My Lecture to Cat Owners

I'll start simply.

Please, please, PLEASE get your pet cat neutered or spayed. If you are breeding them, then keep them indoors!! For NO REASON should you let them outside when it's -20 degrees. PLEASE, if you let them outdooors, put a collar and ID on them.

I have the cutest little fellow sleeping contently on my lap. Normally this gives me warm fuzzy feelings, but it brings me anxiety because I am looking for a home for this fellow.

I've watched him (I've named him Salem) and his (I think) sister (my husband named her Smudgie...why men can't give pets good names, I don't know) as they grew from kittens last summer. They often came around the yard hunting birds that hung around. They were both playful, chipper, and affectionate...enjoying their summer youth.

Winter came and I saw them less. This is good since it means (I hoped) that they had a home. But I began to see Salem more frequently as the winter progressed. He was not neutered. When I put food out for him, he gobbled it up like he'd never seen it. Driven by the hormones of an unneutered male, he ignores the safety of a warm home and food to find any pussy he can get. Yes, I mean that word both ways.

He had no collar and no way to find if he had a home. But his repeated arrival at my doorstep in the dark cold nights of winter told me I had to do something. Off to the vet for vaccinations, deflea, deworm, and neutering. He gained 5 pounds in 3 weeks because he still doesn't trust that there's food for him whenever he wants.

By the way, I'd keep him except for my allergies and the fact that I already have a cat and she won't allow it (aka sleepless nights)

He's the sweetest thing ever and I'll find a loving home. No bad ending.

Except.

His (possible) sister came around last week. I hadn't seen her since December. She was skin and bones...and clearly nursing kittens. I fed her. There was little else I could do since I don't know where the kittens are and can't risk their lives. Again, no collar. She's still young that I could find a home for her too if I could get her to the vet, but there's no way to know when she's weined the kittens completely.

Flashback to 2 years ago with an unneutered male cat (Rocky since he had 6 fingers on each paw) that lived 2 years (killed by a racoon) and another fellow (Romeo since he howled for my female cat every morning under the window) a year ago that had a home but disappeared because his hormones drove him wild and wandering.

At least I got Salem before the streets got him.

It's cold comfort to me, since yesterday's snowstorm (1 foot of snow) brought 'Thomas' to my door. He's an unneutered male homeless fellow with battle scars all over. I've seen him around for more than a year, but he's too untrusting of people to let me get close enough to help.


Thomas sat outside my door covered in enough snow to look like a yeti. The tips of his ears and tail are bleeding from frostbite. For the first time, he came indoors to eat, but didn't trust me enough to allow me to close the door, but had that 'thank-you' look in his scarred eyes for the chance to shake off the snow and eat some food before heading out again.

Salem has a chance of a good home since I got to him early enough. Thomas has little chance. Perky little young cats that purr and paly and snuggle find homes. Mangy, scarred, earless old tomcats get left behind.

I'll do my best to find a safe haven for Thomas, but I'm not hopeful. All that I'm hopeful for is that someone will read this and it will make a difference for another cat out there. I can only hope and pray.

IKEA sadism

One would think that an outing to IKEA would be simple when one knew exactly what they wished to purchase. Guess again.

Last week, I realized that the people who designed the IKEA store have a sadistic sense of humour.

IKEA is laid out like a maze. And it is a brilliantly designed maze.

If you make the mistake of entering the showroom, you must negotiate the entire maze. You can be tricked into thinking that there are shortcuts (magical spots in the maze where if you look left or right, you see a number of doorways in perfect alignment with neon exit signs that beacon a way out). These shortcuts always appear at the exact moment when you have reached a point of futility. They give a glimmer of hope. With renewed vigour and confidence, you set your sights on the most distant exit sign and run. Alas, you reach the sign only to find a wall and an arrow painted on the floor pointing in the direction of more IKEA maze. *sigh*

You must survive the showroom maze at all costs. You must retain a glimmer of energy. Why? Because you don't really exit the showroom maze. The exit is actually the entrance to the marketplace maze. The marketplace maze has all the same exit sign tricks as the showroom maze but they're more difficult to find because of all the marketplace clutter.

Again, you must survive the marketplace maze at all costs. You must retain a glimmer of energy. Why? Because you don't really exit the marketplace maze. The exit is actually the entrance to the warehouse maze. The only difference here, is that you can retain a shopping buggy to wearily lean against for support. You can do this for about 30 seconds until you realize the buggy has a wonky wheel and you have to pull left with all your might to keep the buggy straight.

The warehouse maze is the cruelest maze of all. When you look for aisle 15, don't look between aisle 14 and aisle 16. Don't look across from aisle 14 or 16. You must look in the least logically place, that is, across from and down about 5 aisles. There. Somewhere in the middle of the dark and cavernous aisle you'll find the item you're looking for. This part is easy. Just look for the bin that is at least 6 inches above your head in a box that weights at least your own body weight.

This is the self-serve section of course. The muscles that you build tracking the buggy will come in handy here. Slide the box off the shelf on to the buggy. You'll know you have the box positioned correctly to slide onto the buggy when you feel the fabric of your coat being chafed away and you feel the warm moist sensation of blood dripping down your shoulder.

By this time, you're too tired to care about the long checkout line wait. You just join the other maze rats with corresponding blank stares until you swipe your credit card and you're off!

At the exit, the pedestrian crosswalk is not paved with asphalt. The IKEA designers have one last laugh with the teeth-jarring cobblestone. Brdrdrdrdrdrdrdr. And of course the weight of the box on the wonky cart makes the cart spin sideways. That's because the crosswalk also has to be sloped.

Package successfully stowed in the car, you think the worst is over and you can head home. Wrong. Urban planning is the IKEA designer's best weapon. One must exit IKEA left on a busy street with no traffic light. If you don't die of old age during the wait, you get to at least watch your hair grow as you turn left and immediately are stopped by a train at a railway crossing. It's always a long train.

Home at last, you eagerly open your package and count and catalogue all the bits and pieces to make sure you have all the bits and pieces before beginning assembly. If you don't do this, you will surely run out of bits and pieces and have to return to the dreaded IKEA.

Don't worry. It's not all that bad. At least you'll have enough cardboard to burn throughout a cold Swedish winter and entertain your cat for months.

If it's Tuesday it must be Naples

I recently took a trip to Italy...one of those whirlwind tours that leave you with difficulty remembering where you are, what day it is, what language you speak, and at times what your name is.

If you're considering doing a similar trip (or if you're not but you want to know what I learned) keep reading.

1. Everyone hates busloads of tourist...even the tourists on buses hate busloads of tourists. You can only delude yourself into believing you're not a tourist if you refer to other tourists as 'foreigners'. The delusion is always short lived and you always carry a twinge of shame and humiliation that you are one of the people that you actually scorn.

2. Italians are very patient and tolerant of non-Italian-speaking tourists. There are moments when you think someone is being rude or offensive, but when you think of how many tourists they have to endure, any behaviour that isn't assault or homicide is friendly behaviour.

3. The only North American drivers that could possibly survive the streets of Naples would be ambulance drivers. Lane divisions and red lights are discretionary rather than obligatory. Yes, those scooters are driving the wrong way. No, there's no need for a traffic light at that intersection because nobody uses them anyway.

4. Sheep going to slaughter likely do so with a feeling of resignation rather than fear. So do people. You want the group of us to go who-knows-where in the rain/cold/dangerous suburb? No problem...especially if you tell me they have wine or cappuccino.

5. Going to Italy for 2 weeks is not realisitic. See how this sounds:
You: Where did you go for your vacation?
Me: The States.
You: Where in the States?
Me: The States.
19 towns/cities/places-with-cathedrals in 14 days is not reasonable...not unless you drive faster and more reckless than a Neopolitan...which is not possible.

6. Nobody makes hot chocolate better than the Italians. N-O-B-O-D-Y!

7. Wild mushrooms and wild boar are better than their domestic counterparts...just a wild Lisa is better than domestic Lisa (or so my husband says)

8. One can get tired of eating pork and spinach, or ham and cheese sandwiches. On my first flight home, I was provided with a snack. A ham and cheese sandwich. I laughed. It was a maniacal if-I-see-one-more-ham-and-cheese-sandwich-I'll-snap kind of laugh. Conversely, on my final flight home, they announced the dinner menu while I was in the washroom. I heard 'bangers and mash'. I bet my gleeful cheer was heard outside the plane, 20,000 feet below.

9. Donald Trump has nothing on the people that decided to charge money for using the public toilets. Imagine Venice...1 Euro to use the toilet. 1 Euro x 6 people per 5 minutes equals 30 Euro per hour. Double that because of mens and ladies washrooms. Triple that because men take much less time than women. 90 Euro per hour x at least 20 washrooms (you know there's more) in Venice equals 1800 Euro per hour x 10 hours (I do math in round numbers) equals 18000 Euro per day x 365 days per year equals 6,570,000 Euro annual salary to the guy that flips the big flush switch each night that dumps all the sewage in the sea anyway. Do you still have to pay if you are a child, a pregnant woman, or you have 'connections' with Uncle Guido in Sicily? I'll ask my hairdresser and let you know.

10. Digital cameras are indispensible to help you remember things that you forgot due to jet lag, as well as for seeing things that you didn't notice at the time because you were too tired or didn't have time to notice.

...like the garbage can that I thought was ruins in Pompeii.

I wonder if any other 'ruins' are free public washrooms that the mafia forgot to take charge of.

11. I want to form my own republic. Pretty little San Marino is a pretty little republic. In San Marino, it's easier to buy guns and ninja throwing knives than it is to buy feminine hygiene products. Walking down the steep roads, I could ponder whether I wanted firearms or knives as my weapon of choice while I sipped on my Amaretto di Sarono. Oddly, it's safer that my front yard.

12. We are suckers for punishment because I want to go back again.

Toronto, Government, and My Thoughts

Three facts:
I'm not a politician.
I don't know everything.
I have lots of ideas.

Keep that in mind as I ramble about what the government is doing wrong and what they could do right.

The government tells us to conserve water. Then they tell us the solution to lead in the water pipes is to run the tap water for 5 minutes to get clean water. They don't tell us that they can't be bothered addressing how they're going to replace/update pipes. Then they tell us we should buy low volume toilets to conserve water. WTF?

My solution: Replace the pipes over a 10 year period, starting with areas that service children first and ending with government offices. Tell the politicians there is $10,000 that they must choose to spend on one of 2 projects; replacing lead pipes in a public school or redecorating/refurnishing their own office. They must announce their decision publicly with their rationale.

The government is dragging their feet with the Caledonia land claim issue. Their illusion: They don't want either side to be angry with them, so they won't make a decision. The reality: The lack of decision making is making both sides angry with them.

My solution: The government keeps the land but the use of the land and buildings is a partnership between First Nations and the government in programs or initiatives that serve the First Nations community (such as supportive living and programs for persons with substance use issues, schools and daycare that include First Nations languages and culture in the curriculum, etc)

The government is going to spend millions of dollars with a new program for waste reduction. They plan to reduce the amount of garbage we produce by spending our money on trash cans and then selling them back to us. WTF?

My solution: Direct those millions towards replacing the lead water pipes. Restrict households to one trash bag/can per week with the option to buy tags from the city for additional bags/cans. The money from these tags goes directly into costs of waste disposal. Vancouver does this. Why not adopt a system that works rather than spending millions to create a new system, pilot it, review it and implement it. This is garbage...it's not rocket science.

Any questions?

For the Love of Shoes

Some women like shoes. Some women love shoes. Some women are addicted to shoes.

I never really understood the female fascination with shoes, and although I could appreciate a pretty shoe, it made no more impression on me than a pretty sweater or nice pair of jeans.

I hated heels with a passion. I am bow-legged and at the same time knock-knee so I walk like a cross-dresser when I wear heels. A 1 1/2 inch heel gathered dust in my closet, reserved for those times when I wore a *gasp* dress. Clogs were my heels.

Then...in the autumn of 2006...at the age of 44...my first pair of heels (or as a friend refers to them, 'crack') called out to me.

They did not say "I am comfortable." They did not say "You can wear me to _______ event." They did not say "I am inexpensive therefore worthy of being whimsical." They were three inches of toe-squishing, bunion growing crack.

"If leather is elegant, I am sex!" they said. I tried them on and surprisingly was able to walk in them. Unlike other heels, no pain shot up through my metatarsals.

So I bought them.

Then, one day, when I was trying on a *gasp* dress, the store clerk gave me some shoes to put on so I could see the dress how it 'should' look. ('Should' means 'without running shoes.')
They were silver and sparkly and four inches worth of metallic sex.

I bought the dress...and of course the shoes because the dress was NOTHING without those shoes!

I have since bought a classic-but-sexy-in-a-stealth-kind-of-way pair of 4" black leather pumps and a lovely toe-peeky-ankle-strappy pair of 4" black cherry patent leather platforms that would make a drag queen swoon.

I am typing this wearing the most un-sexy pair of Birkenstocks, and I still love my clogs and running shoes, but now I have at last triggered that gene that exists, even if dormant, in all females.

I am a late bloomer, but yes, I am, in my friend's words, addicted to crack.

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.