... finishing, cleaning up, reorganizing and staging a room is hard work.
we were at it all afternoon and evening.
and we're still not done.
but my back is really sore, and YB is ready to slip into unconsciousness, so we're calling it a day before we snap.
literally and figuratively.
maybe 12 or 13 years old.
alone.
quiet.
kind of oafy, "husky" even, and clearly big for his age.
gigantic, dirty knapsack.
prominent glasses, with uncool frames, which kept sliding down to the tip of his nose.
unkempt, greasy hair.
leaning in the doorway.
head down.
completely absorbed in his PSP.
feverishly playing.
nudging his glasses back into place with his finger every 10 or 15 seconds.
then picking his nose with determination and abandon.
i'm beginning to think i need to reevaluate my career choice by the end of the year.
because "freelance writer" doesn't seem to be cutting it anymore.
i've barely had any work in 2009, and that was after an already-lean 2008.
i can't seem to sell any pitches, no one's assigning these days, and my heart just isn't in it at this point.
as october draws to a close, and the hopes for an end-of-year glut of well-paying (or even just "paying") gigs begin to evaporate, the future is starting to worry me.
so, today's portion of Operation Covert Reno involved me finishing the priming of the walls, and also me going through the heaps and heaps of stuff that had been pinned to the bulletin board from my old bedroom.
there were layers and layers of clippings and photos and ticket stubs and comic strips, most of which were worn and yellowed and showed their age. some of the things buried deepest on that board were from the mid-1980s, that's how long i'd been pinning things there.
as i went through the board's contents -- and threw away almost every single thing that had been on it for two decades -- i came across the following poem, which i clearly found in a newspaper and saved. i have no idea when i did it, or why, or what made me save it, but i did. at least 15 years ago, if not more. and, sometimes, you find the darndest things in the strangest places at the oddest times for reasons known only to the universe.
this is the poem i found:
this is what they look like.
and this is where they grow.i am so tired i feel like i could drop. this is what three sleepless nights and lots of wallpaper stripping will do to you.
i am also ever-so-slightly hypothermic at the moment. this is what not wearing thermal underwear (or a parka) while standing outside in unexpectedly cold temperatures for an extended period of time will do to you.
and i have a pounding headache. this is what combining items one and two will do to you.
a funny thing happened after YB and i finished stripping the wallpaper yesterday.
amid the exhaustion and the elation of having leapt over the first big remodel hurdle, i started to worry that my mom might have wanted to do some of it herself, or be involved in the wallpaper-removal process somehow. that, even though we know redecorating this room has been on her to-do list for a while, and she'll be thrilled we did the work, a part of her might feel sad that it was done without her.
because three of the four layers of paper that we were taking down had been put up by mom and her mom, my late grandmother.
the thought kind of sprung up in my mind when trix and i started peeling back layers and exposing the wallpaper of years gone by. under the top layer was a deep green striped pattern, which i remember clearly because green was my grandmother’s favourite colour. below that were two different flowered papers, with the very first layer being this rather bold pink, blue white and green number with buxom flowers and blooms on it.
and, for some reason, it was that one that triggered the sudden thunk in my chest, because i imagined what it might have been like for mom and oma when it was first applied to the walls.
they would have worked together, wetting and pasting and aligning the innermost layer back when mom was 30 or so. she would have been younger than either trix or i am right now, and this would have been an important decorating project for them both.
i imagined the satisfaction they would have felt when they were done, and how wonderful it must have looked to them then.
and i felt my heart drop a little.
while mom has a number of my grandmother’s things, this room was the last place my grandmother ever lived as a healthy woman. it was her room when i took my first steps, and when trixie was born, and when we each graduated from high school. it was where she slept every night for almost 30 years and, ultimately, it was the last place she slept before her dementia meant she could no longer live with us.
i know how hard my grandmother’s passing was for my mother, and how much her presence meant all the years that the bedroom had been hers.
so, for a while last night, i feared that trix and i had somehow stolen one last goodbye from my mother to her mother. that we were perhaps removing memories that belong to her, and cheating her out of revisiting this chapter of her past one more time.
and, as i headed to bed, i found myself tearing up at the idea.
i really hope i’m completely wrong.
but i also know my mother would never tell me that i was right about this even if i am.
mom's now off on her holiday. she's not back until nov. 2nd.
so, trixie and i have decided to surprise her with a renovated room (in my parents' house).
mom was going to do all the work sometime in november -- stripping off THREE layers of wallpaper, priming, repainting, the whole nine yards -- but we figured it would be a nice thing for us to do the work while she's gone, so that she can just enjoy the finished room when she gets back.
thus, today, YB and i spent about nine hours emptying my old bedroom, moving furniture out, heading to home depot to rent a steamer and stripping lots and lots of wallpaper.
we had a short break for lunch just before noon, and another for dinner just before 5:30pm, and we finished phase one -- the stripping -- at 8:50pm.
my back is KILLING me, trix is about ready to drop from exhaustion... so we treated ourselves to cupcakes on the way home.
tomorrow: we wash walls, fill what looks like eight thousand nail holes (which had been conveniently hidden by wallpaper), fix cracks, and then collapse.
* critics are crapping all over Amelia. that's unfortunate. i blame the presence of richard gere in the film.
* i have been in a curiously contemplative mood all week. not sure why. maybe it's just autumn.
* earlier tonight, i went to my meditation group. we had a guest instructor, who led us in what i can only describe as an excrutiatingly long and tedious meditation that had me screaming silently on the inside for much of its hour-long duration. seriously, i can do a half-hour. that's fine. but once you creep past 35 minutes... then 40... and so on... no. when it was over, the group sat around to discuss this "new" and prolonged meditation and, much to my shock, most people loved it. me? not so much with the loving. or even liking. i may get up and walk out if anyone ever suggests we do that one again because i'm pretty sure the point of any meditation is *not* to begin calm and end in blind rage.
* i have spent the past hour shuffling through my itunes music library. revisiting songs that i only ever listen to when writing. for the past hour, i have nonetheless written nothing.
* i would like the universe to bring me three well-paying, creative and fulfilling writing assignments before the end of the year. just putting it out there. btw, so far no progress on the purple chair.
* earlier this week, i completed some practice questions for the american GED test. i'm not taking the test, i just did it for fun. and i discovered that i could probably pass that test were i to need to take it for any reason. yay! i also learned that i miss solving math problems. i love a good math problem.
* i think this next week may be it for fall colours here. i saw some spectacular trees on walks yesterday and today, but didn't have my camera with me either time. (i know.)
* ah, look at that. the sleep monster has arrived. 'night...
a bag of fresh-baked gryfe's poppyseed bagels. rotund, fluffy, slightly salted bums. delicious.
a bag of fresh honeycrisp apples. crisp, juicy, tart, sweet. delicious.
a container of homemade chocolate/chocolate chip/pecan/walnut cookies. chewy, chocolate-y, nutty. delicious.
a harvey's "ringer" burger (char-broiled hamburger topped with several onion rings), with ketchup, tomato and lettuce. savoury, tangy, filling, way more fat than i need. delicious.
a two-scoop cup at baskin robbins: one scoop of chocolate chip ice cream, one scoop of citrus twist ice. frosty, tangy, creamy, humungous. delicious.
fin.
shag carpet under my slippers.
the third and final load of laundry is almost dry.
there's an ice pack on my lower back.
no sound, just silence... save for the unusually loud ticking of one of my father's umpteen clocks.
kyle curled up on the stairwell, chin resting on the steps, eyes at half-mast, waiting to be put to bed.
* last night, well after midnight, i finished printing out my latest piece of writing. all 106 pages of it. and, as i wandered to bed towards 1am, i felt very happy with what i’d produced.
* today, i let go of those 106 pages and handed them off to be read.
* i would like to learn to play the cajòn. i do not own a cajòn, nor do i know where one might purchase a cajòn, nor am i even aware of anyone or anyplace offering cajòn lessons... but i have long loved the percussion instrument i used to refer to as “the box.” now that i know what it’s actually called, i feel like i’ve just bettered my odds of exploring this interest.
* is anyone other than me watching Mercy on NBC? anyone? i feel like i’m the only one... which is unfortunate because it’s actually a good show. i’m not getting too attached, though. i know how these TV scenarios usually wind up. (read: vickie falls in love with a show no one else watches, and then it’s cancelled.)
* my mom is leaving for a trip to florida on saturday. she’s going on her own, on a bus trip with a seniors’ tour group, to... wait for it... daytona beach. (i know.) it’s a 30-hour, non-stop bus ride (i know), and then a week in a condo on the beach. all to herself. she’s really looking forward to it (can you blame her?) and i really hope it proves to be a fantastic new destination for her. she deserves an awesome holiday.
* speaking of which, this is the time of year when YB and i would traditionally go to the states for a weekend road trip, but we’re not this year. she and mom went a few weeks ago, and now trix’s passport has expired... so, no out-of-country sojourns until she gets it renewed. i’m thinking 2010 at this point.
* over the weekend, i watched Away We Go. it wasn't as good as i thought it would be.
* in related news, i really hope Amelia is as awesome as i want it to be. i’m trying to overlook its inexplicable casting of richard gere (because, let’s be honest, he’s the same in everything... which is to say: trying to prove that he’s still richard gere), and to instead focus on what will likely be another great role for hilary swank. nevermind the fact that she looks dreamy with that haircut and sporting amelia’s period flygirl outfit.
* for the past few weeks, i’ve awakened each morning to what sounds like my bathtub dripping... but it’s not. the bathtub is bone dry. yet, as i lie in bed, i hear very loud and very clear ploinks of water dropping somewhere. i wondered if it was perhaps my toilet. it was not. the sink? newp. i checked the ceiling to make sure nothing was leaking from upstairs. all’s fine. the best i can guess is that the plumbing that connects all the bathtubs above and below mine has an interior drip in it somewhere, so that drops of water are falling from, say, three floors up and hitting pooled water, say, two floors down... and the reverberations of the sound are loud enough that i can hear them from another room. it’s actually not an annoying noise, either. more like a curious xylophone of some sort.
* the fall colours are almost at their peak.
* mr. poo is so long that, if i stretch out my legs and he stretches out on top of them, his front paws are at my ankles and his bum is on my thighs.
* laundry and cookies tomorrow.
* in bed at a reasonable hour tonight.
"a poem is never finished, only abandoned." so said french poet paul valery.
and he's correct.
because a writer can rewrite the same piece of writing for a lifetime without ever feeling like it's truly complete.
but there also comes a point where you have to put down your pen, or close your document, or hit "print" and let the work go.
it's tough, but crucial.
i'm a little pressed for time today, and have drawn a blank in terms of what to write, so i'll simply share with you the recipe for what is truly an awesome, awesome turkey burger.
i've mentioned these burgers before, and will continue to cite their deliciousness. both my mom and trixie have used that recipe from oprah with great success, and the meat mix can be formed into patties and frozen for those days when it's time for a "treats from the freezer" dinner.
seriously, i had another one tonight -- just fried in a pan, and then served on a bun with some lettuce and ketchup (because the burger itself is so rich in flavour that it can be eaten without any toppings) -- and it was amazing.
so, there you go. happy cooking!
yesterday afternoon i finished the latest draft of a writing piece on which i’ve been working pretty steadily for the past month. (please note: i said “latest.” not “last.”)
i first wrote this piece four years ago, revised the hell out of it for almost six months and then... lost momentum. i hit a creative wall, couldn’t figure out what was missing or how i should fix it, and the wind in the sails went calm so i just put it away.
it’s literally been sitting virtually untouched on my shelf for the three years since. sure, occasionally, i’d take it out to make some minor tweaks or changes, but i really wasn’t giving it my full attention and had already moved on to other things in my head.
but part of my heart was always stuck in that piece. enmeshed within it. so i took it out this september and realized that what it really needed to breathe again was a massive, page-by-page overhaul. the open-heart surgery i mentioned a while back. over the past four weeks, it’s undergone numerous transformations. it’s been completely dismantled and rebuilt and, i hope, is emerging better and stronger with each pass.
so, after printing out the final page of this newest incarnation, i decided to dig up draft one – which i’d kept, along with every other draft since – to see just how much has changed since october 2005.
and let me just say: wow.
was draft one ever TERRIBLE!
as i flipped through its pages, rereading what i probably thought was decent writing at the time, i literally laughed out loud at how awkward and obvious and over-the-top it once was. no nuance, no subtext, no subtleties, no colour. but, despite its comparatively rudimentary structure and storytelling, looking at it again provided me with some interesting insight and unexpected delight.
because it reminded me how far i’ve come as a writer, and showed me how much i’ve evolved as a person.
earlier tonight, around eight o’clock, i was standing on a downtown street corner waiting for the king streetcar. i’d just finished a fruitless trek to mountain equipment co-op to see about a new pair of keens (i went home without them), and was mentally planning the rest of my evening – should i eat dinner right away? watch 30 Rock? take a hot shower first and eat later? – a when i saw a streetcar approaching. i was relieved, partly because i was growing increasingly wary of the weird man near the transit shelter, who kept nervously looking over his shoulder at me like i might suddenly shank him, and partly because it was really cold and windy out and i was ready to be warm.
as i took out my token and moved a few steps back to let the weird man get on first, i looked heavenward for some reason and suddenly saw it.
a wish.
out of nowhere, descending slowly from above and floating directly towards me as if being guided into my reach by some unseen being.
now, i’m not sure what the fluffy, delicate, white thing i’m referring to as “a wish” is actually called, but it looks a little like dandelion fluff and i know it’s spawned by some kind of weed. they grow in clusters, then float out on the wind and drift through the air like little tufts of magic.
and whenever i see one i immediately become eight years old again.
as children, we always tried to catch the “wishes.” once you did, you held it in your hands, silently made a wish and then re-released the fluff into the breeze, presumably so that your wish could be carried to whatever governing force would take care of what you’d requested.
as an adult, i will always chase down a wish if i can. so, to see one tonight – and one that was so perfectly round and full-bodied and clear and distinct in the night sky, descending before me like a beautiful celestial body – was an opportunity i was not about to miss. this was clearly a very special wish being sent my way.
i made the first attempt at grabbing it and missed, then reached again and caught the wish between the fuzzy-gloved thumb and index finger of my left hand. my gloves are blue, and i could see the enormous, fluffy wish clinging to the yarn as if it were holding on for dear life.
but the streetcar had already arrived and it was my turn to get on so, not wanting to squander the wish by wishing too hastily or botching its release back into the world, i kept my two fingers pressed together and actually carried the wish with me onboard. wishes like this don’t arrive without a good reason, especially not on windy october nights, so i was going to make sure this one counted.
as the streetcar rolled eastward, i looked down at the wish full of potential, and thought about what i’d wish for.
and i knew right away what it would be.
when we arrived at the st. andrew subway entrance, wish still betwixt my fingers, i got off the streetcar. i moved to the sidewalk, took a deep breath and silently wished my wish as strongly and as hopefully and as clearly as i could wish it.
then i shook the wish free and watched as it floated back up into the sky, carried on the currents of passing traffic and buoyed by the hopes of a gal in fuzzy blue gloves.
sometimes, i wish there existed a shutter-speed dial for life. something that would enable you to control your exposure time, to speed it up or slow it down as needed, especially when it comes to all manner of beauty in the world.
tinker with your life’s aperture, and you’d be able to sharpen your focus, to easily capture forever those candid and glorious lightning-like flashes that ignite before you and then immediately vanish in the span of a heartbeat. the perfect laugh, a secret smile, the instant of love at first sight. the kind of ephemeral flickers or rapturous sparks -- themselves perhaps magic – that hint at wonders you might miss if you so much as blink.
adjusting that shutter speed would also allow you to extend and enhance your exposure to myriad beautiful moments or feelings or people... or even to life itself. to let in as much light as possible. a breathtaking sunset, the last forkful of a heavenly dessert, your child at play, the warm glow of a kiss from the person who holds your heart in theirs. for these, one click of a cosmic pause button and then, just for a while, you might roam around in splendor for a spell. you could savour and embrace, without fear of anything slipping away or darting past, and open your depth of field so your soul might touch every detail, every nuance, every wrinkle, every tiny whisper of joy within the frame of your experience.
looking out my windows today at the stunning canopy of neighbourhood trees, into which the brilliant colours of change creep more and more with each passing day, i feel a catch in my chest that says, “wait... not yet.” with seasons, as in life, what arrives so quietly and subtly often departs all too quickly, and i find myself wishing i could just reach out and stop it and gather it up in my arms as it is right now. to hold it close, make it stay, keep it here and cherish it for a little longer. but i know i can’t.
so, without that special shutter-speed dial, i try to look through my proverbial viewfinder and take in what i can, as best i can, before it’s gone. i know life continues to clip along at what seems like break-neck speed, to pivot and twist, to unfurl and unravel, to expand and contract, and to transform itself in unforeseen and unexpected and unbelievable ways regardless of whether i’m paying attention. so, if nothing else, i want to be sure that i’m at least endeavouring to walk my way through it with awareness, affection, appreciation... and my lens cap off.
fall is in full swing here in toronto and, as thanksgiving weekend approached, both YB and i had an urge to do something appropriately autumnal. something that might involve a pie-baking contest or caramel apples or giant pumpkins or hay rides.
we knew it would be fairly brisk out, but that the forecast was for sun – translation: perfect weather for a day trip. we both googled to see if there might be a fall fair or festival of some sort within an hour or so of the city, but didn’t find any that really struck our fancy. (somehow, the “woodbridge fall fair,” in a suburb of the city, just wasn’t country enough.)
we hemmed and hawed about what to do and where to go, and eventually decided to drive up to port perry. we figured it would be a quaint enough destination, with numerous small towns en route, and we hoped that the drive north and back would also afford us an opportunity to behold some spectacular fall colours.
trix picked me up in the mid-morning and off we went. we arrived in port perry around 11:30am and found it to be pretty empty. tons of free parking, and not too many people out and about. as soon as we got out of the car, we realized why: it was COLD!
actually, it wasn’t so much cold as it was really, really windy. the kind of wind that slices through your fall jacket like an icy blade and makes you wish you’d packed ear muffs. thankfully, i’d come dressed for the outdoors – read: i had a touque! – but YB was not, so our outside adventures were cut a little short. we wandered around the town, took a slew of photos of ourselves being goofballs, and then got back into the toasty warm car. i’d hoped to find some homemade fudge or fresh baked goods or something while we were there, but the pickins were a little slim on this day.
since it was early afternoon and we still hadn’t eaten lunch, we drove to the halibut house, a seemingly popular fish & chips restaurant, to fill our stomachs with something hearty. the service was super-friendly, and the atmosphere cozy in that “this place probably hasn’t changed much in 30 years” kind of way. it was really charming! we each ordered the lunch size halibut and chips, and (much to our shock) were presented with a pound of dense, heavy, thick-cut fries topped with a battered, deep-fried, dripping wet (with oil) piece of fish. honestly, it was about 3 oz. of halibut in 12 oz. of batter... kind of swimming in grease. it was good but, three days later, i feel like my body is still processing the plaque that instantly lined my arteries as i ate.
satiated, we started the drive back towards the city and decided that we’d just follow random country roads to see what we might see if we did. we’d literally be driving along, trix would ask, “should i turn here?” and i’d say, “sure!”
there was plenty of very pretty countryside, gorgeous old barns and huge expanses of farmland, patches of bright orange or yellow leaves (i was seeking red!) and a seriously awesome sense of winter approaching. probably because the fat, grey clouds were very much like the ones you’d see right before a snow squall.
at one point, along one of the narrow and well-wooded concession roads, some moron was tailgating behind us, so i suggested trix just pull over at the next clearing to let him pass. we saw a small gravel patch and she pulled in, the tailgater passed... and then another car immediately pulled in beside us. hmmm. interesting.
turns out, we’d unknowingly stopped right at the entrance to a hiking trail! i stepped out of the car to check out the area, and then we decided to go walking along the trail for a little bit. after all, the other car that had pulled in was filled with a young set of parents and their three small children... all of whom set out into the forest. so, really, if they could do it, so could we.
and it was SO pretty and silent and peaceful in there. tall, lean trees, most of which hadn’t yet changed colour, and stunning scenery as far as we could see. the smell of wilderness. even though we knew there must be other people around, it felt like it was just us and the squirrels (and raccoons and rabbits and foxes and chipmunks and birds). it was a really remote forest, and the “path” was basically just dirt and leaves that had been pounded down by foot, cycle and horse traffic. (yep, horse traffic!)
i took some pictures and we walked for about 15 minutes, but then were both too cold to really enjoy ourselves. we wanted to stay longer, but the temperatures kind of thwarted our plans (mainly because we’d never intended to hit the trails and were thus ill-prepared for our woodsy environment). plus, YB was also a little nervous that we might run into a bear – we didn’t, but we did encounter a horse and its friendly rider as we made our way back to the car.
as we drove back towards the city, we both agreed that what we need to do is plan to return to that trail on purpose and fully equipped for an hour or two of hiking (i.e., hats! mittens! thermals!) at some point in the next couple of weeks. because those about-to-turn colours will be breathtaking very soon, and we’d like to get back to see them before they fall to the forest floor for the winter.
and i can only hope the fudge-making community at large gets its act together by the time we do.
today is thanksgiving in canada, and i felt obligated to write some kind of thanksgiving-y blog entry. i literally started and re-started this a half-dozen times, eventually feeling as though i was approaching the task like a novice carver wielding the wrong knife to tackle that particular kind of bird.
while i know the picture-perfect thanksgiving exists only in works of fiction, i also know that, for many people, the annual celebration comes pretty darn close to the holiday-special ideal. families gather around tables filled with warmth and comfort and laughter and love and, for that day at least, recline in a soupy compote of togetherness.
and as much as i try not to feel envious, or to remember that there are scores of people worse off than i am in the world and i should just get over myself and enjoy the cranberry jelly, my heart gets heavy on days like today. i get melancholy.
so, when i sat down to write tonight, i struggled with content and context. i really didn’t want to pour out something bleak or depressing, but i also couldn’t honestly offer something cheery and bright. an itemized “here’s what i’m thankful for” list felt clichéd, and i began debating whether to ignore the holiday altogether and just describe yesterday’s daytripping instead.
after a few hours and the repeated false starts, i scrapped a long passage about said melancholy and decided to simply offer one snapshot of the day.
a snapshot of my dad during thanksgiving dinner.
to recap: many of you know that he and i do not get along. in fact, more than one meal has ended with me leaving the table prematurely, fed-up with his behaviour – which sometimes veers from boorish to childish to rude. i’ve reached the point of no patience anymore and, since he seems completely unwilling to change, i’d just as soon not be around him. so, when dinnertime arrives at my parents’ house, i tend to brace myself in advance. and thanksgiving is no different.
i sit at the exact same table where i’ve sat every year of my life, in the exact same spot, and look around as the exact same scenario that has played out every year, on every holiday, at every dinner in fact, plays itself out once again with only slight variations.
if mom’s prepared the meal, dad will often make some kind of very subtle but disparaging remark, like he wanted peas instead of corn, or “oh, I thought we were having (insert item of food we are very clearly not having)” in a tone that implies this is yet another letdown in a string of disappointments. (note: the last time he did this, i snapped and said, “i’m sorry, what i THINK you meant to say was, `thank you SO MUCH for taking the time to cook this entire meal for me,’ RIGHT?”... and he just kind of scoffed.) by contrast, if trixie’s at the cooking helm he behaves as though it’s the first time he’s ever seen food before. compliments pour out, thanks is offered more than once and nary a complaint arises. i feel like, after 40 years of marriage and infinite meals, my mom dies a little inside each time this happens. “thank you” are words she almost never hears from him.
anyway...
dad prefers to be served rather than serve himself. and, in some ways, it’s certainly a better option as far as portion-control goes. when he does serve himself, he piles his plate high. too high. but if anyone dares comment on it, even in a cautionary tone, he gets completely defensive and angry in a way that makes me feel like a giant boulder has just dropped in my stomach and i’m suddenly five years old again.
as he eats, he shoves so much food in his mouth all at once that his cheeks literally swell out, chipmunk-style. i’m not sure why he does this; it’s like he thinks if he doesn’t get it all in there right away, someone’s going to take it from him. more food goes in before the food that’s already in there has been swallowed. then he starts talking with that full mouth, as bits of chewed food try to squeeze their way back out with every syllable. it is, in a word, revolting. and, again, he doesn’t appreciate having his behaviour corrected, so it’s best not to suggest he perhaps wait until he’s finished chewing before he continues speaking.
he scarfs down his meal in about 15 minutes, during which time i sit with my head down, saying nothing. partly because i’d rather not see what his dinner looks like as it’s being chewed, and partly because – especially as the years go by – he’s lost the ability to have a normal conversation, so i’d rather not accidentally start one by saying any words out loud. he’s the world’s best pessimist, and can suck the wind out of any sail. his hearing’s not great, so things often have to be repeated. and the cocktail of medications he’s on (some of which he administers based on what he, and not the doctors, feels is the appropriate dosage) means he’s sometimes confused and his comprehension is on a seven-second delay. in my opinion, “no talking” is therefore a perfectly fine dinner-table mandate.
as such, i sit there and, as i eat, i silently hope that neither my mother nor my sister engage him in any topic either, so that he finishes his food and heads back to the recliner (where he will no doubt live out his days), leaving the three of us to eat and chat amongst ourselves. i should note that, in the past two years since he had stomach surgery, his participation in any family meal often ends with him going to the washroom to throw up because his system can no longer handle the volume of food he consumes, nor the breakneck rate at which he consumes it. and, let me tell you, nothing kills a meal more swiftly than trying to enjoy your dinner while papa audibly ralphs down the hall.
more than that, though, nothing deflates thanksgiving more than seeing how one person’s unhappiness can slowly erode the spirit of someone you love.
my mom is full of life, wanting to do things and go places and experience stuff... but she’s become a babysitter for my father, who’s essentially morphed into a miserable and lazy old man. she swears he was different when they first met, and she always says she has no regrets about marrying him because she got my sister and me as a result. but i feel like he’s chipping away at her vitality, self-esteem and her drive – nevermind her mental and physical well-being – with every ungrateful remark, snide comment and completely selfish gesture.
but mom’s of a generation and an upbringing that taught her that her vows are sacred, and if she’s married, she’s married until the end. period. for a long time, that was her rationale for staying in a marriage she probably should have left, and maybe she has other reasons. i don’t know. i do know that she’s an adult, and she’s made her choices, so there’s only so much sympathy i can have. and, to be fair, she will often antagonize as much as she's antagonized. these days i think she’s just fallen into a rut, figures this is her lot in life, and has given up on imagining anything else for herself. and that makes me sad.
that contributes to my blue mood on days like today. and, though i long for a partner of my own, it also reminds me that i never want a relationship to become more of a punishment than a celebration.
you know, i look at my dad and feel sad for him sometimes, too. it can’t be easy, getting older, losing your physical abilities, having your senses slowly disintegrate, becoming so bitter and broken that you sink into resentment and self-pity. but it never fails that, the moment that part of me kicks in and i get a little tender-hearted despite myself, he’ll make some asshatty comment or do something to purposely push my buttons, and the compassion evaporates just as quickly as it arrived.
it’s a dysfunctional situation, to be sure. sometimes, it makes me want to cry... then laugh through the tears at the sheer absurdity of it all.
... but a bad nicolas cage movie beckons (i'm staying at the chateau ce soir) so, for now, a shot from our day out will have to suffice.
while the entire book (which i've now finished reading) resonated with me, i found the following passage/description particularly lovely and wanted to make special note of it here, just because it's thanksgiving weekend in canada and i'm feeling all thanksgiving-y. would that every heart in the world were a big one:
right now, i'm about 2/3 of the way through Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life by anne lamott. i have no idea how or why i came to request this book from the library (i likely read about it somewhere, put a hold on it months ago and then got the unexpected call that it was in), but it's due back next week, so i want to get 'er done.
thing is, it's turned out to be one of the most me books on writing i've ever read. so much so that it feels exactly like something i might have written. it combines practical advice on the practice of writing alongside insight into the practice of living as a writer.
anyway, one of my favourite chapters involves seeing your project (or life) in one-inch increments. that is, to avoid being completely overwhelmed by The Big Picture, try to simply deal with a 1"x1" frame. i know, for me, too often i get completely caught up in the what ifs and uh-ohs of everything that could go wrong or become a problem that i wind up paralyzed. that whatever it is i'm facing -- an assignment, a challenge, a person -- seems too big, too daunting, too difficult, too scary... but if i'd just stop long enough to break it down into more manageable increments, suddenly it would be much, much easier to handle. baby steps.
now, this is a concept that's manifested itself in all sorts of metaphors on various subjects by tons of different people, but i was particularly struck by lamott's analogy. and i thought it merited mentioning, so i'm mentioning it.
you can read it for yourself here.
sometimes, i just don’t get people.
i especially don’t understand when someone is being blatantly rude or selfish or just behaving poorly, and then has the nerve to be all indignant when he or she is called on it.
a prime example occurred last night, when i attended a preview screening of a new film.
routinely, at such screenings, seats are reserved for members of the press and are blocked off in pairs, usually with a big, white paper sign saying... wait for it... “reserved for press.” this is handy because it means i don’t have to worry about finding somewhere to sit if the film in question is particularly high-profile and the screening turns out to be super-well-attended.
plenty of non-media folks, especially those who arrive within the last 15 minutes before the screening start time, eye those press seats, which are frequently on the aisle with great sightlines. there’s usually a studio rep on hand to ensure that the seats go to legit press, but sometimes – if the seats remain empty by the time a film starts – they’ll remove the signs and open the seats for the general public.
last night, though, a gaggle of obnoxious young women (all in their late teens or early 20s, all tarted up, and none of them remotely affiliated with the press) loudly wandered in about 20 minutes before showtime to discover an already-full theatre. there were four of them, and they not only wanted seats together, but wanted those four seats to be right next to their other four friends who’d arrived earlier... but who, it seems, didn’t bother to save extras. they spotted two empty public seats next to two reserved (but empty) press seats, all four right in front of mine, so a plan was hatched.
this clueless, newly arrived quartet decided to plot – literally, two feet in front of me as i sat in my press seat – how they would sneakily put their bags on the two very clearly labeled press seats in the hopes of deterring actual members of the press from sitting there because it would look like the spots were occupied. two of them would sat in the adjacent vacant public seats then, once the movie started, they’d remove their bags from the press seats, the studio would open those, and the girls’ friends – who’d wait in crappier seats elsewhere in the venue – could then relocate there.
frankly, it was the dumbest plan ever.
imagine my surprise when it actually began to work.
because, man, these girls had nerve. at one point, the studio rep escorted a pair of film critics up to those seats, and outright asked the most obnoxious of the girls if the bags on the seats were theirs. the girl, the worst actress EVER, feigned confusion at the very straightforward question. “what? no, those are my friends’ bags.”
when the studio rep then asked if the friends were press, the girl once again played dumb, as though the question were being asked in russian. “what? oh, um, yeah those are my friends’ bags.”
“yes, but are your friends in the press?”
“what? um, they just went to get food.”
“are they press?”
“um, yeah, one is.”
which, SHOCKINGLY, was a good enough performance for the studio rep! now, the whole time this girl was trying to sell her story, i was motioning to the waiting critics that, no, these girls were so not press, and that their friends weren’t either. but the critics either didn’t understand what i was mouthing, or didn’t care, or what have you, because they happily trotted back down the stairs and sat elsewhere.
at this point, i was perfectly willing to let it slide because, after all, if the studio isn’t going to push for answers or challenge the claims of a terrible actress who’s so obviously lying, why should i care? but then the girls and their friends started gloating over how well they’d fooled the rep and the critics, and congratulating each other on how smart they were. and i thought, “i could so easily walk down to the rep and totally bust you guys.”
i didn’t, though. i just sat there.
until...
about three minutes before showtime, another film critic and his wife – who was struggling up the stairs towards the seats using two canes because she couldn’t walk! (i think she may have MS) – arrived at these press seats and saw the bags upon them. the wife (again, may i point out that she climbed a whole whack of stairs ON CANES to get to these seats) asked the girls if the bags were theirs, and the lead girl said, her head sort of tilted to the side in fake sympathy, “yeah, sorry, these are taken.” when the film critic asked if the bags belonged to members of the press, the lead girl said, very clearly and confidently, “yes.”
PARDON?!
oh, i’d had it. i could not believe this brash, brazen tartlet would not only keep lying, but that she was actually going to make a legitimate member of the press and his physically challenged wife go back DOWN the stairs to find somewhere else to sit.
so i quickly leaned forward and, just as clearly and confidently, said to the critic and his wife, “they are NOT members of the press.”
the couple looked at me.
i continued. “you can sit there, because these girls aren’t members of the press.”
the film critic looked at the lead girl and said – almost apologetically! – that he worked for one of our national papers and the lead girl then feigned confusion, as though she was only just then understanding what “reserved for press” meant, before saying, “oh! oh, okay...” and then moving the bags as though she was doing them a favour. no apology, no nothing.
the film critic and his wife turned around to thank me several times, and the obnoxious girls then began getting all huffy and frustrated and angry that their plan had fallen apart before their eyes. frantic texting to their friends in the theatre began, and there were lots of “tsks” exchanged amongst them as one girl motioned towards me, clearly with some sort of “it’s that lady’s fault” commentary.
and i thought, “OMG, are you girls for real? you’re the ones in the wrong here!”
they behaved as though they’d been slighted or were being persecuted somehow, and all i could think was, “where are your manners? and, even if you don’t have any manners, where is your sense of compassion? or, failing both of those things, how about just the most basic understanding of right and wrong?"
honestly.
remember when i wrote about that ivy-covered house in my neighbourhood?
the one that undulated with the wind because of its thick coat of green leaves?
well, autumn has arrived.
and the leaves are changing colour.
and, starting with just the very tip of the chimney for now, that coat is beginning to turn bright red.
and that makes me smile.
this week? a new winner is crowned.
last night, i went to a taping of Michael Bublé at the Concert Hall and, by the time it was over and we were dismissed, it had become my new favourite Bravo! taping ever.
SO.
MUCH.
FUN.
both because of the show itself, and my equally fun company.
i walked into the event with moderate expectations. i enjoy michael bublé as much as the next person and figured he'd do a good job, but i’m not a rabid fan. certainly not as desperately rabid as a slew of the other women in the venue tonight. first of all, it was literally PACKED to the rafters. i’ve never been to a LATRH/ATCH taping with this huge an audience before, or one as fancily dressed as the folks in attendance tonight. i'm pretty sure some of the gals were wearing prom dresses. secondly, the rabid desperation crossed all sorts of social and generational lines. it was fascinating! there were many cougars on the prowl, plenty of breasts and lots of cleavage on display, and more than a few young things tarted up within an inch of their lives in the hopes (one assumes) of perhaps catching bublé’s eye and hooking up with the notorious womanizer after the show.
and, yes, he may be kind of smarmy, but wow... is he ever a fabulous entertainer.
bublé hosted the show and performed (a first for the series), and – for more than an hour – stayed on stage, crooned with his terrific 13-piece band, encouraged mayhem, took questions from the crowd, told stories, had sing-alongs with members of the audience, got his make-up artist to perform “summertime” (which she belted out SO beautifully!) while she touched up his powder, and generally had a blast. he was completely at ease and engaging and funny and charming, even when he veered into more risqué commentary and humour. (note: best comment heard after the show? “he won me over by being a lewd weirdo.”) thing is, michael bublé knows *exactly* what appeals to his audience, and he churns it out like a pro. he pleases his crowd.
as the taping ended, he had everyone in the at-capacity theatre in the palm of his hand... so much so that, when he enthusiastically urged everybody to get out of their seats (something that never happens at these tapings, EVER) and dance, WE ALL DID.
bublé began the evening by asking that everybody just relax and have fun. little did any of us know exactly how much fun would be had.
it was pretty awesome.
i would like to find a purple chair.
sort of like the one in this photo, only a deeper shade of purple and without the curly-Q seam on the arms.
big red needs a dreamy, wine-coloured friend.
yes, i have the lime-green nap chair, and it's still magically naplicious and soft and plush... but it's also beginning to come apart. literally. when i bought it, it was on clearance for, i think, $40. it's meant for a student's bedroom or dorm room, and it came with a weight restriction: "please," urged the manufacturer. "nobody over 160 pounds." so, it's starting to tear in places. repairable tears, yes, but i'm taking them as a sign that i need to resume the purple-chair hunt.
which brings me back to my original point...
since the universe responds to requests, though in its own time and perhaps not with the answer/solution/piece of furniture you desire, i figured there'd be no harm in just putting it out there in no uncertain terms:
i would like to find a purple chair.
a large, comfy, well-made, soft-upholstery-wearing, new (not salvaged from a dump or the curb or someone's back porch) purple chair with big, comforting arms and a lap you just want to sink into at the end of each day. nap chair v.2.0., if you will.
and i'd like it to be under $200. with free delivery.
tall order? perhaps.
but if you're gonna ask the universe for a present, you might as well aim high.
tonight, i attended another At the Concert Hall taping -- this time, it was a salute to motown, with a half-dozen artists all performing covers of motown classics. the show itself was amazing, and (save for an unusual misfire of a number by crooner matt dusk) everyone onstage turned it OUT, aided by a super-stellar backing band -- who, i believe, were referred to as "j.k. and the continentals," but i can't find any info on them anywhere!
colin james rocked, suzie mcneil decided audience participation was in order, justin hines offered up some sentimentality, justin nozuka (whom, admittedly, i'd never heard of before today) threw himself into his song and divine brown proved once again that she can blow the roof off any joint in which she's dropped. her rendition of the jackson five's "ABC" may be the best ATCH/LATRH performance i've ever seen. it was that good.
and, further to that, something really wonderful happened as she worked every last ounce of that song: i accidentally witnessed someone else witnessing magic.
the seating for these tapings is, as mentioned in previous entries, sort of semi-circular around a round stage. i was sitting in the front row tonight, on one side of the stage, and across the way from me, in the front row on the opposite side, were two little girls (maybe nine or ten years old) and a little boy (who was perhaps seven, and very obviously bored out of his mind).
when divine brown launched into "ABC" and the stage exploded in light and music, the audience came alive. and, about halfway through the song, as brown strutted to the other side of the stage to direct her attention to that half of the crowd, i glanced over at the kids in the front row.
the boy really couldn't have cared less about the proceedings, which was kind of adorable, but one of the little girls was simply in AWE of the person she was watching onstage. her eyes were huge, and she had the biggest smile on her face as she clapped along. it looked like this was the most magnificent thing she had ever seen in her whole life, and her excitement and delight radiated right out of her. this nine-year-old girl was positively BEAMING, and didn't take her eyes off divine for a second for the duration of the number. it was pretty sweet and totally awesome.
in fact, that little moment was so beautiful to see that i literally got a lump in my throat. and, despite a night of tremendous talent and beyond-wicked music, that's the moment that stands out as the night's best for me.
note: folks in canada can check the show out for themselves when it airs on Bravo! on tues. nov. 10th at 10pm.
it’s a little known fact, but it’s true: duvets control the weather.
if you live in a climate with marked seasonal changes – when the weather goes from hot to cold, not just hot to slightly less hot – you know that, with the change of seasons, a change in bed linens happens. light sheets and thin blankets are traded for flannels and down comforters as winter nears, and the opposite occurs once springtime arrives.
however...
if you make this swap too soon, you can actually change the weather.
why?
see, mother nature has a sick sense of humour, and she likes to remind folks that they need to wait for her go-ahead before doing things like getting their bed linens ready for a new season.
so, if you strip off the blanket and pull out the down at the first hint of cold weather, she turns things around and brings back the heat within a week to 10 days. similarly, if you get all overconfident in, say, early april and think that just because it’s been sunny and 16ºC for a few days all the snow and frigid temperatures are behind you... well, think again. no sooner will your wool and down and flannel be packed away than a cold snap will swoop in and you’ll be wishing you’d held off a spell.
i mention all this because, at the moment, toronto is unseasonably – but delightfully – chilly, with temperatures well below the seasonal norm. i love it, but this unexpected drop has caused folks to quickly dig out their winter jackets much earlier than normal. and i know others believe things will only get colder from here on in.
but, as someone who LOVES cold weather and welcomes it, i say: hang on.
wait.
don’t put the duvet on just yet.
why?
because, without fail, you’ll be guaranteeing hot and humid weather on the horizon. don’t scoff, it’ll happen. and that duvet you just dragged out will be rendered not only unnecessary, but hugely excessive.
in case it hasn’t been painfully obvious over the course of my life or this blog: i do not enjoy hot and humid weather. so, for my sake, please wait. just a little while longer.
kthanxbai.
do you have a blog or a website?
why not make it (or part of it) pink to recognize breast cancer awareness month?
it's quick, it's easy and (at least for me, anyway) adds a splash of colour!
