this will all have to be discussed at the Big Meeting and there are some very radical cyclists, you understand. So don't get your hopes up. Maybe (probably) there won't be one day at all. *
How about all that food that gets moved around in trucks every day you ask? Everyone will starve! No. Don't be silly. You've heard of the hundred mile (~160.9 km) diet? Possibly limited in variety but, when there's a bicycle/canoe going 200 miles (and I'd certainly do that distance for you if you want some carrots or something), you could really increase your circle of deliciousness.
When I first started to think about this idea, I thought about all the mushrooms I'd be eating. Then, with relief, I spotted what looked to be a tomato greenhouse on one ride south of the city and then, further along but within the limit of course, an emu farm. Oh dear. But I'm willing to try this.
I'm sure there are things I haven't thought of yet. Red roses are quite tasty for example. Really. Just like a (bitter) raspberry.

Oh, and on the track, I want this one please ~ the Spyker C12 Zagato. My, my those talented Dutch.

* Big Meeting Update: Cars will only be allowed on the race track. The roads will forever more be for bikes only.

Brief Meetings

2008-04-01T13:19:00.000-07:00

I waited for the "kachunk" sound but just got a message on the screen to scan again. I did. Still nothing. I was at the library trying trying to take out my pile of goodies. A book/CD/DVD is scanned, the security strip demagnetized and the information recorded. I was hoping to get this done on my own and not wait in what is the ancient ritual of a line. I looked at my assortment. Hmm...Mélanie Watt's "Scaredy Squirrel". Yes, it's a children's book. I had heard about it just AFTER an incident several months ago: I opened my blinds one morning to (shockingly!) find a little black squirrel trapped on my window sill, petrified - third/top floor from the ground and not a tree around. He/she looked in at me, spooked but seemingly wanting my help. Yes, I could see it in his/her shiny black eyes. "Don't be a scaredy squirrel. You can get down." I said, encouragingly. I headed to the kitchen to make espresso and looked out that window. The squirrel looked over at me. I pointed down, nodding, and said "You can do it!" He/she was gone the next time I looked. Phew...I'll admit it now. Squirrels creep me out just a tiny bit. When I was kid, one crawled up my leg trying to get the handfull of peanuts that I had hidden in my pocket ~ its tiny claws dug into and pulled on my Play Ranch jeans. A VERY terrifying experience. Trust me. It twas.
So I put myself on the waiting list for the book Scaredy Squirrel after I had perused the mini shelves in the library's children's section with no luck. I discovered it was quite a popular book. I also had Nicolas Sarkozy's "Testimony" (I wanted Ségolène Royal to win that election but...wa wa...) and, a find that I thought my friend 10 might enjoy, a DVD, The History of Violence directed by David Cronenberg.
The moustachioed girl at the library counter scanned out my motley selection and then scrutinized me. I was glad I had paid my two dollar fine the last time I was in so our meeting was as brief as possible.

Nicolas Sarkozy's "Testimony"? Comme ci comme ça. "Scaredy Squirrel"? Fantastique!

Très Bon

2008-03-15T18:34:00.001-07:00

It happened several years ago. They were shooting an outdoor scene for the television miniseries "Trudeau" in the parking lot of the museum near my place. The lot was filled with early 70's era automobiles. As my friend TD and I walked by, I spied the lead actor, Colm Feore talking amongst a small group all in period costume (i.e. 1970's giant-lapeled suits with bell-bottom pants). My eyes were drawn to him like a neodymium magnet. Not only am I a bit crazy about Colm Feore but that he was playing the equally appealing Pierre Trudeau? Whoooooosh! Exponentially good.

We stopped and I pointed Colm out to TD: "There he is. Right there! See?." I think my arm was suspended for a while, pointing steadily (and time stood still because I was transported to giggling excited school girl). Then, suddenly, he started pointing back at us. I should have remembered. Pointing is rude. What was I thinking? All those in the circle around him turned to look at us. I grabbed TD and we *very* ridiculously dove into the nearby lilac bush in a fit of laughter then scurried away with twigs in our hair. No, nothing to be embarrassed about there. No sir-ee.

Well, today as I approached the Laurier bridge I heard fiddle music and began seeing a lot of green. Vivid green. Green sequins. Shamrocks. Leprechauns. Getting a bit obvious? Yes indeed, it was a St. Patrick's Day parade ~ though it hadn't begun yet. An odd assortment of vehicles loaded with hay bales, army Jeeps (because they're green?), limos (not green), and fire-trucks (also not green) were in a holding pen of sorts on the bridge. I was walking along the sidewalk when a handsome man jumped off a flatbed truck filled with (apparently) farmers or, maybe, Irish immigrants. All of them were wearing styrofoam white hats with shamrocks on them. Handsome man came straight at me and said, with a very distinct Irish accent "How are ya' doin this mornin'?" very jovially. I was face to face with (I'm near certain!) Colm Feore! "Very well thank you! And you?" I asked. "Oh, just grand!" he said and straightened his cap - not the styrofoam model but a blue wool one. My mittened hand patted him and, ahem, because he was so close and it all happened so fast, it was a bum pat. O.K. Two actually. He smiled widely and so did I.

Thirty minutes later, I returned the same way and everything was *POOF* gone...the leprechauns, the bands, Colm-Pierre. Gone! The bridge had reopened and traffic was buzzing by. Had I imagined it all? Had it really been Colm-Pierre? Here on location shooting a movie? Or was I a bit winter-delusional?
Then there I saw it, below the curb stuck to the slushy road.
Hay and a twisty strip of glittery green clover garland.

Anywhere But

2008-03-05T12:15:00.001-08:00

Friends of mine, Barb & David, are away in paradise. Thinking it might be fun, I offered to shovel their walk and driveway as they gaze out at a turquoise sea and listen to palm fronds gently dance in the soft breeze. I'm quite silly you know. They've been gone for five days now and I'm thinking to buy an insulated sleeping pod so I can just stay over at their place. It would be easier. A time-saver. Why? We've been enjoying snow storm after snow storm. My arms are like Popeye's. It goes without saying I suppose, but I've now f**kin' had it shoveling. I tried to make it fun (I really did) but couldn't. This morning, it was coming down hard...and the winds were whipping around...and there were ice pellets. A very large garbage truck got deeply stuck in the street. Garbage trucks do not get stuck. Ever. Yet there it was, enormous tires spinning furiously trying to escape. It's front end at a very peculiar downward angle, buried into a trench of snow. People digging their cars out stood around and ogled. As I heaved shovel after shovel full, my jacket became soaked with the wet falling snow. I took it off and left it on Barb and David's car as I struggled away. It was buried by the time I was done. A man shoveling across the street paused for a moment (to reflect on his life maybe...wishing he was on a tropical island sipping a bubbly drink). He too became buried in no time at all. I went over and shoveled him out. (O.K. That part is made up).

Three months ago I made and saved some perfect little snow balls in my freezer to whip out in July for a snowball fight surprise. I know they're innocent in there. They arrived with a snowfall early in the season. They had no idea it would pile up to all of THIS. But I *almost* removed them to their deaths when I arrived home. Tired and soaked.
Nope. Not lovin' the snow any more.

Photo: model Olga Sherer at the Jil Sander Spring 2008 show. (You understand the joke here I'm sure.)
Note: Models almost never smile even if they're wearing something wonderful in deep navy blue.

Out There

2008-02-29T12:22:00.000-08:00

There's something that's very neato about the web. There's someone out there that you read about and the way they write, or what they're doing, hooks you. Perhaps it's something that is totally foreign to you...or, the opposite, so familiar - a common interest and their spin on it captures you. It has happened to me with many (heh, all my links along the left) but particularly right now, Jill Homer, as she's in the thick of a huge challenge. I'm a cyclist. She's an über-cyclist. I'm a bit of a weather wimp. She obviously IS NOT. In any way. She's competing in the Iditarod Trail Invitational up in Alaska, the world's longest human powered winter race. Her boyfriend, Geoff Roes, was also in it - running(!). He had some ankle troubles and, sadly, had to scratch at mile 130. I don't know either of them yet here I am constantly checking the updates to see how she's doing. Concerned but very hopeful.
As of the update at 08:50 this morning, Jill was reported about 20 miles from Nikolai, the 300 mile mark before the final 50 mile push to the finish in McGrath. From the latest news on the Iditarod site "Nikolai reports the wind is starting to come up a little and is feeling very cold (windchill -23°C)...Antonio Frezza is having major trouble with his wheel and has been walking his bike. He will try to get a new wheel brought into McGrath so he can continue on to Nome. If he has not been able to ride at all this will mean about 150 miles of pushing his bike."

It's freezing here today (-20°C) but I thought of Jill and the other racers and it was easier to endure, somehow.
Go Jill!
Jill's Amazing Blog
Alaska Ultrasport

UPDATE March 1, 2008 17:00hrs;
Jill Homer arrived in McGrath at 16:20hrs (and smiling was reported). Her total time was 6 days 2 hours and 20 minutes.
I salute you Jill. An incredible accomplishment. Wow! (Now I hope you're toasty warm.)

Five Fives

2008-02-24T16:18:00.000-08:00

So, it has happened again! I found another fiver! This time, not a block from my apartment, while walking quickly down the road (as all downtowners do because the sidewalks are a mess of salt and slush) and there it was glinting in the afternoon sun; a coin with a big '5' smiling and waving up at me. I picked it up with an excited "OH BOY!". A unusual silver foreign coin with a double-headed eagle which I guessed to be Russian. I dried it with my glove and placed it carefully into my inside pocket to warm it up. I ran the rest of my trip, hurriedly scooping my package of espresso and capers (two absolute necessities), and running back for home and to my desk. I Googled "Russian Alphabet" and confirmed that I had guessed correctly with the lettering. If someone's rolling their eyes, I'm the type that never leaps to assumptions as to what I think is correct. Oh no. I've learned that lesson long ago. I then Googled "Russian Coin 5" and found a photo of *my* little coin.
As to why I am so thrill-oed by this, I'll give you a brief history if this one is too long...
A while back, within a short time span, I found three five dollar bills while out, one of them even blew into me and wrapped itself around my ankle, then a fourth - a Malaysian 5RM note which, I was told by a kind Malaysian reader, they no longer print. I am no where near Malaysia. Nor Russia (well, we might be attached by way of the polar ice cap but probably/certainly not for much longer).

Five fives. I was before but now am seriously considering the 'why' of these finds...and also just glowing in the 'wow'.

Chances Are

2008-02-16T12:03:00.001-08:00

I'm a bit of a klutz sometimes. At work or on any project that requires dexterity, curiously, never (i.e. not at all/a perfect record of the unbroken) but away from work, ladies and gentlemen, I let loose. And it could be just that. Breathe in. Hold. Complete task. Breathe out. Walk away. Trip.
One of my favourite running routes has a curving incline with a few slight waves on its interlocking stone surface (to make it triply challenging for klutzes). I expend as little excess energy as possible on vertical movement when running. Phrased another way, I'm a skimmer. Not a shuffler - no. That's slightly annoying to everyone around - particularly me. So if the space between my shoes and the asphalt were to be measured with a fine caliper, there is approximately a single sheet of fine paper thickness of clearance. If the surface is at all uneven, I'll be goin' down. Or I'll do an ungraceful half-stumble with a bit of arm pin-wheeling, a hand touch to the ground, then a recovery and continuation on. You know, the type of thing that gets caught on video for others to laugh at. And I have supplied such footage. Many times on the wavy stone section. I know the surf is there and yet...doh!
As I've just embarrassed myself, I'll up the ante a bit.

My sister L (yes, her real initial but I'm quite certain the chances are low that one of her nuclear physics students would read this and confront her with it) and I got *what we thought* was locked in a perfect little greenhouse.

It was winter and L was visiting so we decided to go to the greenhouse for a delightful oasis away (O.K. away from the rest of the family to get specific). We oohed at the banana trees. We aahed at all the giant goldfish slowly swimming in the central pool. Oh, the bright pink bougainvillea and deep red hibiscus. So lovely. The little cactus garden off to the side. We read all the nice comments other visitors had left and we wrote our own little note thanking the greenhouse caretakers in the guest book by the door. We zipped our jackets and prepared to step out into the cold. L turned the doorknob and pulled. Nothing. She tried again. She looked at me, baffled. I gave the door a pull. "We're locked in!" we said together just a little bit panicked. Then, oh no, what's this? I pushed the door. It magically opened, as doors sometimes do. We were free! Imagine what could have happened to us in there with all the tropical plants! Steaming to the brink of death until rescued by, for example, a passing monkey.
We walk amongst you.

Thermodynamics

2008-01-31T11:55:00.001-08:00

It all feels a bit ridiculous. Going to the gym to get a workout. But that's the price I pay for being a weather wimp. There's that lovely playground outside all around me but right now (-15 today) the idea of having my eyelashes frost-glue my eyes shut and my fingers go numb as I run a loop holds little appeal. So inside I find myself, ascending the balmy stairs (can't they install an escalator? hee hee) up to a tepid bike (couldn't they install a conveyor belt over to it?) with my toasty towel. I saddle-up beside a genial and no doubt warm-hearted and, it should be noted, rather pale fellow-member.
Should we be outside? A large part of the globe is experiencing the same thing right now. And they're out there. I see parka-ed pedestrians pass by the windows outside, their breath leaving floating trails behind them in the air. No. This is it for me. I wear a cantaloupe-wide smile in the summer on scorcher 100 degree days but I have a bit of a 'problem' with cold (and, no, it can't be fixed).
I adjust the fan in the corner and spin no where for two hours but cover decent ground into the book I'm reading. For the second hour, my pale neighbour is replaced by a slightly tanned one and I hear all about a very wonderful trip to Mexico. Where, yes, it's ooh la la warm right now.

Frigid cold. I understand that some people are really into it. "Understand" as in I'm aware they're out there. SO out there. Like Jill up in Alaska. She's training for cycling the Iditarod Trail Invitational in late February and her incredible fortitude TOTALLY floors me. Go Jill!

Photo credit: Abhi/ice by the hugely talented ms. Belvedere.

Go Natural

2008-01-21T20:02:00.000-08:00

The house my father and I moved into after my parents separated was just a few blocks from the high school I went to. Convenient. That is, if I were to have actually attended (more than I did). You see, my father travelled frequently with his job so I was given authority to write my own excuse notes and, hoo boy, was I creative. Home alone. Nice. I adored our charming and convenient home because it was perfect for entertaining. A bowling alley of a hardwood-floored living room where my guests could sit on red velvet cushions around the low coffee table and enjoy the smorgasbord I created and have discussions about ridiculous fashions and whatnot all by candlelight. What's that last bit? Candlelight? Romantic! Well, yes but there's another reason too. When my father was away I liked to challenge myself with a little game. A rather Old Order Amish one. I would turn the heat way down, live in sweaters and fluffy pants, and sleep in the living room beside toasty fires I handily built in the fireplace. I also would try to use as little electricity as possible, getting my homework and projects done during daylight hours. Yes indeed, I did the work - often spectacularly well because I had all that time on my hands because I wasn't in the class but in the comfort of my backyard studying away at the picnic table with my glass of pink lemonade. I finished up with a flashlight sometimes or I'd go to the library that, surprising I know, had lights and closed at 9 p.m.
After a couple of particularly busy months of travel for my father, I remember him eyeing the bills, incredulous, and looking at me like WTF has been going on? But he never directly asked me. And I never directly told. I just knew he liked the result.

I absolutely prefer naturally-lit rooms and when I see unnecessary lights on, I turn them off. Even if it's not my house. Even if it's at the office. Even if it's at the gym (and there's more than enough ambient light without the overheads on so there's no risk of tripping on a bosu ball or walking into a treadmill).
Lights off everyone.

Grande Séduction

2008-01-07T20:20:00.000-08:00

For a very long time I have had, well, very long hair. Oops, I should have begun by mentioning that this post contains inconsequential minutiae with the exception being the fantastically lucky bit at the end. O.K. Back to the story...

So I decided on a whim, with apologies to George in his blue cardigan at Tony's Barber Shop with all the Playboy magazines and lottery tickets and tailored executives getting steams and shaves, that I'd go to a hair salon. Yes! One for girls! Some may gasp but for many years (after finally saying goodbye to George) I have been cutting my own hair. It was just a straight line across the bottom so why not? O.K. I was wrong. Quite wrong.
So it was a breezy coolish day and I passed the handsome little Aveda Salon by my place and a man with stylish blonde/white hair and interesting glasses was outside smoking. I resisted the urge to say "Smoking is seriously not good for you" and said instead "Hello! Do you do consultations?". He clasped his hands and looked up to the heavens and shouted YES!!!! You see, he had watched me pass by so many times before and had (most probably) been thinking something along the lines of "Holy mother! She needs a real haircut."
Inside I was greeted by a lovely girl J. with quick and skilled hands. 45 minutes later I was bouncing out ~ hair to my shoulders, layered a bit and light as a feather. That breeze I mentioned earlier? It showed me what it could do with freshly cut hair. Softly and from every angle. Ooh.

The lucky end bit; It came at me down the middle of the street, blowing like a tumble weed. I was walking and it too kept moving closer. Just a metre before me it sped-up and wrapped around my ankle. A five dollar bill. Nice. A couple weeks later I was descending the side staircase of my building (the secret exit - shh) and on the last stair there it was, smiling and waving up at me. Another fiver. Then biking a hilly path through the woods, sun beams shining down through the leaves here and there and the ground a bit wet, there it was, plastered flat - yes, another five dollar bill. This is getting silly, isn't it? Ah, but one more. And this is where it becomes not only curious but international; up the front walk to my building. This special one blew under my shoe. A 5RM note from Malaysia! A beautifully delicate and decorative green bill with the Petronas Towers on one side and a neato tiny clear window etched with a '5'. By the way, I am no where near Malaysia. So quintuple wow.
A friend, after hearing the story, asked if I had seen the movie Seducing Doctor Lewis. I hadn't. "You must!" she said. I did. Dr. Lewis was not, in the end, seduced to a village that desperately needed him by the lure of cricket, fishing, beef stroganoff, the tempting Eve or all those five dollar bills placed in his path. No, not at all. But he did stay (because of all the charming people there).
So should I? Hmm.

Delicate Balance

2008-01-03T12:07:00.000-08:00

We're deep in snow here so (of course) I'm day-dreaming of cycling. My beautiful introduction came at around three years old. Puny me wrapped around and clinging to the crossbar of my father's giant white Colnago bombing along the river parkway which was closed to car traffic on Sundays. He belted a piece of foam around the bar so I travelled in comfort. My only instruction? "Hold on tight Fife" (my pet name). I think of myself slowly and cartoonishly sliding so to be hanging upside down like a monkey from the bar but I don't think that ever happened. What I loved about it even then: the speed. The feeling of freedom. Irresistible.
My first bike, a tricycle, was matte silver and (quite possibly) made of lead. It had a shield-like front that curved around my legs and weighed a freakin' tonne. I know I was a weakling kid but *wah*. It made for a great incentive to quickly move onto two wheels, which I did. First a green beauty, then a lime green lovely with a sparkly banana seat, and then (ooh la la) a silver Raleigh ten speed. The big leagues.

One weekend I invited a classmate, Patricia, out for a ride. She didn't cycle much and was the type that enjoyed the piano and staying dry and tidy. Her Mom looked more than a little concerned waving goodbye to us. I was eager to explore. Patricia wobbled along behind me on her older sister's bike. We zig-zagged through neighbourhoods, the arboretum, and the magical forest but then found ourselves on a busy, heavily trafficed street wheeling towards a big downhill. I tucked and flew down, cars speeding beside me. I was sadly disappointed when I saw the light change to red at the bottom. A crime. All that momentum - wasted. I stopped and glanced behind. Patricia was hurtling towards me. Oh deario. Quickly she was screaming in panic about how to stop. I thought...hadn't we stopped yet? Huh? I hopped off my bike and cleared out of her way in a flash and yelled for her to just go through as it was a T intersection and would have been safe. Unfortunately, she had her own idea. She stood on her pedals and launched off onto the sidewalk, an impressive move actually but, well, you can guess. Her sister's bike end-overed along and clean & neat Patricia did the same. A ten pointer. I returned her home to her mother, considerably less pristine, clothes torn up a bit but nothing broken - except for her sister's bike. Tragic.
There is nothing like cycling.

Snow Fairies

2007-12-23T11:36:00.000-08:00

We've had a good bit of snow the past few weeks. What's a good bit you might ask? Well, the snowbanks were higher than me. Even with my big winter hat on, they trumped me. And I'm tall(ish). There were parked cars along the streets, buried ~ hiding from their owners. My shortcuts through the museum lot, behind the office building, across hill and dale? *Poof* All gone! With massive snow curbs on both sides, the streets had just enough clearance for one car to pass. (Yes, I agree. That's even one too many but...). The sidewalks morphed into narrow tracks ~ people moving along in single file like ants. Slowly. Unsteadily. I am, ahem, rather impatient so usually walk in the middle of the road along with the others that live downtown and know it's the fastest way to get around. Yes, step aside for passing cars but don't look at the driver. They'll be tsk-tsking. Too bad. Often people in the single tracks atop the sidewalks stop, puffing from their efforts, then struggle over the snowbank, stumbly join the street people and we become a herd.
Big snow falls (particularly those early in the season) cast a spell on people. Everyone becomes smiley and helpful to others. Driveways and paths magically clear themselves for some lucky peoples ~ who discover the job done and clasp their hands in delight. And, knowing, they love their neighbour more. That man that sees the old woman get out of the cab and rushes to help her through the snow to the front entrance. At night, everything glowy white and all the lights twinkley pretty.
Happy holidays.

Blurry but perfect photo credit: Melissa

Blankety Blank

2007-12-06T17:26:00.000-08:00

I'm not a good spectator. At sporting events I have an overwhelming urge; I don't just want to watch THEM play down there on the field or ice, I want to play. I feel it at restaurants too. Rather than just sitting there at the table, what if I head to kitchen to chop and dice a few vegetables with the chef? Sautée those shallots? Fold some linen napkins into little birds? Maybe I could make the drinks for that nice couple holding hands at table eight? Pretty please.

At just after 2:30 a.m. this morning I heard a couple engaged in a shouting match in front of my building. I am the type that can sleep through bugle playing (they're louder than a tuba, aren't they?) or, more cartoonish, cymbals crashed over my head or a cannon firing. Get the idea? So this couple must have been very loud indeed. The woman was frantic, yelling that she wanted her cellphone back. I lay there thinking "Oh, come on. Resolve people." They went on shouting a bit longer no doubt oblivious that they were surrounded by windows with peoples inside those windows laying in bed and now awake and really quite peeved and ready to hurl something down at them. Then *suddenly* there was wonderful silence followed a minute later by a VERY big commotion in the hallway. More shouting and name calling. Half of the anti-couple was my personable neighbour, K. His door slammed. More shouting inside his place. Oh K.

My building is old and solid ~ thick walls but I could still hear them. Bother. As I had passed the point of no return to sleep, I went to the kitchen and was making espresso when I heard screaming for help. Loudly. Panicked. I opened my door. The hallways with stone floors are echoey. I could clearly hear serious tackling (not the fun kind) against walls. I heard my other neighbours shuffling behind their doors, maybe debating whether or not to get involved. It was near 3 a.m. I quickly ran barefoot to K's door and knocked. K opened it. "Is everything all right here?" I asked. Looking a tad wired, K answered: "Hi. Yes. I've called the cops. It's fine." He was holding one hand up at me, palm flat, like I might rush in. Odd. We stared at each other for a few seconds (though it seemed very long). I felt my eyebrows had moved high up on my forehead. "Really? Is everyone all right?" I asked. "Yeah, the cops on their way. It's O.K. Thanks." he said.

The police arrived shortly after and I thought about people (oops - cellphones) and all the needless troubles they cause. At 3 in the morning. And in general.

Steamy Good

2007-11-27T11:27:00.000-08:00

We have something unusual in this city: a farm right in the middle of it. I'm sometimes aromatically reminded of its presence during certain times of year (spring and autumn) when it's lovely and super-windy out and the air smells like poo. In a nice earthy way of course. That's when the soil is being turned and, even where I live downtown and 10 kilometres away, there it is, all around me.
As a kid the farm was one of my favourite places to visit on weekends. A cow-filled alternative to the magical forest behind our house. I would usually go with one of my sisters. Middle sister T and I once tried to help herd the cows into the barn. T was given a long broom and asked to stand guard at the big doors. The farmer and I went around and herded. T was a bit afraid of large animals and I remember her there in the door looking wafer thin and more than a little frightened and concerned, clutching the broomstick. We had successfully herded-in about 2/3 of them when suddenly (there must have been quick discussion in the barn) the cows collectively decided that one broomstick and a little girl/pip-squeak were not going to keep them in. No. A stampede out ensued and, along with it, just a wee bit of mayhem. O.K., there was running and shrieking.

There's also a tropical greenhouse on the farm (open from 9 to 4 everyday thank you very much) and it's one of the most wonderful steamy destinations to run to when it's cold outside...which it is now. Hello! *POOF* Winter has arrived! I was out for a long run on the weekend and had rather turned into a popsicle when I remembered this paradise and changed course towards it. With one step inside, I warmed immediately and then just stood, enjoying and liquifying, beside the little banana trees. Giant goldfish circled in the central pool. Bright pink bougainvillea here. Deep red hibiscus there. Kind of surreal. And utterly perfect.

See how Paul & Fritz Klaesi put cow poo to good use. Brilliant boys! Brilliant.

Sticks & Stones

2007-11-09T12:32:00.000-08:00

Growing up, affixed to our fridge was a chart with the names of my sisters and I listed in colour. I was purple. Following my finger along horizontally to the correspondingly-coloured dot and (tra la la) I'd discover the chore I was to do each day. Some, I must say, were overkill. Like picking up sticks/pebbles in the yard. It was not just a casual gander. Oh, no no no. It was a methodical back and forth across our expansive backyard. Line by ridiculous line. I was a little zamboni with a bowl cut slowly making my way around the green. An hours work would result in just a handful of tiny twigs. And there were always NEW stones that magically appeared. I quickly figured that one out. They were obviously planted there as a thoroughness test by the chart creator, my father. He said a stick could possibly damage the mower blade. A stone would be sucked up by the mower, shot out the chute, and might possibly hit some innocent member of the mowing audience in the eye or shoot a hole in a window. So, believing/assuming that this were true, this combing every inch was an absolute must before each mowing. I once protested. It's not like the grass was cut everyday. Couldn't I let the twigs pile up until the actual event? You might think...yes! But no. Best not let things get out of hand. Right-o.
Vacuuming was another groaner. Missed a few teeny tiny bits of fluff? A thread? Tape worked well rolled around your hand and then you could go down on all fours and really get the job done. And vacuuming was done with the crevice tool because that one inch opening created the greatest suction/the deepest cleaning power. Never mind that it gave rooms a just clawed by giant cats appearance. You must be thinking, ohhhhh. How very excessive. How cruel. I did at the time too. None of my little friends had such tasks.
My father was (surprise!) in the military. When I first saw The Sound of Music and all the children in the family answered to a certain whistle pitch, I continued eating my popcorn and thought nothing of it.

The result of all this doing? Among a host of other aftereffects, I really despise wall to wall carpeting. Persian/Oriental carpets? O.K. In fact, very good. But floors should be wood or tile. And mowing lawns? I really do hope you're not. Rocks are very nice. Or plant a small orchard and let the ground be its happy self.

Imaginary Friends

2007-10-18T14:28:00.000-07:00

I thought, as the weather is getting cooler, I would sign-up for Bikram yoga again. It's so nice to escape into a room that's heated to 40.5°C (105°F) when it's frosty out. I hiked it over only to discover that the studio, the one that was always so peaceful and quiet and the classes near empty, was now closed. CLOSED! Imagine! Huh, I wonder why. It was located above an Indian buffet restaurant so the strong curry aroma was a large part of the whole sensory experience. Of the three instructors, two were spookily pale and sickly looking. Almost transparent. Both were very serious. Very. I was once caught (quietly) laughing when, during one of the twenty-six postures, the instructor said (into her yoga-microphone) "You should be feeling tremendous sensation." I tried to hide it but my shoulders were shaking. She added, for my benefit I'm guessing, "...and you should be focused and concentrating." She then repeated in (what I think was) Sanskrit. Very serious indeed. LORAC was with me and beside her was a man in a tiny (way too tiny) Speedo. I was suddenly struck by the immense silliness of it all. So I laughed. Understandable isn't it? You see, I DO believe yoga can have tremendous benefit as far as increasing flexibility. A definite wow on that. But I also think it's taken way too seriously by many. Particularly those two instructors.
The last instructor in the triumvirate had wild striped hair (or highlighted I suppose is the term) and was quite, ahem, curvy. I met her at the grocery store and she was holding a big bucket of fried chicken and a bag from the liquor store. Yes, her class was a totally different vibe. Sadly, she rarely taught. I always seemed to get Serious 1 or Serious 2 (aka Savasana 1 or Pavanamuktasana 2).

There's another studio nearer my home but I think I need the matching outfit/mat combo to get in the front door. Hmm.

And on transparent people, CBC Radio was interviewing a young boy about his imaginary friend. His friend's name? Mr. Ghostie. "Mr. Ghostie is see-through and looks like a cowboy" the boy said "and he has a pet dragon." The little boy was very serious about all his friend could do but this kind of serious I liked. Very much.

Image: My Imaginary Friend by Vijayendra 7yrs/boy. India.
"I used my finger prints to draw the body and sketch pen to draw finer details plus crayons for background."

Parts Beneath

2007-10-05T07:01:00.000-07:00

Whales. I flipped on the radio and at that very moment an interview was starting with a woman, Selma Barkham. Thirty years ago she took her two kids on a field trip to a beach, Red Bay, in southern Labrador on the east coast of Canada. Her daughter, Serena, remembers black flies and "miles and miles of red tiles." It was discovered (thanks to all of Barkham's incredible digging through archives and learning Spanish so she could decipher it all) that those tile fragments had come from the Basques region of Spain 450 years ago. The site had been a very active Basque whaling station in the 16th century.
I had the very good fortune to be involved in this project albeit in a somewhat tiny way. I say tiny because I can only imagine the monster job it was to recover, haul, and record it all. I worked on a load of the cooperage debris and also (very neato!) a chalupa/canoe that had been excavated from its underwater grave. It's parts were shipped here, conserved, reconstructed by the talented and thoughtful team, and then shipped back to the site ~ seemingly alive again with its stories. The (believed to be) San Juan, a ship that had sunk off the coast, was also excavated, carefully documented, and then reburied underwater on the site and is monitored. Parts of this ship were brought to the lab and conserved such as the binnacle box that held the navigational equipment. A mysterious chart is carved into its top, areas of the viewing window for the compass are blackened by the many candles that passed through it so long ago. The small compass, with its body so very fragile, was otherwise perfect. The condition of some wood that has been under water for centuries (but, perhaps, buried in silt so there's little oxygen) can be astonishing. So beautiful.

The summer that I worked on that project, cycling in to arrive super early with the sun coming up; saying hello to Don at reception with his deep radio voice; putting on my lab coat and steel toe boots; working beside the hum of the shiny freeze dryer and other content workers focused and involved. Heaven.
And Red Bay is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Conservation (n): the act of preserving, guarding, or protecting; the keeping (of a thing) in a safe or entire state; preservation; a wise use of natural resources.
Good word isn't it?

Photo: The German Maritime Museum (Deutsches Schiffahrtsmuseum - DSM)

Radical Honesty

2007-09-21T11:40:00.000-07:00

It must be something in the air. One. I arrived home two days ago to a jar of honey on my door with a note tucked beneath it. On any other occasion a girl may like to find such a thing. I did not for I knew who had left it. J. The boy that keeps bees (in hives that I really wanted to visit but never will). The boy that is smart and funny. The boy that called me from Oslo to play squash. The boy that sends me messages (that I never respond to) late at night with his glass of red wine. The boy that is married. The boy that should NOT leave me a jar of honey and a little note. The teeny tiny part of me that is polite would send a thank you. The radically honest part of me would send a "Please do not, somehow, bypass my building's security system to leave jars of honey or notes at my door. Good bye and good luck."
I sent neither message.

Two. While running to the library last evening a black SUV pulled up beside me. The window rolled down and it was H. Yes! The boy that thinks I laugh too loudly. He looked just wonderful of course (except for the SUV around him) and we exchanged, I must say, polite updates with sincere...hmm...historical affection. He inside the BMW in his fine suit with cufflinks all sparkling. Me on the sidewalk in my running gear and load of books. He asked if I was at the same number and suggested he call and we could go to dinner. "But I may laugh" I said. He didn't understand. Then I really did laugh. And I think he got it. Today flowers arrived when I wasn't home. I called the florist and didn't accept them, feeling a bit sad for the flowers, all ready and excited for their new home. They were from H and he is a nice boy (except for the SUV and controlling part) so I hope they forward the flowers on to him.

Three. Dumb Dumb at the bike shop just now. The boy in the orange coveralls that thought, incorrectly again, that we should go for a drink together.
My past reappearing before me. It does that. And will. Until I deal with things ~ proper and fully.

This is totally unrelated to the above. Or is it? Last night I heard a weirdly noise. I was in my toasty bed-nest so waited, eyes blinking, for the noise again. Nothin'. WELL! This morning when I slept-walked to the kitchen for espressorama I noticed a darkish spot on the kitchen floor. Eek! Yesterday, I had stacked a large quantity of happy little kiwis into an impressive croquembouche-like pile in a low bowl which I placed atop my refrigerator. I had stood back and marveled at the furry beauty of them. At some point during the night, one of them became uncomfortable and decided to move. Kiwis plotched. They're all O.K. (though how traumatic for them) and they are now resting comfortably on their less softer sides. In two safe smaller heaps.

Photo credit: Patrick Demarchelier, Italian Vogue, Nov 1990

Con Dolcezza

2007-09-07T09:42:00.000-07:00

I can sing (or "sing" rather) a few songs in Italian and it's all thanks to Luciano Pavarotti and that little booklet of lyrics that was tucked inside the CD case. In 1983 my father arrived home one day with a dozen mystery boxes that, when assembled together, wondrously became a giant 200 watt stereo system. Speakers the size of a small fridge, tuner, amplifier, equalizer, receiver, turntable and (what was this?!) a compact disc player. It all stacked tidily together to be taller than I was. He demoed the magical front loading drawer. It silently slid open and then closed. Wow. Star Trek.
We had two CDs to play on it: Mozart's Die Zauberflöte by Deutsche Grammophon or, what became my father's favourite, Western Gunfight (!). The latter, yes, was exactly as loud and awful as you can imagine. Or, if you can't imagine, you could track down our neighbours and ask them. By the following year our musical smorgasbord/library had notably grown. Pavarotti's 'Mamma' was one of them and with it my language training began.

My father travelled frequently on business and when he did, the crafty devil, he would unhook a couple wires at the back of the stereo so I couldn't play with it. Oh, the trust! Today friends ask me to install lighting, replace electrical outlets, and rewire small appliances so it's a bit laughable that my father thought that this simple move could deter me from enjoying Firenze sogna or Voglio vivere così. The tough part was rolling the monster out from the wall far enough to get my stickly arm back there. Mission accomplished, I would crank the volume until the walls shook.

Spero che abbiate gradito questa storia piccola. Grazie Daddy e Luciano ~ molti baci. X

Le Chiffre

2007-08-29T16:48:00.000-07:00

About a week ago I (oops...a friend) saw that my (oops...their) eye seemed a bit red/irritated. Oh O.K. It was MINE. It was also a bit watery like I was about to tear up. Hmm. No big deal except that I am not a crier. I gave it a day. A few said "Oh there, there. Are you alright dear? Need a tissue?". The next day: quite red. I put Polysporin drops in and dark sunglasses on. The following day: Eek! Redder with the added bonus of the quite overwhelming sensation that I would like to scratch my eye out. Because I'm an optimist I toughed it out and kept using the drops and wearing mittens. No, no mittens. I decided to consult my sister Spock. Get thee to a doctor she said.
I went to the walk-in clinic near my place because I thought it opened early (and the near part). It does but, I discovered, that simply means the door is open so one can go in and look at the receptionists and they will smile and wave and say "Come back at 10". I did a quick run to my doctor's office. Closed. The handmade (I chose her because of it) sign on her door with hours I deciphered to (maybe) read "Afternoon's Only" on Tuesdays. I could have been wrong though - it's in Chinese. Really. It is. So it also could have read "No Flyers Please".
I returned to the clinic for 9:50 and a line-up. Everyone eyed everyone else wondering what weirdly troubles they had. I was glad mine was obvious. There were a couple of young bespectacled assistants (identical twins apparently) that fought for charts so they could call out names incorrectly. Good news: my doctor was excellent. I described my symptoms and she was quite certain it wasn't pink eye as Spock had suspected. She did many tests on me, flipped my eyelid to inspect for hiding things (good, isn't she?), used a tinting stick to check for a scratches, and asked many questions.

The big fun (well, eyelid inside out was up there but...) was the standard vision test. Another doctor arrived and the eager twins came along to observe. We moved to the hallway where the eye chart was hung by the chimney with care. I could feel the presence of all the sickly waiting room peoples behind me. I covered my right eye and read down the chart line by line. It was a bit blurry from the flipping but still 20/20. This got an exuberant "Wow!" from the twins. I covered my left and read down. I reached the line second from the bottom when the doctor said, rather curtly and almost annoyed that I was nailing it I think, "O.K..That's enough". She had climbed the stairs all the way from the basement so perhaps was hoping for bigger troubles and/or eyes to transplant. They do that at clinics, don't they? The twins clapped and oohed some more and came over to touch me like I was an Eyesight Wonder.
The first doctor did a few more tests shining a light directly into my eye with the office lights out. Total darkness. Pitch black. They must develop photographs in there or something. My other senses heightened. The doctor certainly smelled minty fresh and the tongue depressors in the corner: woodsy. She recommended I use Natural Tears (no preservatives) for a few days.

Well, this is a let down. After all of that? Yes, my eye is totally clear now. But for a time there, I was a crier.

One Day

2007-08-17T11:31:00.001-07:00

Our parliament's cabinet shuffle happened this week. Everyone was seated (some way too comfortably), the music started, there was circling, the music stopped, there was some furious scrambling and shoving, some found the same seat and a handful of others found new ones. If you're scratching your head, yes (in this arena) it tends to create jacks of all trades and, with a very few exceptions, masters of none.

In the real world I'd like to have an official Job Swap day where you may choose anything your heart desires, sign-up, and away you go. I'm aware this is also (but not often enough) done within organizations and has proven worthwhile. Everyone finally gets a bit of an understanding about what their colleagues/underlings/overlings do on a given day and can then, perhaps maybe possibly, show a bit more compassion and respect towards them in the future.

But I'm thinking here ANY job that's out there. Me? After my speed-briefing (I'm a quick study and, come on, how tough could it be?), I would like to pilot a private jet with just a few agreeable passengers that were carefully selected (by someone who would know such things) for my amusement. I like the idea of the plane being as light as possible so I could do some loop-de-loops. Nice bubbly drinks would be served (between loops). We'd take off from Paris at night, everyone would look out the tiny oval windows and say "Ooh pretty!" at all the twinkly lights, there would be dancing and partying, guests could come and sit up front with me in rotation for joking and conversation, and then I would land on a warm and wonderful island somewhere when the sun is coming up. Of course, I'd have to stay on the island forever because Job Swap day was over...and I would live in this incredibly beautiful stanic harding-designed home because, you see, it was just there waiting for me.

Photo: Hunters Hill House designed by Andy Harding, Michael Alder, Harriet Spring, Bianco Pohio. (Ooh, they're very good aren't they?!)

Important Comparisons

2007-08-03T13:00:00.000-07:00

This week has been steamy, steamy hot. Delightful. Seriously. I adore it. Especially combined with another of my infatuations...
Yesterday I headed to the hills on my bike at the very pinnacle of hotness. It was a bit surreal to ride through the wavy heat lines with that highly distinctive scorcher-day buzzing sound of cicadas floating in the air (I think that's the insect...or I hope it is...such a lovely name). I could just make out the shapes of people in their business attire moaning and shuffling along, metal signs becoming Dali-like soft and bendy, and parked automobile tires melting into sticky pancakes (in my imagination).
I zipped by/through it all thinking of how really delicious the heat felt and the number of people that complain about it.
I was thinking that in six months it will be -35°C again and then something happened. I heard little bits of conversation. First, two men. One proclaimed "Yes! With a javelin!". Then a man and a woman, her saying "...worked in a glass factory." A bit further along, an older gentleman and a young boy walking beside the river. The very moment I passed, I heard the little boy say "I like fishing Grandpa."

The third comment, well ~ I simply enjoyed it, but the first and second, perfectly timed references to "Mitt liv som hund" (My Life as a Dog), the Swedish film about a boy, Ingemar, that is sent to live with his aunt and uncle when his mother becomes terminally ill. In an attempt to cheer her up, Ingemar tries to make her laugh all the time. Then, when away from her, he dreams of making her laugh, the two of them on the beach with him bouncing around beside her. Later alone and to comfort himself, Ingemar thinks of comparisons as to how some have things much worse: like the man who took an unfortunate short-cut across a track field and was killed by a javelin or poor Laika the little dog that was shot into space aboard Sputnik 2, never to return.

So plus 35 or minus 35? Plus please.
And the ride? Brilliant. Doing 75 km/hr on a downhill has an amazing cooling effect.

Sensory Overload

2007-07-18T12:36:00.000-07:00

Hearing is a wonderful sense and I have mine again. Beach volleyball. Sand, sand and more sand. You might think that would be almost soundless but, with 1,000 teams playing and 35,000 people total, in this case: no. And the world's largest speakers, one of which was parked directly in front of our court for the day, the volume increasing incrementally over the course of the day until everyone's hair was blowing. Tremendous. I was recruited onto the team again though I hadn't even touched a volleyball since last year's tournament. (Read: without a doubt "someone" would be beaned). It was toasty warm enough that most people had on very little clothing. My big fun betwixt games was ogling boys. O.K. During games too ~ a girl can be distracted. Happy little me along with two of my male team-mates, T (Italian and still a subtle *ooh la la* accent, 30ish, dreamy dark eyes and hair, athlete's body) and J-C (Colombian, beautiful cafe au lait skin, soccer player...so ditto on the body part, and really nice feet - I always notice this last one) set-up an ideal viewing perch. Did I mention both boys are gay? Ah, a girl can't have everything...though I did receive some very jealous looks from other girls with untrained eyes. We enjoyed the show and had a splendid time rating bodies, using hand signals to communicate. It was shallow, yes, but fantastic!
We found and agreed on a specimen that we thought was winner of the day but then, sadly/shockingly, we saw him spit in the sand. Totally unacceptable. He was Xed. Second place, a NYC firefighter, was awarded first after careful and scientific observation only to ensure he exhibited no crude habits, you understand. Just an exceptionally fine body, a gracious player, and a superb smile. Gold star!

Later that evening, I was clicking my fingers beside my ears because everything was so weirdly quiet. Like I was in a vacuum. The air felt still and oddly. A massive rainstorm had begun the moment my tail was in the door. And I knew DJ Champion was within a 10K radius of me and I missing him/them! Ohhhhh. But I did the smart thing (so unlike me) and thought I best give my eardrums a break.
My eyes rather needed it too.

A Supernova

2007-07-08T11:50:00.000-07:00

It's a bit/a lot of a downpour here today so I went cruising with M to look at/pick-up goodies in Chinatown. I mentioned to him that if this were a certain spot in Florida, there may be frogs covering the roads. A deluge of spooky translucent white froggies. Everywhere. Years ago while visiting my grandmother (Imagine that. A grandmother. In Florida!), I encountered this. But not on a road. Oh, no. I had just flicked off the lights and hopped in bed when I felt a slimy something land on my forehead. The sound I made, I have never made before. Or since. I grabbed 'it' and flung it. It hit the wall with a hollow wet *SPLOTCH*. Seriously, there has never been a better *splotch*. The light flipped on and G was standing there in the doorway. I couldn't speak but just managed an "Aaaagh" and pointed. In one blinding snatch of her slipper, she solidly hit him with a wallop. A froggie. Dead, yes - sad, I know, but also horrifying. (I hope it wasn't a handsome prince). I felt a bit silly afterwards because I'm normally not so girly squeamish though I slept with my head covered that night. Listening.

That froggie trip was a Christmas holiday. I had a (less than brilliant) idea to make myself a dress for the New Year's Eve party with some burgundy silk(ish) fabric G and I had found together. We laid it on the ground and G traced me out. I sewed a dress - yes, shaped quite similar to a gingerbread man but I didn't seal up the hands (or head) into perfect semi-circles. You can approximate how very stunning it was. Oh, I made a belt too. Does that alter the picture? The event was at a lovely couple's home (German and friends of G's) in West Palm Beach. It was an awesomely superb space ~ immaculate, richly furnished all in white, expanses of tiles gleaming reflective like mirrors. There was probably over one hundred guests there, a big pool in the backyard with floating lights, many soft voices laughing and carrying up, and music playing lightly. Magical. And quite a sight. G introduced me to those she knew and, to all of them, she excitedly added "And A made the dress she is wearing!". I can clearly recall all the Kein Scheiße?!! looks I received.
A few gymnasts from (I really do think it was) the German Olympic team performed around the pool. But then I also drank a lot of champagne that night so this last part may be imagined.
And the coffee the next morning...ohhhhh the coffee...

G, that knockout beautiful woman, passed away on the 15th of June.
For all the lovely memories and for letting 15 year old me drink champagne that night to help me forget about my attire, X.

Zola Budd

2007-06-26T09:21:00.000-07:00

I like summer because (well, there are many other reasons but this is a biggie) I am not a fan of socks...or shoes for that matter. Except, of course, really lovely beautiful shoes. A superb sandal with a good heel. Presented in a perfect box to be opened, looked at and enjoyed. Slipped on or, even better, slipped off. Hung for a moment on a pinky finger and then dropped to the floor.
It was steamy hot yesterday and while walking home I was seriously wishing the sidewalks were made of smooth white marble so I could take off my shoes and continue barefoot. How nice that would feel. I thought 'smooth' right away because I like the idea of it being a bit slippery. Cool. Though evenness wouldn't be neccessary as my feet are quite resilient. When I was 7 or 8, I had a little purse made of suede with many dancing fringes on it and a long strap. Walking along a common path behind our house, I was happily exploring and, to fully experience things, barefoot. This was forbidden by my parents. (There could be glass!) I was also swinging my fringed purse, with my shoes tucked inside, like a propeller beside me. A man was approaching with a large mahogany-coloured Irish setter running along free beside him. I was a bit afraid of dogs at the time. I no longer am. At all. Really! The setter stopped mid-stride and...gulp...set on me and my whirling purse. I made a run for it. I knew my house was 'somewhere' beyond the raspberry bush patch so I ran clear through it. I could hear the dog in hot pursuit and the man calling for him/her behind me. Spilling out of the bushes, I then came upon a field of pine cones - over it without a flinch - and then, my house in view, down a long gravel driveway at full/warp speed. Irish setters are quite fast but I was quite faster and proud that I made it into our back porch safely. The dog arrived three seconds later, barking. My mother appeared, hearing me fly in and slam the door. She looked at my bare feet and asked "What's going on?!! Where are your shoes?!!" Panting, I opened my purse.
"Here they are. I just out-ran an Irish setter."

Fine Dining

2007-06-10T03:47:00.001-07:00

It seems a previous vocabulary observation I made was true. I mention planes again. There was also a wool hat in this story but I have left it out.

There's a lovely beach that's just west of the hills I like to cycle in. Along with a sailboat-filled marina, a restaurant with giant deck, a rock pier, a sailing school, and amazing sun sets, there's also oversize picnic tables which are perfect for crashing on after a good ride. Nothin' better. The last time I did this, a couple of small seaplanes appeared and circled. I like shows. Kiddies on the beach stopped their frolicking and watched too. The planes landed and came into shore directly in front of me. Both pilots hopped out, waded the few metres in, walked up to my big table and asked if they could sit. Man, I am one lucky monkey sometimes.

The older, Maurice (possibly French for mischief personified), I quickly learned was a chef and had been the personal one for (be still my heart) Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau. Pierre's favourite was roast potatoes and stuffed bass. Yes, I asked. After explaining where all the nutrients in a potato are (that thin layer just beneath the skin), he told me about the acrobatic competitions he and Pierre would have and then demonstrated his prowess by balancing, plank-like on his forearms, off the edge of the picnic table. His legs extended out parallel to the ground. Understatement here: very impressive. "Now you try" he encouraged me. Much laughing and pointing ensued. Maurice dreamed of getting his helicopter license but was afraid of all the obscure 2+2=5 type questions on the exam.
The younger, Louis, all pearly white teeth and tanned good looks, agreed. They compared the size of their pontoons (on the planes, yes), laughing. The cost. The upkeep. The great camaraderie between the two was a total delight to behold. Shared plane-love. Louis took off first, looped around and did a fly-by with some engine-revving. Maurice clapped his hands and shouted "What a show-off! Hurray!" He then executed a perfect cartwheel and departed, doing the same fly-by across the sky before me.

I was watching a cooking show on television hosted by the very charming Jacques Pépin, personal chef to three French heads of state, including Charles de Gaulle. Putting the finishing touches on a plate he had just created, he said "Make it beautiful for your wife." Mmm.
There's just something about boys that know how to cook. Really cook.

Photo: The French Culinary Institute (NYC)

Complete Control

2007-06-02T03:09:00.000-07:00

I have a laugh that has been (kindly) described as high-spirited and exuberant. A welcome addition to a comedian's audience. Not everyone would agree of course. One example: H. A lovely man. Intelligent. Sporty. Artistic. Refined. Dark and handsome. His spectacular walk-in closet with the collection of finely-tailored suits neatly hung, Ferragamo shoes polished and aligned in even rows, socks folded and organized by colour. Ooh, and French. I was drawn right away. But my laugh. Ah, my laugh. You see, he thought it too loud. Too boisterous. He decided to inform me of this one evening in my apartment. At this revelation, I giggled. He then began on why I should scale down the volume but a car's horn honked outside, foiling his plan. He started again. HONK. I laughed. He listened for a moment to ensure he could get his point across, uninterrupted. "I think you should....*HONK* (this time the driver seriously leaned into it). Well, as you may guess, I was a goner. Total hilarity. H silently put on his impeccable suit jacket (I tried to assist but more hung onto him, weakened from laughter) and he left, my laugh trailing behind him down the hall.

The biggest laugh I've ever had? There have been many but top prize may go to an incident in college. A fellow student was doing a presentation on the lighting of exhibits at the National Gallery. Unfortunately, the poor chap must have failed to remove the lens cap on his camera as the first slide that came up was just a giant black square on the large screen behind him.
The professor questioned this and the student responded that, indeed, there was a problem with his slides but thought he could continue, regardless, and simply describe what actually had been there in each shot as best he remembered. I was sitting beside Penny and we exchanged sideways glances, grinning. The prof was seated directly behind us. The next slide came up. Black square. The student said "And here the lights were angled....". I could feel a fit brewing inside me. The student stood at the front pointing at areas on the black screen and describing "I think the painting was hung here and the lights...". My shoulders started to shake as I struggled for control. Penny looked at me and started as well. Next slide. Black. Professor: "And what did you like about this one?" Student, looking up at the black screen and pondering. "The darkness" he finally answered. I bolted from the room, the door not quite closing behind me as my laugh flooded out and echoed throughout the corridor. It was winter but a mild day and I ran out outside and doubled over into a snowbank. On all fours I laughed. Uncontrollably. I even drooled. I soon realized Penny had followed me out and stood, hands on her knees, guffawing. The class had come to the windows and were observing us, laughing.
I later apologized to the boy. Not for my volume but dashing out like that and disturbing his presentation.

Environmental Modeling

2007-05-26T03:36:00.000-07:00

Behaviour: the actions or reactions of an object or organism usually in relation to its environment. Behavior can be conscious or unconscious, voluntary or involuntary, overt or covert. Ooh, the mystery of that last one.

I like to wake-up early. I'll often go to the window right away to see if anyone else's light is on or, phrased another way, to see if I won. It is a bit of a competition within our family too. My grandmother? The clear winner. Up baking bread at 3. First on the beach fishing by 4. When I visited, she'd always laugh at my sleepiness "Oh look who's so tired!" as we sat eating breakfast at 3:30. My father inherited this from her. When I found him installing a ship's bell outside my bedroom door as a kid, I questioned "Are you sure you want it there?". With a devilish grin, he nodded.

So I, too, became hooked. I can do 3:30 now but 4:10 is my preferred. One of my favourite rituals is to quietly make an espresso and then return with it to my toasty bed-nest and read a magazine or see what weirdly program is on television. This past Saturday's celebrations (reason hint: pucks & skates) carried on until 2 Sunday morning. As I enjoyed all the hoopla, floating lanterns, fireworks, and the masses of bouncy excited peoples that transformed the downtown streets into a sea of red, all the while in the back of my mind danced the idea that I'd sleep-in and miss Kids@Discovery.
Phew, I didn't. My reward? I learned that some ant species eat the honeydew liquid secreted by aphids. If an ant spies an aphid on a stripped plant it will carry the happy little aphid in it's tiny mouth to a lush plant ensuring it will then get to enjoy more honeydew juice. Good thing I didn't miss that! Ah, wonderful. I eagerly await sharing that with the fortunate person in the seat beside me on my next flight.

Photo: The, all together now, breathe wow Hel Des

Lemons & Missiles

2007-05-16T16:37:00.000-07:00

I've noticed that all my entries are about the same length. I don't shoot for this. It seems to have just happened. Then I began thinking that each may be the sum total of my vocabulary. All the same words are in there but scrambled to create completely different little stories. I scanned back. I think I'm onto something. The words hilarious, dolphins, ice, candies, airplanes, wool hats, squash, fuck and a motley, but limited, assortment of others appear over and over again. Frightening. I'll have to watch myself.
Hmm. I know! Rockets!
I belonged to the Rocket Club in grade six. It was led by Mr. Wright, the science teacher. Though the idea of setting things alight was certainly a draw, I joined mainly because of him. He loved dolphins, wool hats, and candies. (Voila! My theory proven!) Seriously, he did initiate my infatuation with all boys that are smart and curious.
The rocket club consisted not so much of the (count 'em) four of us in the club actually building a rocket, or igniting the charge, or setting the rocket on the small launch pad, or ever touching a rocket that wasn't still a smoking hot potato from flight. We were fetchers. Mr. Wright launched them on the nonflammable pavement beside the bike racks in the school yard and we tested our legs for speed. It was really his club and we were the clean-up crew. I was fine with this. It was good fun and I learned a great deal, such as I should join the track team perhaps.
Mr. Wright was married to a lovely Moroccan woman...whom I dreamed of sending away in a rocket. (I kid.) When he spoke of her he glowed. Yet another reason to like him. And I became interested in all things Moroccan. The rich colours and patterns. The architecture. I read about the Atlas Mountains and the Sahara Desert. I would sneak the jar of olives from the fridge to eat in my room and closely inspect the fine details on my two Moroccan stamps with a magnifying glass.
And, if you haven't tried it, green tea with mint is delicious.
Must get me on a rocket or magic carpet (I'm trying to avoid using the word airplane remember) to Morocco.
If you need A ROCKET FIX, I understand. They are irresistible.
So is My Marrakesh. A real beauty.

First Look

2007-05-03T17:48:00.000-07:00

I put my name in to review books for HarperCollinsCanada. Reviewers are randomly selected from all the submissions of "why I'd like to review this book" by those signed up. The cover of Claire Cameron's The Line Painter seriously grabbed my attention and I wrote just that. Well, nice surprise, they chose me. I was a bit shocked but thankful that someone there read that brief explanation and still selected me. Oh yeah, and there was that 'random' part. Of course I also read the synopsis and liked the white painted line reference. As a cyclist, wherever and whenever possible, I bike on that line as there's less friction on the tires. You can really fly. A freshly done white line is the ultimate.

So the neato uncorrected proof arrived in my mailbox a month ago, carefully bubble-packed. Oh boy! I dug in.
When I was reading the book, guitar music played in my head. I tried to quiet it (I like silencio when reading) but it was always there accompanying the words. Raw. Constant. A few days ago I Googled 'Claire Cameron' and found her website and, wow, discovered that the story started as a song. She sings and plays guitar but admits her talent lies in writing. I would bet it's a hat trick there but the result of her line painter song: a smashed guitar AND a really fine/refined book. And she's doing signings at truck stops. Clever. Superb.
The Line Painter by Claire Cameron

Yesterday evening M and I biked south of the city. Mostly on the white line, yes. There's a spot where the road loops around the very end of a runway out at the airport. As we were approaching I saw that a freakin' huge (as it was low and closing in) 747 and the two of us were about to meet at the apex of the loop. We speeded up a tad to ensure this. At point X, hands up and we could have touched the plane. The air totally vibrated and blurred for an instant. My bike resonated. VERY exciting though later I thought: what if we had spooked the pilots and they had to do an emergency pull-up?
I guess we would have been in real shit, huh? Or is a person in a plane's path like a squirrel is to a car? Best not to panic and endanger you and your passengers by swerving. Hold her steady. And if the person/squirrel is flattened, well, such is life.
About 10K further south a herd of Jersey cows (my favorita) were loose on the road. We slowed and had to go around them like big brown pilons. I mooed. Cows probably hate that but I couldn't resist.

Photo credit: The very fetching Roberto Orangina.

Two Words

2007-04-23T17:18:00.000-07:00

It was Matt the last time and now, John-Edward. Another boy from the reference section of the library made my day. A cherry. I thought the museum contract I've been working on would be close to wrap-up but instead I spent the day in a back and forth email comparable to Abbott and Costello's sketch, Who's on first?. Everything that had been confirmed and spelled out clearly before had to be gone over again. And again. And then again. Time wasting really irks me. I was steamed. I took a break and went for a run. Sunlight twinkled prettily on the canal. Happy people threw frisbies in the park. Doggies barked. Tweety birds sang. I returned to twelve more emails from Costello. I breathed deeply and answered them all, rapid-fire, being brief, concise, and polite. Pulling out that last attribute was particularly tough. Then the delightful happened. I got reference librarian John-Edward's email - he had found a book that contained the elusive photo of Norman Bethune I had been searching the source for. Brilliant...and deserving of candy. Hmm, maybe something Chinese.

On books, I just finished a grand one: "Ice : Beauty. Danger. History." by Pauline Couture. Wowsa! Superb. One bit from it ~ when all flights were suspended in North America for a few days after 9/11, the ground temperature increased by an average of 3 degrees. Quite significant I would think. There are generally so many contrails floating in the sky, they act similar to cirrus clouds as insulators.
An exceptional, loaded read: ICE

And, to round out...liquid: my bathtub faucet is leaking. It will be fixed soonly but I put a pail under the persistent drip to see just how much water was being wasted. Quickly ascertained: Way. Too. Much. However, the dripping sound you might think would drive one insane but noooooo, not me. Perfectly sane! It's rather loud, particularly when the pail has just been emptied, so I play air drums to the beat like a little toy monkey with cymbals. The drip, for no apparent reason, speeds up occasionally and that becomes my big drum solo.
Maybe I won't get it fixed. But I'll avoid flying anywhere for a while to balance the environmental impact.

Iron Filings

2007-04-10T18:42:00.000-07:00

Talking and thinking about a particular thing greatly increases the probability of bringing it into your life. Either into the area around you so it will, somehow, be connected or, as is generally the case with me, plunks it right into your lap. I refer to this phenomenon as bringing it into your (my) circle. I sometimes think I have magical powers.

One example: A couple years ago I was walking with my friend T and we noticed a silver Miata convertible with the license plate MOON MAN. Ooh! An astronaut...or a boy very excited by astronomy. It couldn't just be some guy with mediocre taste in vehicles. No!
For the next year, it was a recurring pop-up in our many ridiculous conversations. We told others about the mysterious Moon Man and we both even spotted the car a few times and reported. Moon Man. Moon Man.
A year ago, I noticed the car in my building's underground parking. Then, it was bound to happen of course, I met Moon Man sliding out of the garage, top down, with shades and a grin on. He waved at me. A few weeks later when exiting my apartment, I turned and there he was. My new neighbour across the hall. He introduced himself and asked if I would be around on the weekend (yes) and if I could feed his cats. Nice to meet you and no troubles I said. He ran and got a spare key for me. That weekend I was in Moon Man's apartment, scooping out his cat litter box and observing how Moon Man might have seriously messed-up the space capsule much to the chagrin of the other astronauts. I resisted my very strong urges to clean-up Moon Man's kitchen and played with his cats instead. You might think that this should end with him and I screwing but no. You've seen too many movies. Circle complete. Next.

Photo: Vangelis Kyris

Blue Whales

2007-04-03T17:31:00.000-07:00

I'm doing some sideline contract work for a museum and was trying to find out if David Fraser McTaggart (Chairman, Greenpeace International 1979-91) had any siblings. I did find some of the incredible video excerpts of Greenpeace thwarting whaling ships and a highly enjoyable and lighter one that showed McTaggart playing the drumsticks on Bryan Adam's head. Though in regards to his family, I was getting a big fat nowhere - reading volumes online hoping something would be mentioned. Nope. The guy was intensely private. Wives? Kids? A shadow? Anything?

A light bulb (slow burning) went off and I thought to check the public library's site to see if he'd written anything. He had. In the seventies, a single book and only one far away (perhaps all 70's) branch had a copy. I am on a tight deadline but requested it, having read enough about him now that I am interested to read, yes, even more. I also noticed that they still had David listed as alive. He died in 2001 in a car crash near Umbria, Italy, where he had an olive farm. Cool. The olive farm, I mean. I emailed a heads-up to the library and, jokingly, asked if they'd help me find out if he had siblings. They immediately sent a thank you back and a note that they had forwarded my request onto the reference section. Five minutes later an email popped into my box. A very nice boy, Matt, had attached the Globe and Mail obituary page from March 27th 2001 (helpfully highlighting David's) that listed his immediate family which included, of course, his one sister, Phoebe Exel. (What a groovy name! Like a Bond girl.) Fuck! I love the library! I emailed Matt back and asked what his favourite candy was. I received another efficiently immediate response back that he was just doing his job but his desk was located on the third floor of the main branch. I waited a moment more in case a map arrived. I thought a big bag of alphabet pretzels but, no. Matt - some serious candy is a' comin' your way!

A couple of excellent videos:
Greenpeace Video
Save the Whale

Calm Exteriors

2007-03-24T15:51:00.000-07:00

This morning I arrived home and the building's superintendent was on the front lawn checking the tire pressure on his bicycle. It had finally melted free of its restrictive snowbank and could be unlocked from the tree for another season. The bike had settled into the ground a few centimetres, was crusted with salt and dirt, and looked very tired. Like its owner. "Huh, they still have air" he mumbled. There's a wide metal slat fixed onto the bike's crossbar so he can ride to the beer store and (precariously) haul back a case of twenty four. There and then back with the empties. There and back. Frequently. I understand fully. I was, I regretfully admit, previously the superintendent.
It really had seemed like a swell idea at the time. If 'something' needed doing I thought, I'm handy, I could fix it. And the workroom in the basement. Sweet! The possibilities of all the endless personal fun projects filled in my head and, I believe, blinded me to everything else. I'm an organized person and like a little challenge. How tough could it be? I could handle my day job AND be superintendent. Piece of cake. I had never encountered any problems with my place so figured (and that figuring was my crash and burn downfall) how much work could another 40 apartments be? Oh ho ho. How much indeed.

A year has 365 days. I was superintendent for about a year.
So, let's see here: 1 hour (max) sleep/day X 365 = (clickity click!) 365 hrs of sleep that year.
Actually, I shouldn't have done that. 365 hours looks like a shit-load of sleep. It wasn't.
As it turns out, my apartment is the ONLY one without troubles. Behind the calm exterior of all the other handsome wood doors there are ceilings caving in, pipes freezing in walls and shooting geysers into cupboards, toilets & sinks continually blocking, radiators leaking, tiles disintegrating, a constant stream of tenants moving in and out (Go figure. People move???) which resulted in painting, painting and more painting, lawn mowing, garbage control, a fire retrofit nightmare, a couple of (unfortunately) non-fun-type lunatic tenants, and on and on. I lost it.
One day I swung shut a heavy steel door in the garage with such insomniac frustration and maniacal fury that the lock busted off and flew the length of the garage. It missed smashing the windshield of attorney Ted's black 911 by a hair. I gave my notice that evening. The now grubby brass handrails up the giant central staircase...they could certainly use some polish, but I'm fine with it. Sleep is beautiful.

Pure Gold

2007-03-14T11:30:00.000-07:00

While reading the (richly good) The Walrus magazine yesterday, I noticed the article's author was AC. I flipped to the Contributers on page 7. It listed that he teaches comedy history at Humber College. Hmm, I wondered, could it be?
In high school, I would often walk part way home with an AC. He lived within a few blocks of the school and we would linger on his corner, talking and scheming. He was hilariously witty and smart. He was also a magician and had his own business doing magical tricks at parties complete with black cape & top hat. He would read my palm and frequently wrestled in the street with Big Head, a guy who is now a bike courier here in town. "I can beat him up. Want to see?" AC would ask me. I was quite smitten. Our togetherness continued until grade 10 when Jane R., a ballerina, arrived at our school. He discussed a bit of his ballerina infatuation/troubles with me. I (maybe) helped a bit in getting them together, passing notes, encouraging Jane to call him and whatnot. I knew our days walking together might be numbered but even I thought Jane was swell so if he was to be with someone (other than me - heh heh)...a sugar plum fairy it twas.
I Googled his name and found a photo. Yes, without a doubt, it was AC the magician.
In school he was always a distracting jokester. Everyone liked him. Most teachers were aware he was obviously a brainard so let it go. All but one. The wickedly stinky-breathed wet-arm-pitted French teacher, Mr. Levasseur, was on AC's case all the time. If I think of something nice to write about Mr. Levasseur, I'll add it later. (Added later: Nope - nothin'.)
He threatened that it would just be him watching over a solo Andy writing the final exam to pass in June.

AC cleverly played along. "I can't wait, Levy. You and me. Alone. Together."
Levy: "Oh, you're such a clown Andy! Mr. Funny Man. You'll be a big failure. BIIIIIG failure."

AC is an award-winning journalist and screenwriter. One of his books was nominated for the Pearson Writers' Trust Non-fiction Prize, Drainie-Taylor Biography Prize and the Governor General's Award for Literary Non-fiction.
He is a contributing editor for The Walrus Magazine and has written for the New York Times, The Globe and Mail and was a senior writer for Maclean's magazine.
'Stand and Deliver: Inside Canadian Comedy', his first book, was a history and examination of Canada's comic tradition.

Too freakin' hilarious.
Heh kids, believe in yourselves.

Photo credit: www.aggregatedlife.com

Eye Candy

2007-03-02T17:15:00.000-08:00

Last Sunday morning I played squash with K, the boy-half of a charming couple that T met at the dog park. He's a freelance journalists from the UK. I was a bit hesitant to speak on first meeting, knowing full-well that I may slip into my monkey-hear-monkey-do-British accent. Phew, monkey didn't. Well, maybe one "Jolly good shot!" but that was it. (Me + Indian restaurant = embarassment). We played three games and during the final something happened. O.K. Stupid perhaps but I'm not a fan of playing with goggles. Nor is he. We laughed about it at the start. Screw googles! You know what I'm going to write next don't you? Correct! A lovely violet/navy shiner I have, I have.

Late afternoon, I went for a run over to Gatineau and on return came upon the very sad sight of Confederation Park chock full o' busted up ice sculptures, the remnants of all the winter festival fun. The park's commission does this every year because...uh...I guess they have employees with a lot of pent-up frustrations. Heh, I guess I'd be suppressing too if, in the summer, I were required to mow 8,000 hectares of grass that doesn't really need mowing but is done just to mulch-up/shoot around those few stray pines cones all for the sake of keeping the parks tidy. Yeah. Pass me a f'ing hammer.

I decided to wade through the ice graveyard and look for cool bits. Maybe the wing tip from a pegasus or the tail bit from a mermaid. No identifiable mythical creature parts though I did snag an armload of neato pieces, amongst them - a perfect equilateral triangle (no protractor, so make that 'seemingly' perfect) and one shaped like a big diamond which, in the future I promise NOT to insist is an actual diamond that belonged to Elizabeth Taylor and beg my sister, L, to take me to a jeweler for appraisal where she will exchange knowing and 'just play along' glances with the jeweler while I hold my big diamond expectantly with my mittens on and dollars signs in my eyes. I mention this only because she went through something similar with my grandmother last year and I think once was enough for her.

Walking hurriedly home with my haul of ice, a handsome boy in a black Volvo slowed and asked if I wanted a lift/assistance. I then saw him do a concerned quick glance at my shiner. I wanted to silently mouth "Help me" or "I'm so cold". At that point I was just a block away from my place so, of course (or silly, silly me), didn't accept his offer. My finds are all sealed safely in the freezer.
I don't know WTF I will do them it but I love them. The ice is beauteous - no bubbles. Crystal clear.
Le Chiffre. X

Anti Nice

2007-02-23T12:29:00.000-08:00

Last Friday evening the massively fantastic DJ Champion (et ses G-Strings/Betty Bonifassi) put on a superb, superb LOADED show for the winter festival happening here. HOLY FLIP! A bouncing grand time. I can still feel it in my femurs. Electric! I'd like to just follow him/them around on tour.

Throughout the show there was a fashion extravaganza of Canadian designers presented. A cool idea and doubly-good as I find fashion shows hugely hilarious - almost as funny as porn. Almost. The models wore white patent leather stiletto boots (troublesome while navigating the runway in the floor-length gauzy dresses), matching super-wide belts, and huge knitted tam-o'-shanters. There were pantaloons. Oh ho! At the appearance of a black puffy-oven-mitt-of-a-dress, my friend T exclaimed "THAT is hideous!". I wonder if, with some exceptions of course (e.g. Jil Sander), there's some laughing and pointing at the designer shows. Hmm. I for one wouldn't be able to contain myself. Security would remove me.

A couple days ago, during my return on a frosty run, a guy dressed in orange coveralls, not unlike a garbage man's but brightly clean, was approaching from the opposite direction on the bridge. As I neared I recognized it, or him rather, as S (a.k.a Dumb-Dumb), a guy I spent a couple months with in the summer several years ago. I really had to search the memory banks there for his real name. It was but a teeny-tiny shadow behind the Dumb-Dumb. He appeared interesting when I met him but, and this became glaringly apparent very quickly, he was just an inconsiderate boob. Our first outing together was a bike ride and to clear people out of his path, he made a loud honking noise at them. I apologized to every one in his trail of rudeness all the while trying to figure out how I could craftily lose him. As it turned out, that took several months. An aside here: I am often way too concerned with other's feelings. I marvel at people who can easily pipe out a commanding "Get the f**k away from me!" (when warranted of course). Bravo! My consolation; I did enjoy a bit of payback for my suffering ~ like keeping the pace jacked for a ride up in some challenging hills then watching him...um...lose his lunch over the edge of the lookout wall at the top. A little boy enjoying the view with his family took a picture of S mid-hurl and then laughed and pointed (just like at a fashion show!). The boy's parents made him apologize but it did give me a bit of a giggle too.

While not slowing at all, I did a low wave and said "Hello."
"Heh heh heh." he said. (Still smoking big doobies? I thought.)
I, with great relunctance, stopped. He updated me on his work which I took with a grain of salt/doubted all of it. Did I mention he was a compulsive liar? Yes. He wondered why we didn't get together anymore. Another aside to clarify: 'Getting together' meant we would cycle together and then I would buy him a large quantity of beverage and/or ice-cream. He had this very endearing talent (not!) of placing his order and then disappearing until things had been paid for. I was more like his Auntie. The one that didn't like him at all. And this was but one tiny reason of the many.
I said "Don't you remember S? We didn't get along."
He rattled off his email, which included 'hot' and 69 (classy, no?) and asked me if I would email him. I repeated "Remember? We didn't get along." I complimented him on his orange coveralls (I really am very fond of utilitarian-type clothing) and said good luck. I heard him yell "Yeeaaaaah" behind me.
I didn't turn around.

Photo: A handworked sweater in a gargantuan knit. Giles Deacon. London Fashion Week.

Language Enrichment

2007-02-08T13:06:00.000-08:00

The good news: we've been having intensely sunny days, which I highly enjoy. The not so good: It's been brutally cold and there's something about two weeks straight of minus 25 degrees C (however sunny) that makes me whisper a brilliant string of nasties into my scarf as I rush between points. No one can hear me or see my lips move so it's fine. I whimper quietly like a puppy at red lights though and people sometimes hear that and look around. Searching. Coming home last evening, a wondrous sight stopped me in my tracks. A beauty of a bouquet of plump white tulips inside the window of a florist shop. Wa! Their leaves juicy fresh and the colour of spring, the water crystal clear in the sparkling vase. I stood there dressed like a polar explorer - big fur hat and mitts, snow pants, a puffy vest. I just needed a flag. My reflection in the glass meshed with the tulips inside and I instantly felt warm.

When I was kid, every May my parents would drag my two sisters and I for picture-taking (and tip-toeing and twirling and twirling) in the tulips. In most photos that I've kept, we're dressed in matching skimpy polyester dresses. I'm talking skimpy like my parents would be questioned by the authorities today if they brought them in for developing. My sister, T, was stickly thin. She always looked like she had rickets and was weak from hunger. This is surprising because she could eat a load - including my plate of whatever meat was on offer for dinner, my daily cod liver oil pills, the skin that formed on the surface of my tomato soup, the Count Chocula cereal leftover after I had carefully picked-out all the tiny marshmallows (meaning I got zero of the nine essential vitamins and minerals). All down her gullet. Nice. In the photos, my older sister L and I were usually standing on either side of her, so she wouldn't blow over. We all had bowl cuts. Bad ones. Thanks Dad. L appeared Vulcan-ish, like a young Spock (but in a skimpy dress with knee socks and plastic thongs). I still call her Spock. The last time she was working in Washington, she sent me "I'm headed over to the Smithsonian first thing this a.m. to check out my favorite space capsule." She also knows a bit too much about birds, brings me all her read cover-to-cover and stored-to-the-memory-banks Scientific American and Discover magazines when she visits, and is known to email me the astronomy picture of the day when it's particularly groovy. 'Nuf said? I could go on. And on. Though one difference; the real Spock, besides his apparently limitless knowledge, was highly skilled at unarmed combat (ex. the death pinch). My sister? Easily rendered defenceless with the pull of her hood strings, a spin, and a simple push.
And me in the photos? I looked either very, very concerned about 'something' (The lighting? What the future held? Are my panties showing?) or like I was planning my big escape, focused on some point off camera and ready to make a run for it. Unlike Spock, I always had the proper footwear on. They never would have caught me.

Quiet Places

2007-02-01T10:26:00.000-08:00

For a change of scene/to mix things up, 10 (my nickname for him and fitting) and I have been running up and down the stairwell of the Y tower. 18 floors of claustrophobic fun. Of course, by doing this, I miss out on boys coming up to me on the stationary bike and asking if I prefer dolphins or horsies, me politely lying and saying "both" then, a week later, being presented with a ceramic knick-knack of a dolphin jumping a wave while a horsie watches from the foamy painted shore. In other words, the stairwell holds great appeal. 10 and I rarely climb together so, to prove we've been there/done that, we leave a treat for the other to find at the top. A not so silent ha ha, I was first! On Saturday, I left him a brick and a paper airplane. Otherwise known as Your Basic Gravity Experiment. 10 took off for Texas on Sunday but, thoughtfully, left me a message that he had done eight sets of the tower and left something for me. Bugger! Being the curious and competitive monkey that I am, I couldn't wait and headed over. My legs were good and loose. At about floor 14, I started hearing an oddly noise. Floor 16, I stopped and listened. Snoring. LOUD snoring. Well well. I stood there for a moment thinking up or down. I continued up, super quiet. On the last turn I stayed low on the landing and rose up slowly to discover a mound of furry-bearded guy. Parka, wool hat, giant boots, the faint smell of a brewery. In the corner behind him, a Perrier and a little red sucker. I had to get them. From his snoring it was obvious the yeti was OUT but I observed for a moment, to be certain. His mass nearly filled the landing. I gingerly stepped over his legs and grabbed my loot. I left the sucker beside his paws for a surprise treat when he woke. I hope he took the elevator up because, fuck, if HE can do it, I need to find a higher tower.

I had excitement in there again this morning. At the bottom there was a mighty breeze swirling up. Oh boy! Nearing the top, it was a gale-force wind tunnel. I thought of Anderson Cooper. You figure it out. I passed a tool box and a shopping cart on level 16 then, on 17, the always-locked door to the roof, wide open. Sweet! I headed out into the winter wonderland and checked the view from the edge. Quite the beauty. And if my friend T's pooch, Lucy, was with me, she could have feasted on all the snow & garbage up there. Way better than the park. And higher! Very cool.

Roman Holiday

2007-01-20T11:42:00.000-08:00

Last evening my doorbell rang around 9 p.m. I live in an old (1934) and borderline charming, brick three-storey apartment building. The doorbell, however, is a gratingly loud, god-forsaken sound that rattles my entire cave and can make my television blip to snow momentarily. Pleasant. I'm accustomed to it occasionally going off at night as (I'm guessing here) visitors, pizza delivery peoples, party-ers, etcetera arrive and push the wrong button. Though the buttons ARE situated on each of the mailboxes directly above the proper corresponding tenant's name and unit number (yup, no tricks), choosing the correct one obviously proves difficult and/or confusing for some. There's no intercom or cameras. Tenants have the choice: buzz in the visitor, go to the front door and meet them, or ignor it. I ignored. An hour later, it buzzed again. Hmm. I went downstairs. No one was there. Grrr.
When I returned from spin class this morning, the superintendent was in the front vesitibule with one of his fingers deep inside a hole where a button once was. "Something in there is shorting the system" he said. I did a quick glance at the can of rubber cement and roll of masking tape on the floor beside him. "Well. Well. That's a deep hole! Good luck with it!" I said. I wondered about electrocution but then thought it's just a doorbell, there can't be that much juice. I recalled the effects on my television. Maybe there was. I hurried inside.
Whilst out, I passed La Roma Barbershop around the corner from my place, with its striped and swirling candy-cane post outside. The shop has been there forever, the walls lined with signed photos going way back of local celebrities, MP's and Governor Generals. I waved at George in his familiar blue cardigan standing in the window, watching traffic. George used to cut my hair in one of the three chairs at the back behind the magazine and gum racks. He did a fine job but I do it myself now. Apparently, 12 bucks was just too damn much for me. Really, I figured it's just a straight-ish line. George even gave me a thumbs up. However, I do miss seeing those finely-suited men with towels draped over their heads - steaming, how they scrambled to hide the Penthouse magazines when I walked in (relax boys), the glass jars of black combs submerged in Aqua Velva, and the plastic French's mustard squeeze container filled with powder. I'd always ask "Could I get the powder this time George?" but he would laugh me off. What the powder was used for exactly was never cleared up. The barbershop secret.

Fidel & Pierre

2007-01-16T16:57:00.000-08:00

R called me that a friend of his, Lucky, was heading down to Havana, Cuba and wondered if I had any tips to pass along. With a name like Lucky, how could I not? I was there last year on holiday with my friend T. Besides mentioning that Havana is an incredibly beautiful, culturally-rich city full of art galleries and intellectuals (there's clubs for them everywhere), I gave Lucky the heads-up about toilet paper. I suggested he monitor his use for a week and then pack accordingly. I also mentioned the deal with food there (i.e. best pack a load). When T and I went, we stayed in a casa particulares just a few blocks from a wondrous, expansive organic farmer's market (and cheap - 20 guavas for a nickel kind of thing). The owners of the casa, Lydia and Felix, were super sweet and friendly. Lydia spoke a bit of English. Felix not a word. He communicated by saying "ah?" or "ahhhhh". Example: when he showed me how a key magically opens a door. Inserting the key into the lock elicited an "Ah?". I nodded vigorously. Opening the door? An "Ahhhhh". I clapped my hands. He demonstrated several times with sound effects. Same deal when he showed how to pull the nasty little string to flush the toilet and the detailed instruction on how to turn on the air-conditioner, which I never did due to the tiny sparks I spied through the front slats during the demo. T is a great planner and had researched the city well and brought along a couple guide books. Unlike all the middle-aged, sweaty, boil-covered (O.K. just one had a visible boil) men stoked to exchange T-shirts or toothpaste for BJ's that filled the plane, T and I were going to hike and explore as much as possible. The no-sex tourists. T also wanted a ride in a coco taxi. The day we went looking for the Botanical Gardens and ended up walking 50K, getting burnt-up like a couple of raw steaks, proved the perfect opportunity. A coco-taxi? Imagine a dinky moped enveloped by a massive yellow plastic helmet with seats inside. We reached surprisingly great speeds, the wind creating a swirling vortex inside the helmet, mixing with the leaded gas fumes, and whipping our hair around. We hung on for dear life. As I couldn't bend my burnt drumsticks, they hung dangerously near the open sides as we flew along. Good times!
On return, our plane was delayed as there were 'issues' with someone who had just landed so they were refused entry. A flight attendant announced that one passenger would have to give up their seat and get the next departing flight. A lunatic (they always add to the fun) man in the row in front of us turned, grabbed the top of his seat, stared wild-eyed at me, and shouted "I want to stay! I want to stay!" He was briskly escorted off.

I had a recurring dream a while back of Fidel Castro and Pierre Trudeau floating in a red canoe, the water a wonderful and translucent cerulean. Neither one was paddling, they just drifted. A transistor radio was playing samba music and they clapped along and smoked cigars, their bare feet resting on a small crate of oranges between them. I'm fond of nice feet (and hands). Pierre's were magnificent.

Radio Polonia

2007-01-10T12:04:00.000-08:00

I awoke this morning to Polish music on the radio and the distant racket of a mini-snowplow hustling around on the sidewalks outside. Laying there, I had a brief 'Where the hell am I?' moment and then: Oh goody! Snow!
Last night, I stayed up late clearing out my monster-full email account. A load. Gone. My computer is so light now I could spin it atop my pinky finger! Amongst the motley assortment of messages was one to my sister, L, dated exactly one year ago. Here's a part:
"It's -20 outside the window but balmy nice in here and I am discovering all that is wowsa-fantastic with my new Mac OS installed by the handsome H, whom I shall one day marry. (2007 addendum: I always say this when I find a boy fetching. I spoke to him twice. "How long?" and "Thank you." Both, sadly, comments regarding the Mac.) We have flakey white stuff today and, thanks to the deep freeze, the canal is now open. The Sucker Hut is there again this year. Seriously. Discarded tiny paper sticks strewn all over the ice surface tripping-up all the unsuspecting happy skaters. Kiddies whizzing around at full speed with sticks in their mouths. What's next year? The Scissor Hut."
Fast forward one global-warmed year for a remarkable comparison. Two days ago, the sun was a-shining and I went for a ride. It was wunderbar. A few other cyclists were out there and we were all sporting ear-to-ear grins, exchanging excited, knowing nods. January. Pretty wild. I did a loop through el aeropuerto, south for a good bit and then home, the last stretch rolling along beside that canal that was frozen solid a year ago and now had ducks splashing and frolicking. No Sucker Hut in sight.

On another note, I received a voicemail from P.J. - in Oslo, Norway. He said it was 2 in the morning there and he just "felt like talking". He was returning and wondered if I wanted to play squash Monday morning. Uh. Sure. He called last Saturday from the Bay of Fundy - same deal for a game last Monday a.m. At the time, I thought it a little out there. I mean really! The tides man! Heads-up! The tides! But now Oslo? What's a little concerning with this...he's married and I just got the feeling some line has been crossed. There's no way my game warrants a long distance booking. I know this will, undoubtedly, change things. It's deflating particularly because he's also a bee-keeper and now I may never get to see the bees. Or, if I do, it will be uncomfortable and, when observing a buzzing hive, I'd rather be totally relaxed. Bees sense tension and swarm I think.
And that busy-bee sidewalk plow at 4 this morning? Not a flake around. WTF?
I'm certain I heard Polish music though. Certain!

Seamless Vessels

2007-01-03T12:32:00.000-08:00

So far this winter, with no snow to be seen but being cold/wet enough that playing outside is frequently nixed, I've become a gym rat. Again. The peoples inside the gym? A show better than sea monkeys!
I arrived at the bikes ~ ALL free. Sweet! Within seconds J appeared and hopped on the bike beside me. He urged me to get skate skis so he can pick me up and we can ski together. If it ever snows. I had the Anderson Cooper book (now completed and still very affected) and J had snagged the only Y reading materials: a cheesy Hallmark magazine and a Learning For Life brochure. The first page of the Hallmark magazine had a fluffy pussy cat. "Oh loooooooook!" I cooed. He closed it and moved on to the brochure. I requested that he read aloud the ones that seemed ridiculous (i.e. every one of them). He began; "Felt-making: Learn to combine soap, water, and friction with wool rovings and bits of thread to make your own handmade felt. Tie-dye it with Kool-Aid. Then learn the seamless vessel technique that can be used to make a number of things...a tea cozy, a purse etcetera." He has mentioned his son is into badminton, so I suggested he could craft the boy a nice outfit in felt. Absorbant. Toasty. J seemed to like the idea. He then read me the ukelele course description with great enthusiasm. J is enjoyable. Hammy and Painter Man arrived. They're brothers (i.e. males that share at least one parent, not ministers or the soul type). Hammy is a chef and is beautiful. He's tanned and always appears to be misted with olive oil. Glowy. Like Sophia Loren. J commented that Hammy looks very much like that chef on TV. Painter Man said "The gay one?" and laughed and laughed. You're right. Painter Man is a bit of a ham. This comment alone doesn't prove it but there are others and he, for over a year, flirted with a friend of mine but never mentioned he was married so I'm a tad critical. He once asked me how long a 10K race is. Hmm. He asked what I did for New Years. I said I hit the sack at 9. He said: "Oh...I went out. Ohhhhhhh" and rubbed his eyes. "I just got back from Florida. I fished everyday. I've been a bum for five weeks." ("You mean forever" is what I wanted to say.) To be polite, I mentioned dolphin was delicious. Painter Man told me that when you order dolphin in a restaurant, it's not real dolphin, it's just dolphin FISH. I was sceptical. He rolled his eyes like "Oh, how can you be so stoopid (his spelling)?"

Well, it turns out Painter Man was correct. Mahi-mahi, Coryphaena hippurus, also known as dorado, dolphin-fish, or dolphin. I blame it all on the restaurant, Flippers (that name alone, deceptive), that has pictures and likenesses of the playful aquatic mammal everywhere.
Also, I recently discovered that a country exists that (I think) I have never heard of. Moldova.
I just eyed the last of holiday turkey in the fridge. It's been a holy 9 days since it was cooked. I may have to do myself in.

Parmigiano Reggiano

2006-12-31T11:05:00.000-08:00

Yesterday on CBC Radio they put the question out there to people on what they thought our current (smart but possibly evil) conservative Prime Minister might be up to in ten years. The first response: I think he'll be a back bencher. Second: A consultant of some kind. Third: I hope he's living on the moon! Read this last one again with a Hindi accent and pause betwixt each word. Place great emphasis on the last three words. Like so: I hope he's living ON THE MOON!! I loved that answer and wondered if it was actually real, it was so grand. I've been saying it over and over. Laughing. No, nothing boozy at all in the system.
I went to the Y this morning and jumped on a bike for a couple hours. What helped the time fly was the book I had nabbed from the Express Read shelf at the library yesterday, Anderson Cooper's 'Dispatches From The Edge'. I hadn't yet opened it when fellow member Tara approached, saw it and said "He's covering the ball dropping in Times Square tonight." I got to page thirteen and read his line "I've always hated New Year's Eve." Hate is a strong word but I'd say I share his sentiment. I've been seriously considering red wine lately (for the health benefits of course) but don't drink and haven't for a long time. Ever really. Except for those two times. This has made me a useful invite to parties i.e. to get drunken bodies home. I remember the nicely-blottoed dude New Year's '04 that had pushed a beer cap into his forehead, deep into it, and announced to everyone that he loved me from atop the coffee table. He was my first drop on the run. You might know him...round scar? This year I'm staying home and rather likin' the idea.

Anderson Cooper wrote about laying on the floor with his brother, watching the celebrating hoards at Times Square on the tube as the year flipped to '78, all the while the reality was their father laying in ICU after a series of heart attacks. Earlier this morning I learned that a friend I am hugely fond of, Roberto Orangina's father had a heart attack the day before Christmas and was recovering in the hospital. Read (understatement here): Mine busted for him. His father is a retired Liberal MP. I'd like to sneak into his hospital room with games, a stocking-full of goodies and whatnot and hear what he thinks of sending the PM to the moon.
Happy New Year!
p.s. Read 'Dispatches From The Edge'. Excellent.

Sound & Light

2006-12-22T17:03:00.000-08:00

It looks like we'll be having another green-o Christmas here. Surfaces shiny with ice rain perhaps but the overall impression: something is wrong indeed. I took today to find all the required missing food-stuffs; Pfeffernusse, cranberries, chestnuts, nougat, oranges and espresso coffee. Bonus! I could walk to everything. I live downtown. I need action around me. Lights. Noise. People. That I can join into whenever I want. When I go and visit my mother or sister in the sticks, it's...silencio. God, how does anyone take that? Sure, it's super nice at night when you get a clearer idea of what constitutes a star-filled sky but during the day - nuclear holocaust quiet. Eerie. A couple Christmas Eves ago, I slept over at my mother's place and, being unseasonably warmish out, I decided to go for a run. "But it's dark out!" she said. "I'll be fine." I said. "Let me write my phone number on a piece of paper and tuck it in your pocket." she said. Silliness I thought but "Very well then." She made me take a hat too. I set out. Ahh...fresh air. Juicy. Superb. Then the silence thing hit me. All I could hear was my breathing. And I am the world's quietest breather. Yes, I'm near certain of this. I had run about 40 minutes. It had grown foggy and foggier still, such that I could barely see a few metres in front of me. Any houses that had been around disappeared. Where the fish was I? An hour of weaving backtrack through the soup and I finally made it. "Back so soon?" my mother asked from the couch, hypnotized by the Shopping Channel, unawares of the foggy hell that lurked beyond her doors.
That night, lost on the giant king size guest bed with too many damn pillows on it, I reached for my windbreaker and dug out the piece of paper. My mom had written her telephone number wrong - switching the last two digits. No doubt the crime investigators would have figured it out eventually when they found my corpse. Happy Holidays!

Home Alone

2006-12-14T16:09:00.000-08:00

My parents divorced when I was 14 and, given the choice, I chose to hike it with my Dad. My Mom's swell but loves shopping just a bit too much so I knew we'd never really get along. I still had a couple years left in highschool so, being thoughtful and kind, my Dad rented a house for us just blocks away so I could easily walk to school. I should have told him that I didn't plan on going regularly so it wasn't necessary but he was smitten with the wood floors in the place. We moved in the middle of winter. A ginormous truck loaded with black and fake pony skin furniture. On first look at the backyard, I spied a distinctly round indent in the snow - a little snow crop circle - or maybe a hottub hidden beneath the white depths. I went up to my echoey new room and looked down on it. My excitement grew. My father looked after communication systems on ships so he travelled often. When he took off, I'd sometimes wander over to the tennis courts in Windemere Park and, if not in use of course, I would lay in the middle of one and listen for his plane. The house to myself again. I could have listened from home I guess but then, ah, where's the ritual? He'd leave me bucks for groceries and whatnot. With it, I'd skimp for the week and then host an elaborate dinner party for a few friends from school. Perfect steaks, roast potatoes, endive (it was exotic then) salad, and a nice strawberry torte or the like with coffees for dessert. Dessert always included whip cream. Why? So guests could create beards if they wished...for the photos...in my Dad's clothes. But of course! And frequently, as you might imagine, there was quite a mess afterwards though I now have an impressively fine talent for cleaning-up and removing ALL trace of any events that may have occured. Oh, and that circle in the backyard? Just a grassless patch. Or, rather, a steamy warm grassless patch. A bit disappointing, yes.
But the excitement as the melting went on day-by-increasingly-warmer-day that spring? Priceless.

Pen & Ink

2006-12-13T09:32:00.000-08:00

I wasn't sure how I should start this...and still don't. I'll go with a revealing memory. Way back: My grade 12 art class and a competition to design a poster for a play (A Time For Living) that would, no doubt, be superbly and sensitively acted by a group of the school outcasts/drama students. It was about a girl in an asylum. I went with a pictoral double entendre: the cuckoo clock. Ooh, how clever of me, no? The winner's design would be put on a t-shirt. I attended highschool in the dark ages - i.e. before sublimation and other cool transfer techniques had been invented. Or even thought of. The iron-on transfer was a marvel. I spent hours and hours on the intricate ink drawing, shading perfectly for a wondrous three-dimensional effect and still more on the lettering. So detailed that I knew half of it may end up stuck to the bottom of the iron but I was not deterred. It was bloody wonderful. A sure winner. I hit the sack zonked, exhausted from all the hours logged, with a smile on my face certain I'd win. Man, I was full of myself! Man, how I haven't changed. For the Monday presentation, I put my crisp poster board in front of the class, ready and waiting for all the applause. The oddly art teacher Mrs. Adams' immediate comment? "Uh, a cuckoo clock? A tad obvious wouldn't you say? And you spelled Wednesday wrong." I had. Wendesday. F'n brilliant.
Ohhhhh the laughter that ensued and, no, not mine. A pooky sunflower design won. Pfffffff.
I think this, in the long run, was a good lesson learned. Yeah. That one. That Wednesday is spelled Wednesday.
Thanks for reading. X
Photo Credit: The fast and furious final round of Le Fer d'Or in Paris by Eric of Paris Daily Photo.