Lot Stalkers

One can observe some interesting human behavior in parking lots...especially mall parking lots.

I usually park on the outskirts of a parking lot to minimize door scratches and various assaults on my vehicle. On my journey into the mall, I frequently observe some interesting parking lot behavior.

Numerous times, I have seen drivers circle the parking lot repeatedly or idle in the lot close to the mall doors. They do this to ensure they can lay claim to a parking spot close to the entrance of the mall as soon as the spot is vacated by it's current resident.

I can park my car on the outskirts and walk into the mall, and the 'Lot Stalker" will still be waiting. Idling. Scanning.

Why is there such an aversion to walking? The funny thing is this: once the lot stalker gets into the mall, they're going to be...walking. Alot.

What does parking space 1 get you that parking space 12 doesn't?

Perhaps I could understand this behavior if it was pouring rain or bitterly windy, but the lot stalkers aren't weather specific. Balmy, sunny days host as much lot stalking behavior as cold, rainy days.

I guess I shouldn't complain. My car escapes the lot unscathed because the lot stalkers avoid the outskirts. Also, I like to walk. It saves me the cost of a gym membership.

Celebrity

After a friend's recent experience in the celebrity world, I decided to transfer this blog from last September (Toronto Film Festival) here to my blog page.

Sept. 2006
This is the week of the film festival in Toronto so there are many opportunities to observe the behavior of celebrities and the public reaction to celebrities.

To begin with, I'm not a stargazer.

I don't ask for autographs. What does one do with an ink scribble on paper anyway? I don't take pictures. The photographers lights are bright enough to light an airport runway and are blinding to a passerby, so they must cause retinal damage to the celebrities. They don't need another flash from my camera. And what do I want a crappy picture of the back of someone's head for? Bragging rights? For what?

I went to see a film last night and arrived a half an hour early so I could at least get a decent seat. The line extended down the street, around the corner, down that street, around the next corner, and down a third street. The people at the front of the line by the red carpet must have been there for hours...in the rain.

Do take note that this line is for people that already have tickets, so we're all getting in.
So why does one arrive hours ahead to stand in the rain when one is guaranteed a seat? This has nothing to do with getting a good seat since these people were still there when I entered the theater. They were there to catch a glimpse of the celebrity (that night it was Viggo Mortensen) and hopefully get an autograph or say hi or something. (One grown woman yelled "Viggo, you look awesome!")

I don't get it.

Do people think that their lives are going to be changed by such a superficial encounter? A life-altering event would be the only thing that would entice me to wait hours for anything...or at least some situation where I would have a really really good time.

If anyone reading this has waited hours for this kind of encounter, I'd really love to hear from you.

Then there's the way some people think celebrities should be treated...

After the movie ended, the audience filed out and we all walked along the sidewalk in the rain to go our different ways to head home. At one point we were stopped by some bodyguardish guy who told us we would couldn't walk on the sidewalk...we'd have to walk around a limousine..into downtown traffic...in the rain...at night.

Apparently, the celebrities needed to walk a distance of 10 feet undisturbed from the private room where they were offered champagne to drink while they waited the brief moment before climbing into their limo.

I wasn't offered champagne to ease my walk to my car...which, by the way, wasn't parked in front. I had two blocks to walk. Champagne would have been nice. No hulking guy protected me from other people's elbows or umbrellas. Oh well.

After being directed into oncoming traffic by the Hulk, my husband grumbled. "...and if I get hit by a car I'll sue your sorry ass." He doesn't deal well with classism and unnecessary degredation. I consoled him by trying to find reason for this we're-more-important-than-you thinking.
...after a movie where characters were often called "Excellency", I said to my husband "I guess they called each other 'Excellency' so many times that they took it to heart."

"Ooooh....there's a Tim Horton's. Let's grab a coffee." he said, distracted already.

All was forgotten.

Edit: Sept 14...Case in point: Apparently, there's a big fuss going on now because Sean Penn was smoking a cigarette during a press conference despite anti-smoking laws. The discussion is about whether he should be fined like 'regular folk'. $125. Do you think he would care?

Edit #2: A friend had bought a house in Yorkville (the neighbourhood where celebrities and celebrity hounds gather). My friend can't even find parking close to his home during the festival. Thank god we had advance reservations for dinner or that would have been out of the question as well.

Our walk to the restaurant took twice as long because of the people in clusters on the sidewalk either waiting in line outside of restaurants or just lingering out front hoping to catch a glimpse of a celebrity. One group of fashionably painted and frocked women looked sadly like a gaggle of whores. I don't believe that was the effect they were hoping for, but then again you never know.
Maybe it was my imagination, but inside the restaurant I felt like I was being sized up a few times by other patrons. Was it my stunning good looks? (cough, puke) Were they regular patrons or stargazers trying to figure out who I am.

I did get to sign an autograph, though. Too bad it was my VISA bill for dinner. Oh well.

February Blahs

I've been extremely unmotivated and lethargic lately. I don't even feel like writing this blog right now, but it's for that reason that I must persevere.

I have ample time on my hands and I could engage in a plethora of activities, but when I ask my body to engage, it replies with a lazy "mleh". Why don't we phone Mary? Mleh. Read a book? Mleh.

I could paint the ceiling. Yeah, right. I could do the laundry that's piling up. Er...nope. Bake some biscotti. Nu uh. Wax my eyebrows. Puh. Watch CSI. Sigh. Go out for dinner with friends. Crap, we made plans already so I'd be a putz to back out now.

I am so uninterested.

This lack of enthusiasm would be OK if I actually felt like doing nothing...you know the days where you enjoy wasting the day drinking coffee and picking lint off your sweater...but I'm bored. I'm disgustingly bored.

I began to worry about this blah feeling. It's not like me. Why do I feel this way?
Then I remembered.

It's February.

Mleh.

Maybe Happy New Year

Poop!

I decided I would improve on my attitude for 2007. I had an awesome last 2 days of 2006...skiing, yodelling with the ski resort owner and reminiscing about the good-old-days, drinking beer with all the tired ski buddies, dropping in on some wineries and vineyards to end the year, enjoying excellent wine and some stick-to-your-ribs pub fare, watch great movies, having sex in the shower..............and so on.

2007 arrives and I'm primed for a positive attitude. This year is going to be great. I feel it.

First day at work I'm smiling at everyone....streetcar driver, strangers, peers, the idiot I hate at work. The weather is awesome. I love my life. I'm going to make chicken korma and salad for dinner...la la la...
...open the mail...Revenue Canada audits me and decides they paid back too much money and tell me I have to pay $650 back and charge me interest (after I've spent any extra cash boxing day.)

Happy fucking New Year.

Empty wine bottle into glass so wine threatens to overflow. Grin-fuck the whole situation and pledge to fuck Revenue Canada with every tax shelter I can find this year. Besides...I'm going to win the lottery this year.

I can feel it. Can't you?

I Am A Technomoron

Background:
I had a really shitty day at work where I'm advocating for the client and the psychiatrist and manager are doing everything to cover their own ass'...to the point where they're being stupid enough to try that old 'keep the abuse in the family and shut up about it' crap. In the meantime, hubby is working with the satelite TV guys to install this technology so we can finally say 'Fuck You" to the cable guys.

Picture, if you will, Me...plastered on the biggest rum and coke imaginable in attempts of forgetting the earlier ambush from the powers that be. Picture my husband trying to put the new tv remote (wtf?) in my hand and instruct me how to use it.

TV on. TV off. volume. channel change. OK...brain is full...give no more info...brain full...will crash soon...shut the fuck up.

I find a few familiar channels and feel reassured in my extreme drunkeness that I will overcome and master this thing called 'satelite tv'.

The phone rings.

It's my father-in-law who lives in the flat below us. His wife has pressed some button and everything shut down and they don't know what to do.

Dilemna:
I'm piss-drunk. Hubby's doing step-aerobics at the gym. Early-dementia-had-a-gazillion-little-strokes-87-year-old-mother-in-law hits the button of doom on the satelite remote.

Solution:
Laugh so hard I piss my pants and barely spit out "I'll have Jamie call you when he's back from the gym."

This solution took immense reserve and control since, in my drunken, post-confrontation/abuse state I feel I have the patience of a rhinoceros, and I want to go 'fix' their problem myself.
I rally my fading sense of being humane and decide that Jamie can deal with his parents while I make a second killer rum & coke and forget the entire day happened.

After all, I can't seek Dr. Phil's advice because I can't find the fucking channel!!

Sadistic Stores

One of my pet peeves:
Grocery stores always rearrange their entire stock just when you have finally figured out where everything is.

Now, I could understand rearranging stock if it made things easier to find items or it made the aisles easier to negotiate with a buggy with a sticky wheel. I fully understand the concept of putting sugary junk food at the eye level of a toddler, light toilet paper on the top shelf and heavy laundry detergent on the bottom.

But what is the advantage of moving the pet food next to the baby supplies instead of it's previous location beside the paper towels? Will I buy more soup if it's next to the soft drinks rather than the cookies?

I imagine they think that I'll buy more because I had to slow down and look at every item carefully as I search for cat food. Guess again. I actually buy less because I can't find what I'm looking for, become frustrated, and leave to go to another store that hasn't changed rearranged their stock.

If they want to use the shock and awe approach to get me to buy more, why don't they just design all grocery stores like a maze. We would all get lost in the maze...trapped for hours with skilled marketing and hunger gnawing at our willpower.

After all, it works for IKEA.

'Stupid' Money

I often wondered where the term 'stupid money' came from. I know people use the term when referring to others spending obscene amounts of money for something that has significantly less monetary value.

I now have a picture to put in my mind when I hear the term 'stupid money'

I need a new black leather purse and I've surfed Ebay for the past month or so to find what I'm looking for. In the process, I've come to know different designers and what their purses look like and what they usually cost.

Yesterday, I scrolled past something that I knew had to be a mistake. My eye could not have seen that price accurately. I checked. Yes, that was the number I saw. Convinced it was still a mistake...that the seller must have typed the wrong number, so I decided to compare prices.

I learned that the Hermes Birkin handbag is a very pricey purse, indeed.

$50 is an average price to pay for a basic leather purse.

Make that purse a designer purse made with vacchetta italian leather and you're talking perhaps $500. To me, that's more than I'd spend on a purse, but it's certainly not an outrageous price.

$1000 seems rather indulgent to me.

$5000 hits the point of rediculous in my eyes. This is the point where I feel a $5000 purse doesn't look any more elegant/classy/well-constructed than the $1000 purse.

Then there's the category of 'stupid money'. It's the price that's so rediculous it blows the mind. It doesn't matter if the purse is made from good quality materials or even if it has a bit of gold or diamonds or something on it. It's a purse. It's not a mode of transportation. It's not a power generator. It's an accessory.

This particular Hermes accessory can be yours for $39,000. Thirty-nine thousand dollars.

Who would be so selfish to buy such a thing?

Buy the thousand dollar purse and use the other $38,000 to fight world poverty. Think of what Muhammad Yunus could do with $38,000. http://www.grameen-info.org/

For a moment, I thought I should buy a knock-off Hermes Birkin for a joke, but then I thought two things.

1. People would assume it's a knock off based on the rest of my apparel.

2. I wouldn't want anyone to think I was stupid enough to pay $39,000 for a purse.

Stupid money.

My karma ran over my dogma

Some people believe in fate, and I'm one of those people.

Usually, when people think of fate they think of 'big-moment' things like meeting their soul mate or getting a certain job. I believe fate can be all the little things as well, and I'll tell you why.

The other morning was rather frosty for a mid-October morning. (It was the day that Buffalo got a dump of unseasonal snow that sent the city into a state of emergency.) Last weekend was sunny and balmy...classic Indian Summer weather (where did that term come from anyway? I'll check that out later) so the jump from summer to winter was a shock for my body.

Unaccustomed to the cold-sharp wind, my body instructed me to compensate by providing it with hot, high-calorie food. Since it was morning, it also craved caffeine. 'Starbuck's maple macchiato' is what it whispered to me. Mmmmm...the flavors of autumn...pumpkin, maple, apple...

I had recently set up my office with coffee-maker, coffee, and cream so I wouldn't spend stupid-money at Fourbucks (I mean Starbucks) everyday. So, the logical side of my brain battled it out with the part of the brain that was freezing it's ass off.

The brain battle started as I walked to the streetcar stop. I usually take the Queen car, but if I miss it, I can catch the King car which gets me almost as close to work. The King car stops at the corner of King and Shaw....where there is a Starbuck's. I just missed the Queen car that day, so I had to catch the King car. Fate was putting his thumb on the scale.

The ride to work involved the ongoing debate in my head. Maple..mmmmm...but I can save up for that Marino Orlandi purse I want...but it's warm maple.....

My stop is up, I ring the bell and walk to the door of the streetcar, with battle almost won in favor of the maple macchiato with the logical side putting in an admiral effort. As the car rolls to a stop, I see a woman standing at the streetcar stop wearing a green Starbuck's tunic...and she's holding a tray of little coffee cups.

What is this? Did someone order their coffee ahead of time and this woman is giving it to them on the car?

I step off the car to be greeted by the woman in the tunic who smiles at me and says "Good morning...would you like to try a maple macchiato?"

My karma ran over my dogma, and I walked up to my office happily, with a vente maple macchiato warming my cold hands.

Walk This Way

Sit up straight.
I'm sure we've all heard this command from some authoritative parental figure at one time or another.

Changing one's posture takes only attention and will. I go through periods where my posture deteriorates and I spend a few weeks being aware of the times I'm slouching, and pushing back my shoulders in response.

Changing the way one walks isn't quite as simple, nor is the process discreet.

When I walk, I don't lift my feet much. I don't drag my feet and I don't shuffle, conversely, I don't glide or sashay. There's nothing remarkable about the way I walk.

Except that every once in a while I trip on absolutely nothing. I don't fall, but I lurch rather noticeably.

I recently had the (not so) brilliant idea that I would change the way I walked the way one improves posture.

Have you ever thought about the way you walk and tried to walk differently? It's not an impossible task...for a distance of about 50 feet, but it's not sustainable.

Visualize, if you will, the sight of me walking down the halls of the psychiatric hospital where I work, picking my feet up in a slightly exaggerated fashion...somewhat the way someone walks when their foot has fallen asleep. Now, adjust your mental picture when you hear that I walk like a cross-dresser when I wear heels.

I decided that vanity is worth the price of the occasional stumble, and all efforts to change the way I walk are a thing of the past.

...and sit up straight.

Ode to the Outhouse

There are two kinds of people in the world; those who love outhouses and those who hate outhouses. Remarkably, I fall into the former category. This is remarkable because of the fact that I have a rather nauseating aversion to spiders.

Why do people that hate outhouses hate them? The reasons are fairly obvious. Smell. Insects. Spider webs. Germs. The path through the grass/woods/abyss with the snake/mouse/frog/monster lurking just out of site ready to attack.

Reasons to hate outhouses are fairly clear. Reasons to love outhouses are a bit more obscure.
1. Some people...especially men...like to do their business outdoors.
2. Can be cleaned by simply hosing it down.

While renovating the cottage bathroom and waiting for the guy to come and pump out the honey pot (aka holding tank) I was required to do my business outdoors. Sans outhouse. It was a nostalgic adventure.

I found a smooth log, stripped of it's bark that hung out over a small hill. It was the perfect height from the ground so I could sit and hang my butt over the side and my toes just reached the ground. It even had branches sticking out on either side of my 'spot' to hold on to for reassurance and to hang the toilet paper role on. I loved my risky little adventure...meditating out in the woods where no one could see me but there was a small risk of the neighbour seeing me from a distance if he was getting something from his car. I used my meditation time to think of something to say other than "Hi, Eugene" if the neighbour wandered into range. Something witty. I never did think of anything.

Although this was quaintly fun in a silly way, it wasn't a long term solution...certainly not a solution for middle-of-the-night business or guests. The cottage needs an outhouse for the winter months without running water, times when the number of guests outweighs the capacity of the septic system, and for that eccentric niche of people that prefer to do their business outside. I sought the opinions of others so I could build a friendly outhouse.

Outhouses that were painted white inside seemed to be more well received than their rustic wood counterparts. White is associated with clean. People seem just as content "imagining" that the outhouse is clean. The walls should be solid rather than planks of wood. Planks have seams and cracks that invite spiders to lay nests and spin webs.

Following extensive research, I realized the main problem people have with outhouses is the last reason that they'll admit to. The big, dark cavernous hole below one's most vulnerable part threatens to reach out and grab one by one's vulnerable parts and drag one into the stinking bowels of hell. The outhouse can be white, clean, and smell of roses, but the gateway to hell cannot be disguised.

I think I found the solution to appeal to outhouse lovers and haters alike. My outhouse will be build on a concrete slab facing the lake. A Dutch door will allow for modesty as well as a view of the lake for the commune-with-nature type. The path will be cleared of grass that may threaten to tickle squeamish legs or hide nasty critters. There will be a motion sensor light on the path at night so one does not require a flashlight (which only protects you from the monsters you see in the front, but not those behind you in the dark). And finally, there will be a composting toilet in the outhouse that has a little trap door that separates the basin from tunnel to hell. Hell's minions cannot open this door. One has total control and power when it comes to the doorway to hell. Take that!
I'm not completely naive. I still anticipate problems. My sister-in-law, for example, who has to have a shower every time she swims in the lake. Her expression was one of disbelief when I told her that the water in the shower comes directly from the lake. I even showed her the intake pipe beside the dock. But she has an unwavering faith that the water somehow transforms during it's twenty meter journey up the black plastic pipe to the shower. Whatever.

But I promised you and ode.

Oh lovely outhouse
that guards the gates of hell
Square, wooden sentinel
how often have I doubted you
No more
No more
May you rise to your place of glory.
*Flush*

OK...so I'm not a poet.

Spring on Steroids

Perhaps it was because we had a mild winter that spring has sprung...and is on steroids.

Plants are bigger than usual and are blooming earlier than usual. I don't think I've ever seen so many lilacs!

And it's no wonder that allergy sufferers are...well...suffering much more.

I was up at my cottage this weekend, and the hemlock trees (I'm assuming it's the hemlocks) are more than frisky this fruitful spring season. They put out so much pollen, it was coming down like fluorescent yellow baby-powder-fine snow. (Remembers the childhood saying, "Don't eat yellow snow.")

I was trying to clean the boat to get it ready for boating season. No sooner did I dust the pollen off the white upholstery and it was covered again. Waxing the boat was a joke. Yes, pollen sticks to wet boat wax.

But I couldn't get angry. It was so surreal, it was actually cool.

...not that I'd like it to happen again, though.


The most enjoyable aspect of this fruitful spring was to see a den of baby foxes. The den, mind you, was in a culvert of the driveway, as if the mother fox felt the rush of spring as well and didn't think she had time to look for better real estate.

I wonder what summer will be like?

The Friendship Garden

A few years ago, I had an idea. (Not to say that was the last time I had an idea, but...just read the blog, OK?)

I love my garden. It's my sanctuary. In the past 10 years I've moved a number of times and had to leave old gardens and start new ones. Now my garden is in an impossible location on steep Georgian Bay granite with 2 inches of mossy-grassy earth on top. To complicate things, the spartan soil is highly acidic.

Do I feel despair? No. I love a challenge.

Oops. Tangential Lisa has taken you in a different direction. I'll blog about the Georgian Bay difficulties another time. Right now, I'm suppose to tell you about friendship gardening.

Every year, I meet new people and make new friends. Every year, I plant new plants in my garden (whichever garden it is this year) A few years back, I decided to name each of my plant after someone new in my life each year. This way, whenever I looked at the plant, I could remember the friend and think about them while sipping tea (or a rum and coke) in the garden.
Initially, I just matched the next name with the next plant, but after a few coincidental character comparisons, the matching became interesting and fun.

A full figured divorced friend was matched with a rose that was drought tolerant with nice hips. A wine connoisseur was paired with a wine-red rose aptly named Tuscany superb. A fellow who avoids white food had to be linked to a white rose. Lily got a lily. Well...you get the idea.

My current garden lends itself more to daylilies and irises, so it will be fun to link specific traits to this year's friends. 'Late bloomer', 'reproduces well', 'easy to split', 'grows best when left alone' sound benign when referenced with a plant, but a bit more fun and memorable when linked with a friend.

Soooooo...what kind of plant are you?

Desperate for Signs of Spring

This winter has been unusually grey. We've had more rain, therefore more cloudy days. Add that to the depressing effect of short winter days, grey flat clouds, grey skeletal trees, grey dingey sidewalks, and sparse beige grass-stubble.

Was the sky every blue? The grass was green and soft once, wasn't it? I believe I've seen white fluffy clouds at one time or another.

I too, have faded through the winter. Beige hair, beige pastey skin...I feel decidedly...beige.
This time of year, I am desperate for signs of spring and begin looking through gardening catalogues and haunting garden nurseries.

Today, I achieved the epitome of desperation. I bought a bougainvillea.

Ah yes, the airy and papery bougainvillea. Vibrant shades of pink, red, and orange...trailing and reaching, promising the smell of the tropical tradewinds that would soon come...

Yeah, right.

My bougainvillea is suffering the same winter depression as I. It's a sparse array of a handful of spindley twigs with barely 3 leaves the size of a fingernail.

Why would I buy such a thing, you ask?

In this clump of driftwood-beige twigs, I see spring on it's way. It's coming out of it's winter dormancy. Little pin-head buds are beginning to push their way out. I can see the beautiful bush that it will become.

I'll place it on my windowsill in my office and watch it with renewed hope that spring is just around the corner.

...even though the weather forcast calls for snow tomorrow....

How Cold Was It?

When people ask me about the coldest weather I remember, I told them this story...

I was up at the cottage one bitterly cold winter day. The cottage is heated by woodstove, so when one arrives, one starts fire and does other errands (shovel snow, chop hole in ice for water) for a couple of hours until the place warms to manageable levels. This particular day was -20 degrees. After about an hour of shovelling (and mouth breathing), I came inside for a drink.

I opened a can of coke and took a few sips. "Hmmn...are there floaty things in my coke?" I squinted into the can to see little clumps of ice floating up with the bubbles. The coke was turning to slush in front of me!

I now have another 'How cold was it?' story...
This weekend past, I headed up north to go skiing. I set -20 degrees as my cut off point. If it's below -20 I snowshoe instead because I can generate enough body heat to avoid frostbite. Saturday was -21 degrees. Snowshoe weather.

There is a river (apty named the Mad River) that bubbles through Devil's Glen. It churns and tumbles so much that the water temperature can be below freezing and it still won't freeze.

Saturday morning was cold enough to create a phenomenon I had never seen before. The water vapour in the air froze on trees and still objects to create a layer of hoary frost. But the mad river churned too quickly for the frost to cling. Conversely, the water temperature was below freezing so the frost wouldn't melt into the water either.

In an eddy in the river floated a cluster of white lily pads. But they weren't lily pads at all. They were made entirely of frost. I partly expected to see little white flowers pop up to accompany them, but I did not.

The icy pads bumped and laughed for the remainder of the day. I was loathe to leave because I probably wouldn't see them again.

Goodbye, lovely icy lily pads. Thankyou for revealing yourself to me.

Radioactive Green Apple

My home is a rather depressing combination of 1970's chocolate brown and beige. These colours aren't bad in small quantities, but when every wall, cabinet, carpet, and appliance are chocolate brown and beige, one can feel...well,...beige.

Until now, I hadn't changed anything because I wasn't going to be here more than a few years, (that and the fact that I despise painting) but now that I realize I will be here a few more, those thought of even another 6 months with chocolate brown and beige depresses me profoundly.

...and so, off to the paint store I went.

The kitchen would be my starting point. Painting two walls would be a nice easy way to ease myself into the task.

Yeah, right.

I have a very good sense (read 'picky') for colour and light, to the point where, in a store with 50,000 shades and tones of paint, I can't find THE shade of green that I want. This one's too muddy, that one's too dark...too light...too yellow...too blue...too bright...too dull.

You would think I was painting the Louvre rather than my piddly kitchen in a Toronto duplex. But I was undeterred. I found the 3 closest shades and asked the clerk (bless her soul) what pigments were in each, then came up with a combination I thought would work. We did a test swatch and then mixed up a can.

Paint day was brilliantly sunny. I was energized. I was excited about bringing some colour into my beige existence.

Taking a deep breath, I rolled on the first signs of colour. My, but it looked a bit more yellow when it was wet. As more paint went on the wall, I found myself squinting from the glare. The bright sunshine was illuminating the paint as if it was phosphorescent.

I began to giggle. The more I painted, the more the giggle turned into sidesplitting laughter. I finished and left the room. Every time I walked into the room I burst out in laughter. I had wanted colour, and boy-oh-boy I got colour!

While painting, I thought "What have I done!" After I painted I thought "Holy crap, that's bright!" By early evening, 'bright' became 'funky'. By bedtime, I liked it. By morning, I loved it.

The brown cupboards are now envious of the walls, and so I will cheer them up by painting them eggplant purple.

I think now I'll do the bedroom red.

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.

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.

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.

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.