It could be worse

I have been looking forward to this weekend for weeks, nay months. It's Ryder Cup weekend and I deliberately planned to have nothing at all to do from 8am to 6pm every day from Friday to Sunday.

So this morning, I got up at 7:30, got my breakkie, a cup of organic mint/green tea, today's paper, and in my bathrobe went back to bed to enjoy a day of golf. (I hate playing golf but I love watching Tiger.)

Tiger and Jim Furyk had just gone 3 Up when the screen went blank. Every darn channel was nothing but grey dots and static. Say what? Okay, probably just a temporary outage. Time to take my shower. 10 minutes later after an unusually leisurely shower (for me), I turn on the TV again to find the same #($*. Okay, now I'm getting upset.

I phone the cable company. From my number, they are able to tell where I'm phoning from and the recorded male voice says, "I see we are experiencing difficulty in your area. We are currently working on the problem and expect to have it corrected by ... [inserted female voice] 3 P.M."

I can't believe it. My day is in shambles. There is absolutely nothing else I want do. I made sure that everything else that needed doing this weekend has been done. Even stayed up late last night making some window panels (long story) that had been on my list for a few days.

Sigh. Double sigh. I just know it's some old lady that's bunged herself and her car up against a telephone pole. There's been a rash of senior driver accidents here lately. Just two days ago an old lady killed a man who was crossing a driveway in a motorized scooter. A few weeks ago, an old man who must have been blind as well as stupid, drove his car into a plate glass window of a house. It seems that he also accelerated as he did it. But I digress. That's a whole 'nuther rant.

I thought I'd content myself with at least keeping up with the score on the Internet. but alas, there's a time lag. The scores they are posting are for the afternoon matches, and I haven't even seen the complete morning match yet. I don't want to look at the score for the morning match in case TV comes back on again and I'll have spoiled all the fun.

Okay. Time to regroup. Take a deep breath. It could be worse. I could always be a Taliban wife.

Fog for the Blog

John has gone off to cover the Terry Fox Run this morning so I was all alone when I woke up the second time. Came into the living room to find that there was a wall of fog surrounding the building. The railing on the balcony resembled the railing on a ship fog-bound outside of Port-aux-Basques. A familiar sight. A little startling not to see anything -- anything at all. This is the third time I've seen fog here. Must be the lake effect. Reminds me so much of Newfoundland which, by the way, we will be returning to sometime around Oct. 16 to spend our first nights in the new homestead. Doris and Tom will likely meet us at the airport and accompany us since they probably won't be building anymore that time of year.

John has recovered from his food allergy. We are now looking around to find a place where he can get some testing done to find out just what it was that did it to him. Since it was a fairly extensive anaphylactic shock, we have to arm ourselves with some knowledge so that it doesn't happen again. Poor fellow is afraid to eat anything now, although he has agreed to foods that he has had many times before, despite the fact that everything we ate last Sunday night was also very familiar to him.

I went home this past week to attend a Lymphedema workshop. Found out that I can get it, even though I now have no symptoms, just about anytime. Even thirty years from now should I be lucky enough to live so long.

Very sad this week to hear of the death of Oriana Fallaci. I did not even know she had breast cancer and I feel a kinship with her after the fact. I am going to check out her latest books from the library this week and see what everyone's been talking about. I do not believe that she went off the deep end in her old age, or that she mouthed off just because she knew she wouldn't be around much longer. I do believe that everything she said, she truly believed. And given that she was right about so much else in her life and work, she might well be right in these books too. I'll read and report.

What a weekend brings

Some of the things I've learned this weekend:
1. Not everything at the Dollar Store is a bargain.
2. Shorts and t-shirts on other people are not an indicator that the weather is warm enough for you to do the same thing.
3. If you think things are going well, wait a few minutes.

Yesterday John and I went to the 7th annual Music on the Mountain festival. This is an fundraiser for spinal cord research with free music by talented and some very well known musicians, yummy food, silent auction and general outdoor enjoyment. John was assigned to cover it for The Pioneer and although he could have shown up, taken a few pictures and done an interview with the organizer, Chris MacKay (a young man with a personal stake in the outcome of spinal cord research), we stayed all afternoon. The MacKay family was grateful and might, in future, have nicer things to say about journalists.

John and I took our living room chairs to sit on. It was a people-watching paradise. I think some of these folks have been growing their hair since 1960, on their heads and/or on their chins falling to their navels. White and bushy.

We got home around seven o'clock and made the quickest dinner we could, including a green salad with toasted almonds and sesame seed dressing. John called his kids and his mother, I called my son and we then both settled down for an evening of this and that - John was going to edit his afternoon's pictures and I was going to fire up the computer and get myself ready for writing this week.

Around 9:45, John said he felt itchy and was scratching himself in some very odd places. I didn't pay much attention. At 9:55 he asked me to come to the bathroom where the light is good and check out something. He said, Is my bottom lip swollen? I said, Well, stop sticking it out and I'll let you know. He said, I'm not sticking it out. Whoa! And he had spots everywhere.

Maxi story, mini version: he ended up at the hospital today for nearly five hours and came home with prescriptions for Benadryl, raniditine (which I could have given him because it's what I take), antiobiotics (God knows why) and an epi-pen. The first and the last I figure he needs. The rest - well, it's money out of our pockets which are already rather empty.

So... now we go on a hunt to find out what it was he ate that caused all this. Almonds or poppy seeds are the most likely culprits. But he's food-shy now for sure and doesn't want to eat anything. Could be a long autumn.

Meanwhile we have to get him well enough to get back on the job. He's exhausted and wants to sleep non-stop. Still itching. Still some facial swelling. The managing editor was appalled today that he couldn't make it in (although sympathetic). Will he make it tomorrow? Watch this space.

Is this how birds feel?

We've made the move and are now living in an apartment for eight months while John goes to school. I have to admit to a sense of freedom like I haven't had in a very long time. When I was unpacking the bags and boxes I'd brought with me, putting stuff away in the bathroom or bedroom or kitchen or wherever it belonged, I felt so light, that I thought I would float around the apartment. It was as if I'd had sacks of rocks removed from my shoulders that I didn't even know were there.

The view from the balcony is in itself freeing. The tops of houses, even the tops of some apartment buidings are visible. Lake Ontario is off to the right with the semi-islands of Prince Edward County providing a lush backdrop for the sailboats that race in and out of the yacht club on the waterfront. Since we are on the top floor, birds seem to fly right at us, then deke up at the last minute to clear our rooftop. You can hear the flutter of their wings against the air. No wonder I feel free.

Perhaps - actually, no perhaps to it, I'm sure this is the real reason - it is the lack of possessions that makes me feel free. We have very little - just the essentials like computers and desks for each of us (Ha!); folding lawn chairs in the living room for watching the one channel we get on TV (one my mother-in-law discarded when she got a new one, along with her old DVD and VCR players); a small round table in the dining room that was second-hand twenty years ago. Oak chairs in the dining room came with a house bought in 1972. I stripped them about 10 years ago and this summer I gave the two that had not come unglued a coat or two of varathane and they look pretty good. Not the most comfortable of all chairs, but servicable.

The bed we started out with was an inflatable one that we bought a few years ago for guests. Figured it would do us just fine while we're here. Not. John spent Monday and Tuesday on it and, by the time I got here on Wednesday, was determined that we needed an actual bed. I slept on it Wednesday night and after a completely sleepness night, on Thursday we went out and bought a real bed. The cheapest new bed we could find (about $300) and we're sleeping like kings now. What a treat. And that's the extent of what we possess. Our bedspread is one that I bought when I got married the first time 36 years ago. It has a tear in it now but it keeps us warm and it covers the queensized bed for which I have no other blankets that fit. It is snuggy and warm. We have four knives, four forks, four soup spoons and four teaspoons. The dishes we are using are the ones that John had when he was in University 26 years ago. The newspaper they were wrapped in was dated 1981. A few kitchen gadgets - like a can opener and a vegetable peeler and we' re good to go. I'm very happy.

Have been here nearly three days now and apartment living agrees with me. Housework consists only of sweeping the bathroom, vacuuming the living room and bedroom and wiping down the counters and sinks. The neighbours are quiet and must not cook much because there are no food smells in the hallway. They may not like us when I get started using the bottle of fish sauce I bought yesterday (found a store that sells Chinese groceries, and Caribbean, African, Indian and much more). I've heard "Hello" and "Good Day" from neighbours here more often than I've heard in eight years in Ottawa. Everyone is cheerful, polite and outgoing. They hold doors for you, let you in if you're fumbling for your front door key simply because they recognize you from seeing you in the elevator or at the mailboxes.

I don't have to worry about whether there's a groundhog building a condominium in our backyard or whether sumac is pushing its way up through the deck. If something breaks, I can just call the super rather than worrying about how to go about repairing it myself. I have to clean up only after myself and, if I tidy as I go, which I do, I minimize even that. Can't say the same for John but I'm cutting him some slack because he's so busy with his class assignments.

We went to a country fair last night in Picton. John is assigned to cover it and a music festival tomorrow. I'm looking forward to the latter. The fair was interesting from a sociological point of view but even that gets stale when one's feet are searing from all the walking and the bathrooms are nowhere in sight. I attended my first tractor pull and I have a feeling it will be my last. Luckily we were on the right side of the venue when the black smoke was pouring out of the exhaust as the tractors strained against The Terminator. I learned that there is an whole industry in building tractors especially designed to compete at these rodeos. The drivers even wear asbestos suits and full helmets. There were firemen on the scene. When I asked about that, John said it's probably because they're burning nitro. Sounds dangerous. Would the firemen save the onlookers or the tractors? The amount of fuel that is burned at these events is astounding. Let's see. Each tractor probably burns every ounce in its tanks trying to pull the weight. The weight machine itself has an engine for driving about. A front-end loader idles constantly at the side of the track to smooth the dirt back into position after each pull. Several generators rumble away, each powering four high-energy lights to illuminate the scene. What waste! What pollution! What obscenity! There oughta be a law. Maybe I should be grateful. At least they weren't using horses.

John has gone back to the fair this afternoon for the mutt (you heard right) competition and for the demolition derby later on this evening. A journalist has to be inpartial, so it wouldn't help him for me to be there muttering about the pollution and wastefulness of it all. I stayed home and will get myself in gear to start some writing this afternoon ... perhaps.

I just called all the Subways in town and none of them sell Garden burger subs. They didn't even know what I was talking about. The last lady said, when I explained what they were and that they were available in Ottawa, that they hadn't reached here yet. That's how it used to be in Newfoundland years ago. We will survive without Gardenburgers. Certainly we'll save money by not eating there. Too bad, though, because I love Gardenburgers. Maybe I'll write to Subway and complain.

More to come.

Blame it on the Walkman

We're a nation of music-addicted zombies. Mp3's. iPods. Even our telephones play music.

The first Cassette Walkman appeared in 1979. Kids begged. Santa caved. CD Walkman showed up. Santa bought the bill of goods again.

We've created a generation of people that eat/drink/sleep music. They can't walk down the street without earphones. They study with earphones. They ride the bus with earphones, usually also with eyes closed, zoned out. They don't see the frail passenger who might need their seat. The cries of anyone needing help are drowned out by the boom-boom hiss-hiss in their ears. They are the most unapproachable, unfriendly creatures ever to walk our streets. Unfortunately for them, they are also being involved in accidents at an alarming rate when they fail to hear approaching traffic over the roar in their ears.

Other cultures encourage dialogue. People gather in coffee shops, doorways, street corners; slap each other on the back, ask about each other's families, pass the time of day finding out about each other, testing the temperature of the community to make sure all is well.

Not here. We not only prefer the privacy of our homes but we carry that privacy around with us in the form of earphones. Like tortoises we have our shells at the ready should we need to retreat. What better protection from the homeless man with his hand out. If we can't hear him, then we don't know that he's asking for something. Can't be expected to know what's going on if we have earphones on, now can we? Great way to stay uninvolved, not responsible, and answerable only to ourselves. It's hard to care about or even be aware of anyone or anything when music is tickling your insides, revving your feel-good metre, recharging your batteries, soothing your nerves, massaging your brain, eating away your eardrums.

If I was a conspiracy theorist, I'd be checking to see who's investing in this technology. Who has a stake in making sure we don't talk to each other? People who talk often discover that things are not as they should be. People who talk a lot often stage such anti-establishment activities as boycotts, rallies, protest marches. They refuse to serve in armies. They cast votes for people other than the reigning elite. They even help get the other guys elected. Can't have that. Keep them busy with heavy beat, empty lyrics. It's hard for them to organize if they don't talk to one another.

Should we blame it on the Walkman?

[The above was sent to the Ottawa Citizen as a letter to the editor, July 2, 2006.]

Where was France?

And where was France this morning? From where I stood, I couldn't see all the dignitaries but I was standing point blank in front of a speaker and didn't hear anyone say that so-and-so of the French Embassy was present.

And when the wreaths were all laid, there was a wreath from France, but it was among the smallest. Why wasn't it the biggest? Why didn't someone from France stand up and say, Merci à tous vous Terre-neuviens. Merci de nous avoir sauvé. Merci d'avoir donné votre vie pour la notre. Merci toujours et rien que merci.

Where was France this morning?

We Will Remember Them

I just got home from downtown where Canada Day festivities are in full swing. We normally don't join the masses until about now but today was special. The government of Canada had a service at the war memorial (in the middle of downtown) to commemorate the soldiers who died at the Battle of the Somme and Beaumont-Hamel in 1916.

In Newfoundland, July 1 was always Memorial Day. We wore artificial forget-me-nots in our lapels and went to the cenotaph for a service. I remember somber music on the radio and there was never much reason for gaiety. Once Newfoundland joined Canada (in 1949) it also became Dominion Day¹ for that was the day that the Articles of Confederation were signed in Charlottetown, P.E.I. in 1867 forming the original nation of Canada.

And so for us, July 1 had a dual purpose. Remember the dead. Celebrate with the living. Not a problem for most Newfoundlanders. We never forget when someone does something for us and we're up to celebrate most anything.

Today marks the first time that the valour of our Royal Newfoundland Regiment has been commemorated anywhere else in Canada besides Newfoundland. It is the first time that anyone but Newfoundlanders have publicly remembered that on this same day in 1916, only 69 of 801 soldiers answered roll call when the battle was over.

It felt good, so very good to stand there and sing the Ode to Newfoundland on Ottawa soil. I feel like finally we're part of the Canadian fabric in a way that we have never been before. Needless to say, I was a blubbering mess long before a young soldier read the Act of Remembrance.

They shall grow not old,
as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them,
nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun
and in the morning
We will remember them.

RESPONSE: We will remember them

Newfoundlanders in the crowd were visible by the Newfoundland flags they carried, the Newfoundland tartan ties around their necks, or simply by the radiance of their teary smiles.

I met my babysitter. She used to wheel me in my baby carriage around the harbour of Brigus when she was about 9, as near as we can figure. She told me she'd have recognized me anywhere.

What a morning! What a glorious day.
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¹Dominion Day was officially renamed "Canada Day" by an Act of Parliament on October 27, 1982 after the BNA Act (Canada's Constitution)was repatriated by Pierre Trudeau.

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The root of all...obesity?

Someone sent me a link this morning to an article about how the French are becoming obese, and how they blame it on becoming Americanized. (I'd include the link but it's one of those current affairs type sites where the links disappear in a few days so no point including it here.)

It occurred to me while reading that article that 'becoming Americanized' gets the blame for a lot of the things we don't like about ourselves. Fat. Pollution. Crime. Conservatism. And the list goes on.

Where does self-responsibility come into the equation? When did we lose the ability to say no to the things that are not good for us? Why did we not pass by the MacDonald's when they sprang up on the street corner? Why didn't we laugh when car dealers began displaying SUV's?

Seems to me that the root of the problem is money. The more affluent we become, the more we seem less able to make healthy and informed choices. Money to burn? Sure, then why not buy an SUV just because you can. Money to burn? They why bother cooking. We can pretend we're rich and never have to cook again. Eat out like the stars. Order in on a whim. Change the furniture every few years. Own more shoes than we can wear in two years. The good life. If you can afford it, why not?

Besides, hamburgers can't be that bad, can they? After all, Americans invented them and they're the most affluent nation on earth. Aren't they? They have the most choice, don't they? They have freedom of speech and Julia Roberts and gleaming teeth. Heck, if we get fat, we can just have liposuction.

And all it takes is a little cash. The fact that the amount we spend on lipstick per year is probably enough to feed an entire African nation has nothing to do with it. Well, if you insist, we could stop using lipstick and get it tattooed on permanently.

What song do you sing?

The longer I live, the more I realize that most people on the planet just don't get it. We're here for such a short time. We're here by the grace of something much larger than any of us could ever, in any religion, conceive of. We're here in the same way that robins are here, or octopi, or the farthest star in the universe is here. And all us beings have more in common, so much more, than even we can dream of. We are as alike as blades of grass are alike, as snowflakes are alike (yes, I know no two snowflakes are alike but we all know what happens to each and every snowflake when it hits the ground.)

The other day on CBC there was an item about loons - how the male loon changes its song when it changes location, in an apparent attempt to distinguish itself from the other male loons that preceded it.

If loons in all their bird-brained wisdom can adapt to changing conditions, how come humans who - so the theory goes - have superior intellect, keep singing the same old song - "I'm right. I'm right. I'm right."

For more info on that loon see:
http://sciencenow.sciencemag.org/cgi/content/full/2006/223/2

A Schmallmark moment

Step-parenting has got to be the most thankless job in the world. Even counting those jobs which sniff out underarm odor, or test other people's turds for signs of disease. But then these are paying jobs so perhaps they shouldn't count. I can't think of any parallel to step-parenting. Wait a minute. Being a worker bee comes close. Slave and toil to make honey and along comes some schmuck in a net and steals it, puts a lid on it and says he made it. Yeah, that about covers it.

A letter to Peter Mackay

Today I wrote a letter to Peter Mackay, who I believe is the deputy leader of the Conservative Party. I wrote it in frustration at the Conservatives who are threatening to force an election and spend even more of our tax dollars just because they want to be right.


Hello Mr. Mackay,

You seem to be the only voice of reason in the Conservative party during these frenzied days so I am appealing to you, as a very concerned citizen and frustrated taxpayer, to please, please convince Mr. Harper to get down off his high horse and think before he drives this country into another election all because he wants to be right.

Us little guys - otherwise known as ordinary citizens - feel totally helpless when we see what is going on in the halls of power.

Yes, we are totally repulsed by what has gone on under the Liberals. Mr. Gommery is getting to the bottom of that. But we also have no assurance that what has happened under the Liberal mandate didn't previously happen under the P.C. mandate, and all other mandates since Confederation. In other words, to us little guys, it looks like the system is broken. Plain and simple.

What we want and need is someone who will fix the system, not just grab the reins of power of the current broken-down, lice-infested system.

What we want and need is someone who cares enough about this country to make things right - and what better time to effect change than when the opposition has the government on the ropes. Mr. Harper could do so much good for Canada by sitting back, putting on his thinking cap and coming up with solutions for how this country is best governed. For that matter, under a minority government, we could have some of the best government this country has ever seen. All it takes is for people to care more about the country than they do about their political careers.

The prospect of another election when my vote will once again not matter one hoot under the first-past-the-post system, is discouraging, depressing and downright scary.

I would personally like to see the party system disbanded. Let every MP be elected on his or her own merits.

If we can't have that, then, for the sake of all that is fair and decent, then we at least need Proportional Representation. Why is it that neither of the two main parties will espouse that view? Probably because they have too much to loose. The country and democracy is the biggest loser.

Mr. Mackay, please, get your leader to stop screaming media-sound-bites that sound good but mean nothing. Please get him to stop wanting to be right and instead get him to think of Canada first, not his political future. I wrote to him very nicely last week to express my concern for the direction he seemed to be taking. I never even got the courtesy of a reply. This does not auger well for his future as a leader. My letter to him is attached.

Signed,
A concerned and sad taxpayer.

What a weekend!

Last night someone came ringing our doorbell and hammering on the door at 10:30 p.m. I was immediately wary. Hubby was prepared to open the door to see who was there until I screamed at him to just look out the window and only open if we know who it is. He looked out. Nobody there. I looked out from the stairwell window. Saw nothing. Nobody. Hmm. We pondered a bit, looked out some more and then went to check the back door and the garage. Nothing unusual there. Back to the front door. Still nobody about. We opened the door and ventured out. Nothing to be seen. Could smell cigarette smoke though. Could also smell it in the hall and the kitchen. I was spooked by this time. Called the neighbour across the street to see if she'd heard anything. She hadn't but appreciated the heads up.

Hubby went to the bathroom. I went to water some flowers. While I was filling up my jug, there was light knock on the door. I panicked. Hubby said I was hearing things. That it was just him in the bathroom. I said if it was only him if he was knocking in there. He wasn't. We ventured to the front door again and looked out. Saw nothing. Eek. Then saw our neighbour's husband standing away from the steps. Phew. He said he hadn't wanted to spook us.

He said he had been in the garden doing some odd jobs and saw two fellows at our door. They had torn off down the side path (which is not visible in the dark so they had to have known it was there.)

Today one of the stone steps was overturned so we didn't dream this.

I hate living here. I hate having to be afraid to open my door. I can't wait to get back to Newfoundland where if someone will hammer on your door only if they need your help badly or if they're mummering.

A letter to Stephen Harper

Today I wrote a letter to Stephen Harper who, at the earliest opportunity, is going to bring down the government. Someone must stop him. I tried to be polite and not let my distrust (and okay, dislike) of the man show through. Did I succeed? You be the judge. (I'm not hopeful that it will do any good. The last time I wrote him about something, he never even acknowledged my email.) Here's the letter:


Dear Mr. Harper,

With the testimony coming out in the Gomery inquiry, it is evident that the political system in Canada is broken.
- Taxpayer's money is not accounted for.
- MP's and cabinet ministers curry favour with their friends using government (taxpayer's) money.
- Ordinary citizens become millionaires at the public trough (i.e. taxpayer's wallet).
- Campaign workers are rewarded with plum jobs at taxpayer's expense.
- All and sundry lie, cheat and steal at taxpayer's expense and there is no mechanism of checks and balances to prevent, uncover or punish this in a timely manner.
- The system that we trust to give us good government is at the mercy of political parties.

I could go on but you know all of these things already. And I am troubled.

I hear you saying that you want to force an election, possibly as early as next week. I hear you saying that this government doesn't deserve to be in power. I hear you saying that the Liberals need to be swept away.

What troubles me is that I have not heard you say anything about how you would fix the system, what you would to to prevent this kind of thing from happening again.

What is needed now, Mr. Harper, is for a man of vision - you, perhaps - to come up with ideas on what can be done to fix the system. We need someone of vision to make parliament work. You are in a position to extract much from the government, to make things work as you think they ought and to do much good for Canada. It has long been my opinion that minority government is the best government for the country.

The people elected a minority government last year and that's what we still want. We want you to make it work. We want the people we elected to talk, to discuss, to negotiate, and to come up with the best plan for this country. We do not want you spending another half a billion dollars just so you can replace Paul Martin as the head of a broken system.

You have an opportunity here to effect real change, to be a man of vision that Canada needs more than anything right now. I am sorry to say that so far, Mr. Harper, all I see is another politician - and we have far too many of those already - who is eager to spend even more of the taxpayer's money to further his own political agenda.

Signed,
A sad taxpayer.

Is it better to know?

On the weekend, I got talking to a neighbour who said that he no longer listened to the news or read the newspaper. There was just too much negativity in the world and the media dwell on it. I agree with him.

We also talked about our little neighbourhood park which is currently under threat by a mega-grocery store being built nearby. I mentioned that while I like the park, I almost never go there, even as a shortcut because the few times I have done so, there have been older kids lurking there and I feel unsafe.

Now. If I didn't read the newspaper or listen to the news, I probably would not know about the swarmings that happened in this town last year, or about the fellow who has been exposing himself to young girls this last few weeks. I would not know about the man who was attacked for no apparent reason while walking home in broad daylight and left seriously hurt. So. If I didn't know these things, I might go to the park more often, in fact, I might even go and sit in the park by myself and read or watch the birds or something. It would not occur to me that the kids lighting the fire a few yards away might not want me to see what they are doing. I'd be a Pollyanna. Would it show on my face and keep me safe?

I've stopped reading newspapers before -- I particularly remember during the Gulf War. I had had it up to here with killing and death and resolved not to watch any more. Maybe it's time to stop again. The problem is, I'm already cynical (like you wouldn't believe), so I doubt it would make me a more trusting person. Certainly, everything I hear now only serves to reinforce what I believe about human nature. That it is inherently self-serving and destructive to anything and everything around it. But more about that another day.

Things to do before I die

With all this talk about dying lately - Terri Shiavo in Florida - my thoughts have understandably turned to that ultimate act. However, I just came across a site in which the author lists things he wants to do before he dies.
I think that I've somehow lost that enthusiasm for new things. Between keeping house and cooking meals and trying to write even when I don't feel like writing, I think I forgot that life is supposed to be fun. I think also because somewhere in there I started to feel old, I somehow assumed that because of time limitations, I will likely not do many of the things that I at one time assumed I would find the time for in the future. Things like - going back to university for another degree, becoming a truck-driver (semi), becoming proficient at the piano - like getting my Grade 10 in piano, visiting Japan (although in theory that could still happen assuming I could afford it.) I think it boils down to weeding out the things that are not as important as I used to think they were. Prioritizing.
So, I'm going to start a list of things I want to do before I die. It might contain some very frivolous things but that's okay. Will probably start a new page on my site for this. But not tonight. Right now I want to go finish reading the Da Vinci Code while I'm still halfway interested enough to want to find out what happens.

Shiny Candy Girl of Canada

Someone on a list I belong to wrote a message this morning about blogs. She says that if you throw the words 'shiny', 'candy' and 'girl' into a blog together with the name of a country other than the US, your hit count is going to go up, up, up. So I'll give it till the end of the week and then check my web stats.

Onward, Forward

CEL (CopyEditor's List) has a thread today concerning the misspelling of 'forward' when used to mean that section of a book that comes at the front and provides background or other elucidation to the book itself. I was reading along and guffawing at the thought of all those authors out there who self-publish their memoires or histories of their communities and churches and then misspell Foreword. Teehee.

I sobered up when I realized I didn't know whether the book I'd self-published (a biography of my first husband) contained a Foreword. I rushed to get the box that contains the remaining few copies and, with a good healthy fear of what I might find, begin to leaf through the first few pages.

There's a dedication page ("To Marcus") followed by a Preface. And Glory be, there's no foreword. What a relief. I know the difference between 'forward' and 'foreword' but my fingers don't always obey the inclination of the brain and since the mistake would survive a spell-check, I've been unpleasantly surprised before by errors that creep through to the final draft.

I would have caught it in the final copyedit/proofread. But of course I would. Mon dieu, oui! Don't be absurd.

What's on my mind. Not Georgia!

Well, maybe Georgia would be a good thing to think about today. It's certainly warmer there than here. -40C. Am driving the kids to university today and I don't do that just for something to do.

I read recently that our city has been inundated by a great influx of owls from the north - Great Northern Owl? I forget the species - since their food supply - mice and voles - is scarce in their natural habitat. They are apparently very weak from the long flight on little food. I have to wonder how they are faring here. I haven't seen a mouse in a long time (except in our garage) and I can't imagine that the food supply is much better here than where the owls came from, especially today. Nothing is moving out there that doesn't have to. I was wondering how the junkos and the cardinals and black-cap chickadees are making out. They live in our hedge and eat from our feeder. I hope the owls don't make a meal of them. If I thought it would help, I'd go buy some meat at the store and scatter it about for the owls. Wonder if they would eat it. Perhaps they prefer their dinner warm and running.

Out of the mouths...

I was reading some of my poems to a friend the other day, over the phone. After about line 6 or so, she interrupted me and said, "That's not a poem. That's a painting."

I'm still not sure if she meant what she said as a criticism or a compliment because I know she doesn't read a lot of contemporary poetry. However, she couldn't have said anything nicer to me. I told her so. I haven't stopped smiling since.

I try to remember this whenever I get nervous about having submitted eleven of my poems to a battery of editors in preparation for a chapbook that is supposed to come out in September. They have not yet make any comments (not even sure if they've read them). However, I can't help feeling like I've stripped and am standing in the middle of a busy street, waiting for people to notice and start pointing and jeering. Because I haven't had any feedback yet, I can't help wonder if the poor editors are at their keyboards, fingers poised over the keys, wondering how they can begin to tell me how awful my stuff is. But I have to keep remembering what my friend said.

Funny thing though. My friend keeps asking me to write a poem about her or our friendship. Now I can truly say, in response, that she has to let me paint a picture.

The day after

I had a birthday recently. And despite my reluctance to 'be' the age I am, it really is okay. It was not the most feted birthday I've ever had. It was certainly not the most lucrative. But it was very satisfying. I had a lovely birthday card from my step-son. The kind that brings tears to the eyes, the sentiments were so sweet, and I believe, heart-felt. He picked it out himself and so I know that's what he wanted to say. I also had a nice card from my step-daughter, a very cute card from my son's girlfriend, an orchid and a card from my husband with a message that also brought tears to my eyes. Telephone calls from everyone else. In fact, I heard from everyone who matters to me.

Last night, I was thinking exactly this and then realized, wait a minute. I didn't hear from mom. This thought lasted about a 1/2 a second when I realized, of course, that my mom's been dead for 23 years. Funny how stuff like that happens.

My mother-in-law phoned to wish me a happy birthday and was unsure what the exact age was. When she finally figured it out (with a few Uh-uh's and Uh-huh's on my part, she said, "What? You're not that old, are you?" Thanks, MIL.