Happy Birthday Thomas

I took Thomas to the vet last week and realized it has been 1 year since he chose us as his preferred staff. He is so much a part of the family and a fixture in the house that I can't remember what our household was like before him.

A year ago, he was a beat-up tom cat with no social skills whatsoever. He is now the sweetest, most gentle cat who we fight over every evening. We used to fight over the remote, but that plays second fiddle to snuggling beside Tom on the sofa while watching TV.

"Stop mauling the cat.....(pause).....it's my turn!"

What is it about this 20lb cat that is so irresistible to us? We just want to pick him up and hug him and cuddle every time we look at him. I have been able to answer this.

I speculate. Perhaps it's because he always looks sooooo content...like he's never lost the appreciation for food, a warm place to sleep, and love.

It took 6 months for him to learn what 'play' was after he watched my other cat. When he finally figured it out, he threw himself into the task with so much reckless abandon it was almost frightening and akin to watching a rottweiler play with a ball of string.

It took 9 months for him to meow. He howled to females, growled to males, and hissed to people. He started with an odd Mmm sound to us, and now he meows.

It's like he's started his life over again with all it's milestones, but never forgot how bad his other life had been. He still goes all wide-eyed and chirpy every night when he gets a little bowl of 'milkies'. Milk is still the manifestation of comfort for him.

He does everything like it's the first time. Everytime. Eat, sleep, play, meow, snuggle. Wow! Life is great!

Life through Tom's eyes is blissful. To watch Tom and watch life through Tom's eyes is to live the life of the contented cat. He has taught our household much.

And so, I invite the reader to keep your eyes open for your own Thomas. He or she might be a stray that needs rescuing, or a rescued cat in a shelter that needs a home. There are more than enough Toms to go around. I am reminded of this because on the anniversary of rescuing Tom from the streets, I took him to the vet for an infected bite from this year's homeless tomcat in the neighbourhood.

Can I interest anyone in a male grey persian?

Injecting Crap Into Your Face. WTF?

I was watching the Emmy Awards the other night. I noticed 2 things about all the celebrities: 1. Everyone looked very well-rested...and I mean funeral-home-embalmed well-rested 2. Everyone had identical foreheads.

Neither of these 2 phenomenon looked normal. Both made me feel very uncomfortable.

Is it contagious?

If I am in the vicinity of any of these rested individuals, will I contract this deforming disease?

I don't think I would look attractive if my forehead was covered by a wax plate. I don't think I would look attractive if I stuffed cotton under my upper lip. I don't think I'll look better when I'm dead and embalmed than I do when I'm alive and animated.

I never hear anyone speak favorably of someone who has done botox or collagen injections. I usually hear "OMG! What did they do to their face?" or "They don't even look like themselves anymore!"

Why do people do this?

When I'm 80, I want to look 80. I don't want to look like a 20-year-old with a dowager's hump and varicose veins. Grandmothers should look like grandmothers...not aliens. Don't confuse the children!

Yes, I'm self-conscious about my gradually sagging skin, but we're self-conscious about something or other at every age. Accept it!

In Support of Spaying/Neutering Pets

I would like to introduce you to Thomas Jr. (Likely the spawn of Thomas Sr. who I described in 'My lecture to cat owners' blog in May 2008)

I first met Thomas Jr. in January 2008. He was a beautiful ginger and white tabby with a glossy coat and incredible muscle tone. He looked healthy and had a flea collar on, so I knew he had an owner. He was not yet neutered.

He was a little bit more sure of himself and aggresive than other males because he was still young (perhaps a year), and so the surge of hormones in his fit and energetic body gave him confidence.

The next time I saw him (about a month later) his ear was chewed off, likely from a fight with another male. He seemed otherwise still healthy and still had the (now expired) flea collar. It was not my place to interfere.

Early spring, I'd see him on occasion...spraying on doors and howling for females. He began to look scruffy and dirty from spending his time outdoors.

I didn't see him all summer...likely he was out roaming and sowing his wild oats. Considering where he ended up (I'll get to that later) he probably didn't go home anymore. A male cat will forego food and shelter quite often for the scent of a female.

I saw him again in early autumn when outdoor food and shelter wasn't as comfortable. If it weren't for his chewed ear, I would have thought he was another cat. An old cat. He was hungry, injured, and guarded, and looked through me rather than at me. He looked hopeless. He was a ghost.

I spent the next number of months feeding him...outdoors a first, then indoors with the door open, then with the door closed for a minute before he freaked out. I couldn't touch him or take away food dishes without being scratched and hissed at. He sprayed my door with urine. He had fleas and ear mites and who-knows-what.

Over the months, and with a lot of patience, bug spray, bandaids, and antibiotic cream (for me). He let me touch him...for a second. Then he let me pet him...sometimes...if he was in the mood...on the head but not the back.

In late December, he actually stayed indoors for a few hours. Food and subzero temperatures are great training tools. Still untrusting, he sat facing the door with his eyes closed, and weaved because he was so exhausted but too frightened to lay down.

A few frigid nights convinced him to sleep in the basement overnight on a box way back under the stairs.

A month ago, I was finally able to get him to a vet to get neutered and vaccinated. (That's another long and funny story). As the hormones subside, he stays outside less and less, and hangs around the house. He's inside most of the time, but still in the basement at night while my other cat slowly warms to him.



He likes to sit by someones feet or at least where he can see us. He won't eat my other cat's food if I say 'no'. He won't go into rooms or on furniture if I say 'no'. If my other cats whines because she's scared of him, he'll leave the room to give her space. He lets all female cats eat the food first. He is the most gentle and obedient cat I've ever known.

Every day is a new milestone. On the weekend, he let me scratch his belly. Last night he let me pick him up. He purrs up a storm and looks so content and safe when he sleeps that my heart swells.

Some people think it's inhumane or unnatural to neuter cats. As a pet owner, it's your choice, but please remember Thomas when you make your decision.
An unneutered outdoor male cat has a life expectancy of 2 to 5 years. A neutered male cat can live 15 to 20 years. Which is more humane? Allowing your cat to live 'naturally' is fine if you also take responsibility for your choice. If your male impregnates a female, you are as responsible for the kittens as the female cat's owner. After all, it takes 2 to tango.

I hope you'll remember this story when you get your new, unsterilized pet. We all want our pets to have a good life. I hope Thomas' story can help you define what a good life for a pet is.

Do the marketing people think I'm that stupid?

I was grocery shopping today, and after seeing a rather unusual item, I decided to look at a number of things a bit closer.

The item that got me thinking was something called a "grapple". It's catch phrase was: "Looks like an apple, tastes like a grape." My response was: "If I want a grape, I'll eat a grape."

This biological mutation was created for bored people looking for something a bit different. My advice...put on a blindfold when you open the fridge and see if you can guess what you're eating.

Other marketing "tricks" I noticed were: granola bars in the diet section have no less calories or sugar than basic granola bars. There was biodegradeable glass cleaner for $4 a bottle. It was acetic acid. You and I know that as vinegar. Go buy a bottle of vinegar for 99 cents. The "less fat" potato chips actually had more fat in them than some other chips that didn't advetise low fat.

Next time you're tempted to buy something because of a marketing buzzword (diet, environmentally friendly, etc) check the label. Buyer beware.

Oversaturation

Enough is enough!

When I catch myself saying this about anything, I realize I've reached the point of oversaturation. Today is the day that Christmas has been over-commercialized to the max.

I went to a Home Sense store...today...October 8th...to find the staff setting up the displays of Christmas merchandise. One looked over at me with a vacant sense of futility, and we shared a laugh.

I have increasingly despised the marketing and commercialization of Christmas. The expectations, expense, guilt, exhaustion, competition that has become Christmas has taken us soooooo past the purpose of celebrating Christmas.

In previous years, I've tried to resist the commercialization and I've worked hard to embrace the spirit of the season. I've been reasonably successful in avoiding Christmas vomit. (My sister-in-law loves Christmas decorations with such a fervour, everyone says Christmas threw up at her house, hence the term Christmas vomit)

I've had fewer decorations in the past few years, and even avoided a Xmas tree last year. I assert that I need to avoid investing my energy in Christmas vomit so I can invest it genuinely in Christmas spirit.

Todays premature exposure to Christmas vomit has created a frustration within me. I am seriously contemplating selling my Christmas tree and all its decorations.

This oversaturation has caused me to look at my tree as a big pile of plastic and wire and wood and grimacing nutcrackers and rediculous fat bearded men. I never really have a place to put it, so it sits depressingly propped in the corner of my living room between a desk and a piano. If a pine tree could be a lounge singer in drag, it would look like this.

I used to love my tree. Each year I bought a new decoration. I'd set up the tree ritualistically while my cat would climb into the middle and nest like a bird. Twinkling lights and rich gold beads and velvety ribbons.

*sigh*

I will work to maintain my holiday spirit, but I don't know if I can restore my affection for Christmas accoutrements. Is there a way I can enjoy the prettiness from a distance or am I destined to be covered in puke?

Can one survive a one-person boycott of a commercial Christmas? Will you join me?

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.