Sunday, December 18, 2005

Victim of Fashion

Somedays, I really wonder what people are thinking when they get dressed...especially when the result puts them at risk of life and limb.

I ride the streetcar to work, and in the winter, the streetcar turns a blind eye to fashion. The desire for a warm, dry body and safe footing overrides the desire to look good. Well, this survival instinct is present in the majority of us, but every once in a while, Darwin loses a few.

Early in the morning, the winter commute can be treacherous and messy. New snow gets churned underfoot with salt and sand and makes for a rather greasy pile of slop. A ten minute wait for the car in minus twenty weather can be extremely uncomfortable.

I wear big, waterproof, shearling lined boots with monster treads to keep my footing and to prevent my toes from breaking off from frostbite. A big furry hat is pulled down to make contact with the thick scarf wrapped around my neck. Do I look rediculous? Hell, yes. Do I care? Hell no. I'm warm.

The other day (a particularly windy, cold, snowy day), I was sitting on the streetcar wiggling my fingers and toes to get the chill out. Grimey slush melted in the aisles and trickled to and fro with the movement of the car.

Then I saw her.

Well...I sort of saw her. I saw the top of a styled and starched head of hair peeking out of a quaintly dysfunctional white fur bomber jacket. The woman had made a futile attempt to pull up a tiny collar to keep her warm.

To her merit she wore boots. She had made some sort of effort to dress appropriately for the snow. Too bad they were stilettos.

I tried desperately not to stare at the white furry carcass hanging in the meat locker. She used the overhead bar to try to steady herself because the balls of her pointy feet and the base of a pencil thin heel weren't big enough to support a mouse.

Bravo! She hung on. Four stops and starts and she hung on.

With a weird sense of awe, I watched her depart. Click, click, click down the step of the streetcar. Click, click, click across the icy tracks. A gust of wind nearly toppled her, but she recovered and made it across the road and into another streetcar.

I think she was pretty...but I can't really remember her face. If I saw her and her outfit on the pages of a magazine, I may have even been envious.

I thought about her throughout the day and I wondered. Did she survive? Or did she break a leg...adding her name to that list of casualties: The Victims of Fashion.

Monday, November 28, 2005

The High Priestess of Balloonia


I'm not one for wearing dresses, but I will do so on occassion. I don't dislike dresses, but I don't have occassion to wear them much which means my closet is rather limited. Also, there's the fact that I hate pantyhose with a passion. It's beyond me how such a flimsy little thing can make you feel like you're walking sideways.

Keep this in mind when you next hear the quote "You can dress her up but you can't take her anywhere." For me, the quote goes "You can dress her up, but you can't take her anywhere where there are balloons."

It doesn't matter how classy the event may be. If there are balloons present, they are destined to become the crown of the High Priestess of Balloonia. My inner priestess strains against decorum. She cannot resist the call of her loyal subjects.

And so the first Christmas party of the season found me wrapping balloons around my ears in 'Micky Mouse' fashion.

People that know me fully expect me to wear balloons before the evening ends. People that witness the crowning of the high priestess for the first time tend to laugh. But before long, they too find their inner priestess longing for release.

I'm sure the first thought of many was "Wow, is she drunk." but if you know anything about me, alcohol is not a requirement for silliness. After paving the way to silly Balloonia, a few people decided to be adventurous and take a trip to this magic kingdom.

Towards the end of the evening, I heard, "Look! You started a trend." Looking towards the dance floor I noticed many balloons joyfully bobbing about attached to dancer's ears.

Ah yes, the joy of play. My work is done.

Friday, October 28, 2005

Dead Moose Lodge

If you have a squeemish stomach, read no further...

To say that the cottage opening this year was interesting would be the greatest of understatements.

It was sunny and warm, and the air was rich with the scents of pine, cedar, and peat. I opened all the windows to banish the stuffy winter smells from the deepest corners of the cottage.

I opened the blinds and window over the kitchen sink and beheld an interesting site. What is that mound of...fur? Then the smell hit......

A maggot-filled, bloated, liquefying moose corpse.

From what I can surmise, it caught a stray bullet from a poacher, lost it's footing along the ridge behind my cottage, and fell down the granite hill...to be stopped only 10 feet from the cottage by a tree stump.

Dilemna: How does a 110lb woman move a 500lb bag of rotting flesh?
Answer: She does not.

Solution: Water down the grass around the carcass, cover it in gasoline and set it to torch.

Problem: Liquifying guts don't burn.

Solution 2: Take a pick axe to the gut to try to let the liquid run out.

Problem: Moose hide is thick and the liquid makes the axe bounce.

Solution 3: Keep trying 'til you get through somehow. Torch it again. Let it burn enough to speed the decomposition but not enough to burn down the forest. Put out the fire and come home...praying to god that the dry heat this week will dry it out enough to deal with next weekend.

I didn't cry and I didn't puke. I can handle anything the cottage throws at me now.

Thursday, September 22, 2005

What is a blog?


September 22, 2005
OK...here I go...into the world of blog. Blogs? Blogging?
As is typical of me, I have too many things on the go.
This will be a mini blog...or more interestingly put, a 'quickie'.

Did I not make sense?
Well then, welcome to my blog.

Um...I'll continue later.

September 23 See? I told you'd I 'd continue.
I guess an introduction is overdue. Hi! I'm Lisa.
Who's Lisa?
A forty-something woman who has changed careers a number of times (dental assisting, massage therapy, occupational therapy) and has more interests than she can keep up with (painting, writing, gardening,...OK, this list could go on)
My time is split between the city (Toronto) and the cottage (Muskoka-Georgian Bay). I tell people I live at the cottage, and I just reside in the city during the week while I work. My heart sits in a chair on the smooth granite of Georgian Bay watching the sun go down.
Right now, I'm trying to finish a novel I've been working on for a few years. It's a hobby. It's a stab at yet another (possible) career. It's a personal growth challenge to overcome my fear of success.
I don't spend much money on things that are for the sake of appearances. I don't even hesitate spending money on my health and well-being. I never look at the price of food (unless my mother's programming moves my eyes over to a 'sale' sign). Food is essential for survival. Good food is important for health. Divine food is the cornerstone for bringing people together and teaching us to live in the moment.
After all, the moment is all that matters. Who knows what the future brings (and worrying about it won't help). The past brought us to where we are, but it's expired. We can't change it, and it's useless to try. This moment, on the other hand, is vibrant and charged. It's as powerful as you want it to be. Seize it.
...to which I might add: Lisa is tangential.
Have a great day.