Last day of the year . . .

So it's New Year's Eve and I'm quite happy to be hanging out at home. I'm still on the tail end of this cold, Eric & Garielle are cuddling upstairs & watching TV (I'll be joining them as soon as I hit "post"), and I'm eating a yummy stir fry.

Every new year since . . . oh, about 1990, I think, each year sounds so bizarrely futuristic that it's hard to believe we've arrived. I remember when 1999 hit, Prince's "1999" was played all the time, and here we were, at the very precipice of the millenium.

2000 came, and the world's computer systems did not all crash.

Here we are and 2007 is upon us. It's just a mid-decade year.

As I type, I'm listening to a bunch of songs I downloaded, songs I figured I'd never hear again. They evoke memories of years past, other lives I've lived, people I've loved, people I didn't like so much, places I lived.

Sometimes I feel like I've lived several lifetimes.

In some ways, I feel like my husband and I are a young couple, just starting out. This is because we married just seven and a half years ago, and we have a five-year-old. But Eric will be 50 next month, and I'm 43. We're no spring chickens.

So let's see - how many lifetimes have I lived?

There was my childhood. That was a great lifetime. I suppose my university days can be lumped in with childhood.

There were probably too many lovers. I probably gave my heart and my body too willingly. Oops, is this a public blog? Oh well, it happened, and I had a splendid time. I emerged with no diseases and with my heart intact. I think, if I had it to do over again, I'd have been nicer to some of the men, though. I think I was a bit mean sometimes. And frankly, stupid.

My first marriage was like a lifetime unto itself. It sure seemed long enough. I probably should have left far earlier. Well, I shouldn't have married in the first place. I suppose I could devote a whole blog entry on that one. Suffice it to say that we made a mistake, and we got out of it while we were both young enough to get over it.

Then I had a wonderful and brief interlude of "single life." I liked that.

I can't say I was ready to marry again when I met Eric. He was ready, though. He had sown his oats, also having emerged with no diseases, and miraculously, no previous marriages.

So I moved to Canada and married him. Became a mother. Moved clear across the country. Converted to Judaism. And here I am. (Did I mention I was a Catholic during my first marriage?)

I can honestly say that life seems to get better the older I get. When I was stuck in my first marriage, projecting in my mind my life over the next several years and several decades, I shuddered. Little did I know that I would find the courage to leave a "perfectly decent man" and go on to find the love of my life and eventually become a mother of a beautiful, smart, and captivating little girl. I suppose my ex husband, who was obsessed with the idea that I had to work any old shit job as long as the money came in, would be amazed that I went on to launch a career and at times made more money than my husband. (He's starting a new job in the new year and will make significantly more than me, so I'd better get my nose to the grindstone and get a promotion! Ha ha!)

Well, I suppose I should end this blathering and go upstairs to cuddle with my wonderful family. I'm sorry if I seemed to get gushy in this entry. It probably won't be the last time, either.

Getting hard!

So I've been going to the gym for most of December, and now my arms & legs are getting hard. Woo hoo! I just love to lift the weights. I'm not such a big fan of the treadmill, or any of those repetitive aerobic machines, but I force myself to do them for about a half hour.

This isn't the first time I've felt my body get all hard. I've begun to get into shape so many times in my life, and I just love the way it makes me feel. So why don't I stick with it?

I put together a really easy routine for December, just to get me back into the swing of things. For January, I'm adding a machine and some time on the treadmill.

Okay, the truth?

It occurs to me that one more time in my life, I'd like to be a bombshell. I've had bombshell moments in my life, and frankly, I liked them. I probably have another decade, maybe two, in which I could still be a total bombshell. (Okay, feel free to post comments & contradict me and tell me that I have many more decades! I love it!)

I've been doing the "cool with myself" natural woman thing for many years now. I've been aging gracefully. I've not worried too much about a comfortable pouch on my belly or sagging boobies. But what the heck - I still have a few Wonder Woman years in me, surely!

Cute soup

Garielle made soup. I'm eating it now. It's good!

She stood on a step stool at the stove with a long-handled spoon, stirring the pot and telling me what ingredients to put in it. We began with a bouillion cube, then diced carrots, red beans, green beans, and corn. It cooked and she stirred happily until I talked her into putting the lid on to let it stew for about 20 minutes.

Before that, we made & decorated a ginger bread house.

And before that . . . brace yourself! I painted her room!!! Yes, by God, I painted that damned room.

Of course, I still have to pull up the carpet, paint the trim & baseboards, and figure out what to do about the floor, but at least the walls are a very light, soft, buttery yellow!

In other news:

The garbage disposal has been on the fritz for a week. I'm getting to really miss it.

Today, the dishwasher stopped working.

And I still haven't got my printer up & running yet.

However, I did replace a light bulb this morning.

Painting, painting, painting

I spent most of the day painting my daughter's bedroom. To be specific, I did the trim work - you know, painting along the ceiling, along the baseboard, along the doors and window, taking off the electric plates, and so on.

I finally got ready for the "big" painting with the roller, and I can't find the roller brush, or the pan thingy. I can't run to the store and pick some up because it's Christmas Day.

I came downstairs to look for them, and ended up logging on to the computer, which led me to this blog entry.

The room is going to look much better when it's finished. After I get the walls painted, I need to rip out the ugly carpet, then paint the baseboards and the wood trim. They're already painted in glossy pink, and if I take the time to sand or strip, it will NEVER get done. So I'll paint them with a primer first, then a couple coats of the dark blue.

After that, I'll move her furniture back into her room and hang up the cool things I bought for the room, and it will be DONE!

And THEN I will feel justified in obsessing about the living room.

The inner brat

So today I stumbled upon a concept I'd never heard of before.

We've all heard about the "inner child," and there are people who have done extensive work to "parent" their "inner child," and it's all very serious. The inner child, as we know, protects us from scary situations but often sabotages us. The inner child doesn't know that we're adults now.

A more lighthearted twist on this concept is one of the "inner brat."

When you say "Oh, I'll do it later," that's your inner brat talking. The inner brat also says things like:

"But I really want it! Let's use the credit card!"

"This one piece of cake won't hurt me."

"I don't feel like going to the gym. I want to watch TV."

"I don't have time to hang up my coat. I'll just throw it here on the chair and get it later."

The inner brat always wants to do fun and interesting things. The inner brat doesn't have the time or patience or attention span to do anything boring or difficult.

But when we force the inner brat to behave, the inner brat just rebels and is all the worse as soon as the drudgery is over, often undoing whatever the adult is trying to do.

"I was good all day and didn't cheat. Now I get some ice cream!"

"I haven't bought anything for myself in a long time. I deserve something really special."

"Okay, I did the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen. It's not fair that I have to tidy the living room too, so I won't do it."

So I happened on this site called The Brat Factor where the motto seems to be "If it isn't fun, it won't get done." Interesting concept! And it certainly makes sense.

Right now, my inner brat is insisting that I putz around on the computer instead of tidying the house. I want to tidy the house because tomorrow the decks are cleared so that I can paint my daughter's bedroom, once and for all. That will be my Christmas present to my daughter and to myself!

Things that I'm pleased about right now

1. Did I mention that I started going back to the gym? I'm on a light routine to get myself back into the swing of things. I lift weights for about a half hour, and then I walk on the treadmill for 20 minutes. It's not much, but it's getting me back into the groove. I'll torque it up in the new year. (Smart, 'eh? That's when everyone else comes back to the gym and we have to stand in line for the equipment.)
2. We're in the midst of Hanukkah. So far I've been to two Christmas parties, two Hanukkah parties, and one "festive celebration." We're having a latke party at our house this Friday. I'm taking the day off work today to make latkes ahead of time.
3. I really have a wonderful family. I believe I won the lottery of husbands, and my daughter - oh, well, I could devote an entire blog to my daughter. I'm surprised I haven't been doing that already. Maybe I still will.
4. I have a second interview lined up for a position at my organization that I'm really interested in. It's not a promotion, and the position is sort of tangential to what my department does. But it looks very interesting.
5. Because we're not going back to my side of the family in Ohio this Christmas, I haven't had to rush around to plan & pack, and I haven't bought any presents for anyone. Well, I got my sister & father each a little thing, and I'm going to get subscriptions to kids' mags for my nephews' children. But I've done very little in the way of shopping or wrapping. I haven't even seen the inside of a mall in December. I dig this being Jewish!
6. I've decided to break down and get an mp3 player. I know I'm the last person on the planet to get one. Truly, I know this is not so. I pass many people on the street every day who are concerned about where their next meal is from. I'm very lucky that I can even entertain the thought of getting an mp3 player. And new speakers for my computer. And possibly a new printer, if I can't find that friggin' disk.

Well, I think the things I'm pleased about carry far more weight than the things I'm annoyed about.

Things that are annoying me right now

1. This blog doesn't show up when I do blog searches. I have checked several times, and my blog is configured to show up in searches. What up?
2. Since I had my new hard drive installed, I can't get my printer to work. My computer can't seem to "find" it. It won't let me reinstall it. I've tried downloading the driver from the internet, but that doesn't work. It wants that original disk that came with the printer. I have no friggin' clue where that disk is. Hell, I'm the lady who misplaced her sewing machine.
3. I can't find my sewing machine.
4. I've been having problems logging on to the work network from my home computer. Well, I shouldn't say "I've been having problems." Not to put too fine of a point on it, but it simply won't log on.
5. My speakers were crappy, so I threw them away. Now my computer has no sound.
6. Everyone's house is more beautiful than ours. Okay, I know that's not exactly 100% accurate. But let's just say that everyone I know personally has a more beautiful house than ours. Today, Eric and I talked about FINALLY getting some shelving for his 1,000,000 CD's. I want built ins. We have enough media to fill four walls, so why not? Why not make the shelving the "wallpaper"? Eric says no. We're going to renovate some day, so no built-ins. I say we can remove them. He says he doesn't want to "screw around." So today I said I know we're not going to renovate. We're going to spend the next 20 years living half-assed, not making any meaningful changes to our decor or living style, because of some fictitious future renovation. Let's say I'm bitter.
7. We're at the end of the "fun" cycle at work, and now we're all about gathering numbers. I hate this part of the cycle.

Okay, that's about it. Except for everything listed above, I'm good.

Stilin to inspire living room

Here's a nice look from designer Robert Stilin:














And here's a link to a video of the room that more clearly shows how he mixes antique and retro elements: Video

He has a website as well: www.robertstilin.com

I like this look and it would suit our living room.

When I say "I love you"

I say "I love you" quite liberally. I'm sure people think I'm nuts. Sometimes I'm a bit of an over-the-top, larger-than-life kind of person anyway, so it kind of fits my personality, I think. Sometimes I say "I'm in love with you!" or "I just love you!" or some other ridiculous similar thing that my mother would find reprehensible. (Actually, it was my mother who advised me to be like Jesus and love 'em all.)

But it occurred to me this morning that last night, while I was out partying with some co-workers, that I think I said "I love you" to about five of them.

Do people really know what I mean when I say that? Do they just think I'm being silly and ridiculous? Well, they probably do.

Here's the history.

My family was very loving but not particularly affectionate. I didn't know it when I was growing up. I thought our family was the norm. And it very well may have been the norm in our midwestern small blue collar town. My mother used to like to say that the predominant culture roots of the area were German. There was an orderliness and a tidiness to the world. Country roads outlined huge squares of farmland. And we all liked beer.

And, as my mother would add, we shunned physical and verbal affection. We preferred to save it for when it was most sincere, which didn't seem to occur very often. Oh, of course, we'd hug from time to time, but usually just the immediate family, and usually it was a child-parent hug. I rarely saw the couples in my family hug. It did happen, just rarely.

And growing up there were very few people beyond my immediately family to whom I said "I love you." I know they knew I loved them, but we just never said it. It would make us squirm.

A few years ago, my grandmother was dying. I knew it was probably the last conversation I'd ever have with her. She was lying weakly on her pillow, eyes half closed. I decided to tell her for the first time in my life that I loved her. So I said it. "I love you, Grandma," I said. She was silent for a minute, and then she said "Oh, I know." That was the closest she could come to saying she loved me back, and I was totally cool with that.

Anyway, over the years, I've become more affectionate. Life is too short to withhold affection. Liberal use of affection does not indicate a lack of sincerity - not at all. In fact, the more people I sincerely love, the more wonderful life seems to be.

So if you're reading this and if I've told you that I love you, here's what it means:

When I tell you that I love you, it often means I have extreme like for you. It means I want to keep knowing you and probably want know you even better. It means I care for your well-being. It probably means that I have great admiration for you, as well. It means that I think you're a very good person and that you bring great value into my life. And it means that I'm going out on a limb to tell you how much I like you, because life is too short for me to wait around to see if you tell me first.

It doesn't have to mean that I want to have sex with you (but it may, especially if you're Eric). It doesn't have to mean that I will love you forever (unless you're my daughter, or if you're Eric, I hope, I hope, I hope). And it doesn't even mean I like everything about you.

And you don't even have to love me back. But it would be nice if you did.

Annoying shoe size

So why do most ladies' shoe stores stop at size 10? And for the few stores who do venture past size 10, why do they skip size 10.5 and go right to 11?

Sometimes I've bitched about not being able to find size 10.5 in stores. Invariably someone pipes up with "My (niece, daughter, neighbor, friend) has your problem - she wears size 11!"

Size 11 would be easier!

It's been suggested to me that I order shoes online. Well, why don't I get to try my shoes on in the store like everyone else?

And when I do find a rare source of size 10.5 shoes, I'm limited to very conservative styles.

Yes, I have big feet. But guess what? I'm a big gal. I'm tall. I'm not a freak of nature. There are lots of women with my shoe size. We're gorgeous and stylish and we have MONEY TO SPEND ON SHOES! Too bad manufacturers don't want it.

I've heard the argument that it doesn't make them money to sell that shoe size because the demand is so small.

They haven't done any market research lately. The demand for this size is on the rise. How else would Tallcrest stay in business?

We have money and we have pent up demand.

It's been suggested to me that if I'm so convinced there's a market, I should open a shoe store.

I don't want to open a shoe store. I just want to buy shoes! Specifically size 10.5, and NOT the sizes 11 that shoe salespeople try to talk me into - they flop around like god damned flippers!

There.

I have spoken.

Stranger than Fiction

Saw "Stranger Than Fiction" last night. It was a fantastic movie. Will Ferrell certainly has a lot of versatility as an actor! He played this role perfectly. Dustin Hoffman was a brilliantly enigmatic professor, and Emma Thompson blew us away with her quirky, sweet portrayal of a the writer with writer's block. Queen Latifah was very good, as was Maggie Gyllenhaal.

Eric says this might be the best movie he's seen, ever.

What I am doing

So I got my supplements. Already I feel a little better. The supplements I was missing were levocarnitine, taurine, tyrosine, and selenium. I also got a refill on my B12 shots.

I've also been taking glucosamine, coQ10, Cold FX, and a multivitamin.

I'm awake at 9 pm. For the past few weeks, I could barely remain upright this late. It was all I could do to shove some food at my child, and make it to bedtime. Now I actually stayed up and did all the tihngs I like to do at night to get ready for he next day, like laying out my outfit for the next day, laying out Garielle's outfit, doing a little pre-packing of her lunch, and so on.

And I'm back into stretching.

The next big hurdle is to incorporate walking back into my life. It's been so damned cold out that it's been just about impossible. But it's warmed up a bit, so I think I can start managing it again, especially if I can work it in during the work day.

And as for the house, I've decided that if I'm interested enough in pursing a friendship with someone and want to invite them over, I'm not going to worry about the ugliness of the house.

So I'm back on track.

Del McCoury has paid his dues

This past Sunday night, my husband and I had the treat of listening to the Del McCoury band in a concert setting, indoors, in comfortable seats. (I'd only ever heard them outside, at festivals, usually while I was sitting on the ground or leaning on a tree.)

The first time I heard Del, his band was called The Dixie Pals. It was the 80's and I was just beginning to learn about bluegrass music (one of the rare gifts from my ex husband). Del had already been in the biz for decades and was a permanent fixture in the bluegrass scene.

Although Del had a devoted core of fans, the general buzz seemed to be that he was just another of the "old generation" bluegrass boys who had worked with Bill Monroe. This isn't anything disparaging, mind you. This is a good thing. I remember the 80's as a time of tension in the bluegrass world. All these hot young kids were dabbling in "new grass," and all the old geezers spat on the ground and remarked "'Tain't bluegrass." Most of us walked the line. We loved and appreciated all the new stuff, but we didn't want the good ol' traditional bluegrass to get lost amidst all this new noise.

Anyway, I was getting a bit saturated with all this bluegrass information from my then husband and his bluegrass friends. I loved the music and I was quickly learning a lot about it. But there were a lot of people in bluegrass history to keep track of, and some of the people kind of ran together in my mind because there were just too many of them. It seemed that everyone who ever played with Bill Monroe instantly had enough credibility to run off and start his own successful band.

So we were at this festival in Ohio, and I forgot what we were doing or who we were with. When we got to the concert area, the Dixie Pals were in the middle of their set. We listened for a bit, and I recall liking the jaunty rhythm and great harmonies. We didn't stick around, for some reason - I can't recall why. We had somewhere to be or something. I recall a bit of regret as we walked away from the stage area.

I dug out one of my husband's Del McCoury & The Dixie Pals CD's and played it quite a bit. I jokingly referred to Del as "my pal."

Anyway, fast forward a decade. The marriage ends, and I anticipate a welcome break from a steady diet of nothing but bluegrass. I'm thinking I won't listen to bluegrass ever again as long as I live, if I can help it.

But I can't help it.

Probably the best thing that emerged from that marriage was an appreciation and understanding of this kind of music. I found myself replacing a lot of the CD's that my husband had gotten custody of. I found myself showing up at concerts and shows. Is it a coincidence that the man I fell in love with and eventually married is a total music-head and appreciates this kind of music?

So now it seems Del McCoury is all over the place.

Now, get this:

Bluegrass bands, especially the big ones, tend to tour the Southern states during the winter. Those in the Northern states don't usually get to see their favorite names unless it's summer.

Here we are, in Canada, for crying out loud, at the end of November.

Follow me on this.

It's 15 degrees BELOW zero. Fahrenheit. Can you imagine that kind of cold?

After plowing themselves out of a blizzard in Vancouver, Del McCoury & his guys made their way to Calgary. They arrived just an hour before the concert. Their instruments were still thawing onstage.

And they gave us one hell of a show.

And I realized that Del McCoury is not just one of a cavalcade of ex-Bill Monroe associates, thumping on his instrument, trying to keep the old brigade front & center in our minds. It's probably because he has two sons in his band, two very, very talented sons who push the boundaries and who want to bring the element of their own musical generation into the mix.

Del McCoury embodies the entire history of bluegrass music. And he still looks pretty darned good onstage.

To see the Del McCoury Band website, go here: Del McCoury Band

What I'm not doing right now

I'm not being a good mother. My daughter is on her father's computer, playing games at Noggin and Treehouse TV. She's been on for a couple of hours, which is way too long. But it's freed her father and me up for loafing. (And yes, the correct word is "me," there, and not "I.")

I'm not doing anything particularly constructive. Now that I have my computer back, I'm compelled to surf. I'm looking at retro decor sites. I keep fantasizing that one day I really will do something about that damned living room. I know. If you're reading this, you're sick of hearing about it. I'm sorry. I'm obsessing again. You might ask why we don't just get off our butts and do something. Well, our butts don't have the money to replace the gold shag carpet, or to paint the walls, or to reupholster the furniture.

So I daydream - okay, if I must have gold shag carpet, let's just play to it. Let's just decorate totally retro and fun. But by the time we spend all the money on retro shit, we might have spent that on new carpet.

So I avoid the house. Besides, I have it in my head that I have to finish my daughter's bedroom first. What's stopping me? I don't know. Time. Lack of energy.

Which leads me to the next thing I'm not doing: taking care of myself. I stopped stretching in the morning. I haven't gone for a walk in weeks. (Of course, it's 24 below zero here. Okay, that's Celcius. In Fahrenheit, it's 11 below zero. I'm not exaggerating. It's 11 degrees below zero today.)

I digress.

I went to a physician who specializes in alternative therapies awhile back. He put me on all kinds of things - B12 shots, taurine, L-carnitine, some other things. All bloody expensive. But I began to feel really good & energetic. Slowly, I've been running out of these things, and I've put off spending the money on refills. And now I'm starting to feel it. The L-carnitine made my chronic achiness practically disappear. The B12 shots gave me a boost of energy. There was some other supplement that the dr said would assist with motivation, and it seemed to work. Anyway, maybe it was all psychosomatic. But who cares - if it worked, it worked. I need to find time to get to the dr. and get those refills.

But I hate to take time away from work. Which brings me to another thing I'm not doing . . .

I'm not keeping up at work the way I want to right now. It's been incredibly busy, but our office is really popular for some reason and we get a lot of visitors. I should tell people to leave, but I enjoy the chatting and the cameraderie. I talked to my supervisor about this, and she said I just have to be more firm and tell people that I have work to do. She's right.

I think I have to go back to the beginning, to where I was in the spring. I wasn't blogging then, so I'll fill you in. *your eyes glaze over*

Over the past few years, I've been getting more tired and, well, more fat. I couldn't find the strength to exercise because I was just totally depleted. I couldn't manage to eat healthily because I literally couldn't find 30 seconds in my day to clean a vegetable or to peel a fruit. It seems it took every ounce of energy to do what was mandatory, like going to work, taking care of my daughter, throwing some clothes into the wash so I wouldn't go to work in dirty clothes, and so on.

So I visited this specialist that a coworker had gone to. He ran me through a bunch of tests and determined that I was deficient in a lot of things. Of course, he was happy to sell me supplements. I tried them and I really did begin to feel quite a bit better.

Now I feel like I'm sinking back to where I started.

Here's the thing. It all begins with energy. Without energy, it doesn't matter what I want to do or what I dream about doing or what I intend to do.

So this week I'm going to find time to get back to that dr and get my refills.

So there!

And then there are real life concerns.

Well, not concerns, just the usual day-to-day bumps that remind us to get our heads out of the clouds.

My computer is acting up. It boots, and then immediately logs itself off. It doesn't even give me a chance to intervene during the boot process, so I can't get in to figure out what's going on. After numerous attempts to reboot and numerous attempts to flip it to DOS during the boot, I gave up. I took the computer to a repair shop nearby.

So I'm on Eric's computer. The thing is, my daughter likes to get on the computer sometimes too, and it's hard enough for 3 people to use 2 computers. Now we're down to one. Oh, life is so hard, what ever did we do to deserve this??? (I hope you can see my tongue protruding from my cheek here. I realize that we're damned lucky we're of the set that can afford a computer at all.)

And I'm trying to get some clothes washed, and Eric came by and said "I'm going to need to wash some clothes." "Me too!" I cheerfully responded. The thing is, we finally agreed to do our own laundry, because I was getting buried when I was trying to do it all myself. But at least when I did all the laundry, I got to ensure that my own clothes got done when I wanted them to! But now, it seems every time I get a window of opportunity to do laundry, Eric wants to do laundry too. Damn him. Who does he think he is that he has a right to clean and fresh clothing? (Again, tongue in cheek. We're lucky we're not of the set that washes their clothes in the local creek.)

Well, I guess I'd better go check the clothing in the dryer and see if they're done!

Bizarre inclinations (again)

I hum merrily along in life for weeks or months at a time, and then I go through periods where I'm certain I'm supposed to be doing something else. I'm as certain as certain can be, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is how I will feel forever, so firmly rooted is the feeling.

And then it passes, and I think "Whew, glad I didn't follow that inclination!"

But sometimes some of the same inclinations resurface.

I quite often believe I'm supposed to be a public speaker of some sort. But as of yet I have no idea of what I'd say.

I sometimes believe that I'm supposed to be a motivational speaker, with books and CD's.

And I sometimes believe that I'm supposed to be a stand-up comedian.

And still other times I believe I'm supposed to be a writer.

Or a writer of music. Or a producer of music.

Or a screenplay writer, or film producer.

I never have the feeling that I'm supposed to be a fundraiser, for some reason, and that's what I do for a living. And I'm quite good at parts of it. I'm quite good at the parts where I go out and meet donors and prospects. I'm quite good at the parts where I have to stand up in front of large groups of people and talk about why their support is critical. I'm quite good at anything that involves writing, or idea generating.

I'm not so good with the minutia or the numbers or the results analysis. I'm told these are critically important in my field as well. I don't argue with that. But dang it, I'm raking it in - let someone else count it.

Anyway, I'm going through one of these periods again. This time, unlike previous times, it's not motivated by extreme job dissatisfaction. In fact, as far as jobs go, this one is a plum. It's probably the best job I've had to date. And I'm earning a decent and stable income that my family relies on.

It's time for me to move forward on some of these things. I think in 2007 I will either enroll in this comedy class I've heard about, OR arrange to go to a public speaking course or seminar, OR join Toastmasters. (The problem with Toastmasters is they have a once-a-week commitment that they take very seriously. I don't have that kind of time. I'm fairly convinced that once a month would do very well for me.)

Too bad I only have one lifetime. Of course, maybe I have more than that.

There's this spiritual theory that appears in many of the world's religions that says that we live multiple lives, and in each life, we're supposed to learn lessons that we carry into our next life, and so on.

The problem I have with this theory is that if this were the case, we should be able to remember the lessons learned in previous lives. I'd sure love to remember what those lessons were, and I sure wish I could take the lessons I'm learning here into the next life.

I wish I could leave myself a memo: "Next time, don't forget - be a singer/songwriter!"

Romanian villagers are not amused

Residents of a remote Romanian village have joined the backlash against Sacha Baron Cohen's hit movie Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan.

Villagers in Glod, Romanian for "mud," are threatening to sue the film's producers for paying them a pittance to stand in for a Kazahk village in the movie.

Sacha Baron Cohen, as Borat, is being accused of duping Romanian villagers in Glod when he filmed his hit movie.(Matt Sayles/Associated Press)

They say they are horrified and humiliated after learning the movie ridicules their abject poverty and simple ways.

The residents say filmmakers got them to put farm animals in their homes and perform other crude antics.

For the full article, please go here: http://www.cbc.ca/arts/film/story/2006/11/15/borat-glod.html

UPDATE: Perhaps the joke is on Borat

Here's another viewpoint. For the most part, the Americans upon whom Sasha is trying to pull pranks respond with the utmost politeness. And as the author of this article points out, the rodeo crowd did stop cheering when they realized Borat was going too far, the gun seller didn't sell him a gun, and the genteel Southern dinner guests and hostess went very far in their politeness and tolerance.

Borat exposes "crassness" of America? I think not. Borat exposes its extreme politeness.

Read the article here:

http://www.slate.com/id/2153578/?GT1=8805

Mel Gibson name change!

I hadn't looked at my husband's blog in quite some time. Today I looked and found this entry from a few month's back:

I have decided what Mel "Mad Max" Gibson has to do before I could forgive him for his anti-semetic outburst. He must change his name to Shlomo.

So today I emailed him this "news" article. Ha! I kill me! (If you'd like to see my husband's blog, it's at http://ericsfrozenblog.blogspot.com.)

Mel’s name change has fans in uproar

HOLLYWOOD - Stan and Carla Haney spent their first date at Mel-Fest, the film festival dedicated to the works of Mel Gibson.

On their 10th anniversary, they'll be watching Shlomo Gibson in a one-man play entitled “Anne Frank: What Happens In The Annex Stays In The Annex.”

They are none too happy about the name change.

"It's a cumbersome name and to me he will always just be Mel," said Carla. "I appreciate his motivations, but I think it’s unnecessary. Maybe we're just anti-Semitic."

The new name came about Friday when Internally Blond, Gibson’s agency, announced the name change at a Los Angeles fundraiser.

Gibson’s legal name will remain Mel. He was originally named after his great-grandfather, Melvin Schlechte.

"That helps," said Stan. "At least his legal name will stay the same. After all, his own grandkids might want to name their kids after him."

"And not only that," added Carla, "It's a Jewish tradition to name a child after a deceased loved one. Someday Mel’s going to croak, and it would be a nice nod to the Jewish community if their grandkids named their own children ‘Mel’."
Alex Regis and friend Jennifer Hofner had one word to describe the name change: Horrible.

"People are going to boo whenever his name appears in credits or anything," said Regis.

For one of Hofner’s friends, the pain may have been even deeper.

"That's my name," said Shlomo Gibson Goldblum with a hint of sadness.

Andy Kauffman LIVES . . .

. . . as Sacha Baron Cohen.

When my husband brought my attention to Borat and suggested that his creator, Sacha Baron Cohen, was Andy Kauffman all over again, I thought he was referring to similarities between Borat and Kaufman's character, Foreign Man.

Yesterday, we went to see Borat: Cultural Learnings of America For Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan.

At several points during the movie, my husband said "Now THAT was set up." I finally said "The whole thing is set up - it's a movie!" He said "No, a lot of these people didn't know they were going to be in a movie."

What the hell does that mean? Was not the presence of camera people a give-away clue???

My husband explained that many people were misled with regards to the kind of movie it was going to be. They were told that it was a documentary about a Kazakhstani man traveling across America.

Some of the scenes were so outrageous, such as the photographs of the genitals of Borat's son being shown to the etiquette coach, the singing of the Kazakhstan national anthem to the tune of the American national anthem, and so on.

Apparently, most of the participants of the movie had no idea what they were doing. For instance, members of the Veteran Feminists of America thought they were being given an opportunity to further women's rights for third world women.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/entertainment/6071486.stm

Here is Borat's website: http://borat.tv

The movie was a lot funnier when I believed the participants were all actors. But now that I know it was just mean humor, it's not funny. There was a line in "Man On The Moon" in which Danny DeVito's character (Kaufman's agent) says Andy's humor isn't funny because Andy is the only one laughing.

It's the same reason I don't like Rick Mercer's "Laughing At Americans." It's just mean.

Books as a substitute for action

I just love buying books about things I'd like to do. I have books on finance, home organization, weight loss, strength training, polymer clay, home decor, sewing, painting, time management, cooking, meditating, creativity, entrepreneurship, self-discovery, sex, creative writing, voluntary simplicity, music industry, and so much more!

When I start to feel motivated about something, I run out and buy a book about it. I might buy ten books about it. Then the feeling passes, but I still have the books. The books indicate that the project du jour is not off the table - it's just parked for awhile. The books are evidence that I still may get around to pursuing it one day.

Here are some of my favorites. I'd like to say they're motivational. They feel motivational and they always make me feel like I'm moving forward with things. Of course, reality conflicts with these pleasant delusions. But perhaps you're a more disciplined soul than I am, in which case these books could possibly be of value to you:

(By the way, I'm not an affiliate nor am I enrolled in any programs to make money off of these books. I'm just providing links for informational purposes, and if you check the link address, you'll see that they're just straight links.)

Sink Reflections by Marla Cilley, otherwise known as "Flylady"
The Complete Tightwad Gazette by Amy Dacyczyn
The Magic Lamp by Keith Ellis
I've Been Rich. I've Been Poor. Rich Is Better. by Judy Resnick
Clear Your Clutter With Feng Shui by Karen Kingston
Writing Down The Bones by Natalie Goldberg
The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron
Awaken the Diet Within by Julia Havey
Body For Life by Bill Phillips
The Success Principles by Jack Canfield
Eat That Frog by Brian Tracy
Inc. Your Dreams by Rebecca Maddox
Three early books by Wayne Dyer: Your Erroneous Zones, Pulling Your Own Strings, and The Sky's The Limit. These books really do go together to form a trilogy.

I posted earlier that I've been reading Make Your Creative Dreams Real by SARK. I borrowed it from the library. I'm halfway through it, and now I want to go buy it to have for my very own. I'm not happy just reading books. I need them to take up permanent residency in my home.

Crafty Chica inspires me, but not enough to actually do anything!

I love going to this woman's site! Crafty Chica

Everything about her is bright and fun. She has a definite Chicana style that is also fresh & funky. She's also a mother of two, and apparently works a full-time job, in addition to maintaining her website, promoting her stuff, and so on.

I emailed her once and asked her to post something at her site about time management! She never responded. Maybe she didn't have time.

Well, now I'm off to rinse the hair colour out of my roots and get on with my life of unfinished projects.

Why we still love Barry Manilow

I think my husband & I were on our first date, and we were looking through a music store for some reason. He was pulling out this or that CD that interested him, and I found a CD version of a Barry Manilow album I had when I was probably twelve or thirteen. I was excited about that.

Years later, my husband teased me and said that it was almost a deal-breaker. He just didn't know if he could date a woman who likes Barry Manilow.

There was nothing about Manilow that indicated he would be such a hit with the barely-post-pubescent female crowd way back in the 70's when he hit us over the head with "Could This Be Magic" and "Mandy." For one thing, he was waaaay old - my god, he was 30 years old! He was also terribly skinny. And (apologies to you, Barry), he didn't really have the cutie-pie face that girls go for. And we were also dimly aware that he evoked something a bit, shall we say, homosexual. ("Not that there's anything wrong with that!")

But we didn't want to smooch with him or even hold hands. We just wanted to discuss our deepest feelings with him. Deepest feelings were new to us at that age, and very exciting. The boys our age either hadn't hit puberty yet, or if they had, just wanted to grope our budding boobies. They didn't give a shit about our feelings. But Barry Manilow did, and he sang about them.

Who among us didn't sob "Yes, that's me!" when we heard "All The Time"?

All the time I thought there's only me
Crazy in a way that no one else could be
I would have given everything I own
If someone would have said "you're not alone"

All the time I thought that I was wrong
Wanting to believe but needing to belong
If I'd've just believed in all I had
If someone would have said "you're not so bad"

All the time,
all the wasted time
All the years
waiting for a sign
To think I had it all
All the time

And he sang about that mysterious and exciting realm of adult love, and gave us a picture of what that might be like.

And he did it with big, sophisticated chords, and shiny backup vocals. There was nothing patronizing or bubble gum about him.

And for someone like me, who wrote piano pop tunes prolifically, he was an unknowing mentor. He was a musician's musician. I recall reading that he was trying to clean music up a bit. What a noble philosophy - it thrilled my thirteen-year-old heart.

I commented to my father that I wanted to marry someone like Barry Manilow.

"He wouldn't marry you," my dad said. "He's Jewish. Jewish people only marry other Jewish people."

"Could I be Jewish?" I asked.

"You can be whatever you want to be!" he said. "Go ahead and be Jewish."

As we grew older, some of us learned to hide the fact that we were Manilow fans. It provoked teasing and jeering among our so-called friends. It classified us as musical nerds. Couldn't we at least worship one of the many he-men of music of the day? Couldn't we get on the bandwagon of someone a little more rebellious or subversive? After all, there was nothing about Barry Manilow that would piss our parents off, for crying out loud.

And as we got older, and as we heard Mr. Manilow in interviews and heard him in concert, we learned that he wasn't exactly a rocket scientist. He was a hell of a songwriter and a hell of a singer. But he was just a bit transparently manipulative, just a wee bit hokely dokely, and embarrassingly corny.

So we moved on.

My tasted broadened considerably through high school and into university, where I was a music major, into my first marriage, where I became of fan of bluegrass and other acoustic genres, and into blues and reggae and mbwbwe and a million other forms.

Years later, after I married my second (and hopefully final) husband, I emerged nude and dripping wet from the mikvah during my conversion process. Out of the blue, it occurred to me.

"I could marry Barry Manilow now," I said to my husband.

Recently on a whim, I bought every CD available of Manilow albums that I had when growing up. And I listened to them. I listened to them through new, adult ears. And I have to admit that I really had good taste when I was thirteen years old. As a thirteen-year-old, I understood enough about music theory to "get" a lot of what was happening in his music. And I also "got" a lot of it intuitively.

And of course, I went on to get his CD of Sinatra covers and a few other gems.

The other day, I saw him on a daytime talk show - Megan M . . . whatever her name is. (Sorry Megan. I don't watch a lot of TV, but I do know you were on Will & Grace.) He looked a bit like a gay Rod Stewart.

And he said he can take it when people make fun of him, but not when they make fun of his fans. So once again, he gives a shit about us.

And he has a new CD out - cover tunes from the '60s.

It's in my tote bag now. I haven't opened it yet. I'm typing this from work, and I think I'll play it in the car on the way home.

Sorry I left you, Barry - I guess I'm back!

On expressing creativity

I seem to be one of those people who are always on the verge of creativity, but never quite get there. If you've read previous entries of this blog, you know that lately I'm obsessing about decorating this house. That's just one example.

In my life, here are the things I've done:

- I've written music quite prolifically, but only during certain periods of my life. I could devote an entire blog entry to that one. Maybe some day I will.

- I've written poetry, even had one poem published, and have read my poetry at coffeehouses and nobody threw tomatoes.

- I've created tons and tons and tons of drawings and paintings. True, the bulk of this work occurred before I was eleven years old. But I did take some art classes at University, and I didn't suck.

- I've written a lot of short stories, and have started writing several books. Oh, well, okay, I did finish one book - it's an ebook. Does that count? It's for sale at the website of my alter-ego, Holly Zenith, at hollyzenith.com.

- I've designed and made clothing for myself.

- I've written plays. Heck, I've been in plays, if you count high school.

- I've written humorous essays, and even wrote a stand-up routine that I performed for my colleagues at our awards dinner. Nobody threw tomatoes there either. (Of course, tomatoes weren't on the menu that evening.)

- I've invented numerous culinary works of art that have never again been duplicated because I never write down the recipes or remember what I did.

And here are the things that I've never actually done but have fantasized about to the point that I have fleeting notions that I could actually do these things if I pursued them:

- decorate a house. Ha ha ha! Oh, I kill me.

- write and/or edit and/or produce and/or direct films.

- do pottery

- actually finish a book (except for the ebook - does that count?)

- be a choreographer. Does it matter that I can't dance?

- be a stand-up comedian.

- be a motivational speaker.

- be hilarious on a TV sitcom

So, WHY, pray tell, am I a fundraiser for United Way? I suppose it's because I'm pretty good at it, and because I'm passionate about the cause. And perhaps it's because I amuse my colleagues enough that they hesitate to fire me.

Anyway, so there are two things that I'd like to just mention about all of this.

First of all, I brought home a book from the library by SARK. Don't know who SARK is? SARK

This is the book:

So if you've checked out this woman's website, you see she actually sells memberships to her sites! What does she offer? Camaraderie for those who are pursuing creative dreams, a niche, a place to post about one's dreams, and so on. See Society of SARK.

That's brilliant!

Secondly, the book is making me consider whether or not I've been making time for my creative pursuits. Well, I guess I didn't need to consider that. I know that the answer is "No, Chandra, you have not been making time for your creative pursuits."

I put the book aside because I didn't have time to read. I had mail to go through, forms to fill out, and so on.

And in that pile of paperwork, I found our synagogue's newsletter. We've only joined recently (and in fact I'm not 100% positive my husband has even sent our dues in, so maybe we still haven't joined). I flipped through the announcements and flyers that come with each newsletter, and noticed one in particular: CABARET NIGHT! Wanted: TALENT!

I went on to read that "proficient" musicians are sought. But at the bottom, it said "Don't be shy! ALL are welcome!"

Hmmmm.

What I haven't blogged much about is that I want to get back into making music again. And I have this bass that I hardly ever play. I can't say I'm "proficient" at it, but I'm enough of a musician to know that I could be pretty quickly if I spent time on it.

My bass is an Epiphone replica of the Hofner bass that Paul McCartney played in the Beatles.

It looks like this:







So I picked up the phone and called the contact person on the sheet. He wasn't in, but his wife took a message.

Hmmm. What am I getting myself into? Looks like I'm about to get better on that bass!

That's what I need. More things to do. More "spray" in my life, less "stream."

On coming to Canada

Haven't blogged for several days. Really crazy busy, at both home & work. No "give" in my schedule.

However, sometimes the body takes over, which mine seems to be doing. I'm feeling just slightly under the weather, so I'm hanging at home today, while my husband & daughter gallavant about the town.

This morning, my daughter asked me to sing that Canada song to her.

"What Canada song?" I asked. "You mean 'O Canada'?"

"Yes, that one!"

So I sang:

O Canada! Our home and native land!
True patriot love in all thy sons command.
With glowing hearts we see thee rise,
The True North strong and free!
From far and wide, O Canada,
we stand on guard for thee.
God keep our land glorious and free!
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

And it occurred to me that I need to dig out that book they sent me to prepare for my citizenship test. They might call me any day (week, month, year) to come and take that test.

So how did I come to be on the list for pending citizenship? Did a love for Canada pull me out of the States?

It started as a purely pragmatic issue. I met this wonderful man and knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. Of course, I've felt this way about other men before (which explains the previous marriage), so why was it different this time? I couldn't tell you. Maybe it wasn't different. Maybe I recognized that I needed to be different in order to make it work out this time.

Anyway, he seemed to feel the same way about me. But he was cautious too. I had been married before. I was just a bit bitter about commitments, especially ones that turn lukewarm.

He said he just couldn't see himself living in the U.S. and besides, he was settled in his job. I was the one itching for a change, so it made sense that I should make the move.

Besides, I was ready to leave my job. It was a good job, but I felt as if I had run my course there. I wanted to try something else, and I was ready to leave Northwest Ohio. Before I met this man, I was eyeing other cities: Atlanta, Denver, Chicago, anywhere a little more dynamic than where I was living. And then I met this man from Canada . . . . hmmm, Canada! New options to consider - wouldn't it be fun to live in Toronto??? Or how about Vancouver?

Well, the item on the menu that day was Windsor, Ontario. But it was a start, and say what you will about Windsor, it's still more interesting than the little town in which I was living. Besides, who knew what the future might bring?

So our original discussions were around just moving in together. I was ready to start graduate school, had my portfolio all together and so on, so we talked about living together in his apartment - he would work and do his best to support both of us while I embarked on my journey to become an academic.

He worried about that. He had previous experience sharing an apartment and a bed with a woman who was going to grad school. He didn't wish to re-live some of that angst. However, if that's what he had to go through to get to the other side (the two of us living happily ever after), he would staunchly trudge through it.

Well, my application didn't pan out. Apparently they loved my portfolio, love my almost 4.0 GPA (only one damned B on my record), loved my GRE scores, loved my references, but didn't feel that my undergraduate coursework was enough in alignment with the course of study I was applying for. They cheerfully recommended I take a year or two of undergraduate courses to prepare for their program.

On to plan B.

We'll just shack. I'll fill out whatever paperwork I needed to fill out to become a landed immigrant in Canada, and I'll just live with him and find something interesting to do. Hell, maybe I'd go back to school and pick up those damned courses.

When we looked into it, it looked like the easiest path for me to get to Canada was to marry this man.

There was no formal proposal that I can remember. It was more of a mutual admission that we each wanted to spend the rest of our lives with the other one. So I immigrated on a fiance visa, meaning that I had to marry him within 90 days of arriving to Canada.

In preparation for his household population doubling, my then fiance bought a house. It was a splendid house - two and a half storeys, brick, hardwood floor throughout, very tastefully decorated, fireplace, french doors dividing all the rooms on the main floor - quite a dream house. I still really miss that house.

My landing date was June 30, 1999. I like to say that it was July 1, since that's Canada Day and it's my birthday.

We filled a huge moving truck and my van with all my stuff. We hired my young strong nephew, his young strong friend, and two young strong university students to help us make the move.

I can't even remember what we did after everything was moved into the house and the kids left. We probably went out to eat. We did a lot of that those days.

So one must wait five years after landing in Canada before applying for citizenship. I wasn't sure if I was actually going to proceed down that road or not, but quite a few things happened since moving here that sealed the deal for me.

The death of my mother seemed to weaken whatever anchor I have to my old stomping grounds. I dearly, dearly love my family. But they would agree that my mother was the fixture, the matriarch, and the magnet that pulled us all together. If my mother had not passed away, we may not have moved to Calgary.

The events on September 11, 2001 had a profound impact on everyone. I was 9 months pregnant, waiting for my baby to arrive, when I saw the events unfold on television that morning. I spent the final 12 days of my pregnancy weeping and watching the border between myself and my homeland tighten.

After the birth of my daughter, I realized that I never, ever wanted any border to potentially keep me from my husband and daughter. People say reassuring things such as it's almost impossible to deport a permanent resident, and blah blah blah. Well, times change. Things we take for granted disappear. It's a whole new order.

So now my citizenship is pending.

This past summer, my daughter and I spent 3 wonderful weeks with my family in Ohio. My husband wasn't able to join us. I know he was beside himself the entire time we were away. It's a little scary when there is a border separating you from those you love most. And while we were in the States, I prayed that nothing would happen to screw up our return to Canada.

I will always be an American, unless I'm forced to renounce my citizenship in order to remain Canadian. Because as long as my husband and daughter are here, I choose Canada.

Pictures of my daughter in the snow

It snowed overnight - is still snowing today, as a matter of fact. My daughter & I took a walk to the park this morning. It was pretty cold, but very lovely to look at.

All about Briscoe

I had to go to the animal hospital to get a refill on Briscoe's cyclosporine. It's pretty critical because it's what is keeping him alive.

I decided to bring Briscoe with me, because he enjoys car rides. So we drove to the animal hospital, to find that it was closed. I knew they were moving to their new building at some point, but didn't know exactly when. Apparently it just happened.

The new address was posted on the door, so back into the car we went.

The thing is, their new place is one of those can't-get-there-from-here kinds of places. We're having more & more of those in Calgary these days. They're closing off streets to through traffic, creating one-ways, and putting barricades in the middle of streets to prevent left turns.

The street is annoyingly close, but it's a one way, and you can't access it from the main artery that intersects it if you're coming from the south. You also can't access it from the east because you can't cross that main artery. The only, only, only ways to get to it are to go north, go into Kensington, find a place to turn around (not easy), and then come back over the bridge and not miss the turn, OR come at it from Crowchild from the north.

In other words, if you're coming from the south or the east, you have to go position yourself to be coming from the north or the west. Of course, we live southeast of the place.

So we got to the place, and it was closed. The sign on the door said to use the OTHER door when it's closed, and use the buzzer. So we went to the other door and I rang the buzzer. And waited. Buzzed again. And waited.

A guy with a cat in a crate came up. He went through the same exercise I had done at the main entrance, and then tried the buzzer at the after-hours door. And waited.

I caught a whiff of shit. I looked down and didn't see anything. Briscoe had actually gone before we got into the car. I wondered if the cat had crapped in its crate.

He rang the buzzer again.

I got another whiff. I looked down, didn't see anything. I figured the guy must have shit his pants. He didn't mention it, though.

I said "I think I'll walk around the building and see if there are some employee entrances or something."

I started around a corner, and turned back to say something to the guy, and he was gone. I glanced up & down the street and he was nowhere. It was as if I had imagined him.

Dang! How had he gotten in? And did he think to mention that someone else was out here waiting to get in? Could he not have called out to me? I was annoyed with him. First he had the audacity to shit his pants, and then he disappeared into the building without us - and we had been there first!

I went back to the main entrance. It was still locked. But then I saw the guy with his crate through the window at the reception desk. The woman behind the desk gestured that I was supposed to go to the other entrance, where I had just been.

I stomped back over and rang the buzzer.

"Katie Toe!" someone said through the speaker just over the buzzer.

"What?" I said. No reponse. I rang the buzzer again.

"Katie Toe!" the voice said more insistently.

"I don't know what Katie Toe means!" I said. No response. I rang the buzzer again.

A woman opened the door and said "This door is not locked!!!!!"

Duh. I hadn't even tried it. But more duh . . . why are we supposed to use the buzzer then?

So I tromped in past her and said "I don't know what Katie Toe means, sorry. Wouldn't it be easier to just say 'The door isn't locked' or 'Come on in'?"

"What?" she asked. I didn't respond. Ha!

When I got to the reception desk, I got a whiff of the shit again. And sure enough, there was that guy standing right there.

I got Briscoe's refill and headed out the way I had come in.

On the sidewalk right outside the door, I saw it. There, smushed on the sidewalk with the imprint of my very own running shoe was a big turd, obviously left by Briscoe while I was trying to get in. And of course I didn't see it because I was standing on it.

After we got home, I took the shoe off to leave on my porch. Two young men came up to me while I was taking my shoe off and gave me a pamphlet alerting me to the fact that the end of false religions is near. I thanked them, and they went away.

Then we went inside, and Briscoe puked on the carpet.

So Briscoe is one really big pain in the ass, you know? And when he's gone, I'm really, really, really going to miss him, that shitting, puking, shedding little machine.

I adopted him in 1996 - I think it was at the end of July or beginning of August - not sure which. He was just a little puddle in my hand, and I held him close to me and promised him that he'd have a wonderful life with me.

I don't know how well I've lived up to that promise, but I've tried.















He came with me after my divorce, and lived with me in the little house in my hometown that I selected with him in mind: fenced-in yard, outskirts of town with access to a big field, suitable for romping and ball throwing.

My father went with me to a few Jack Russell fun days & trials in the state, which was really cool. My father has always been a hunter and a fisherman, things that I could never really enjoy with him. This was something neat we could do together.

Briscoe came with me on my second date with Eric. On our first date, when Eric found out that I had a dog, his eyes lit up. To this day, I wonder if Briscoe is what sealed the deal for us.

So Briscoe emigrated with me to Windsor, Ontario. I promised him a wonderful life in Canada. Briscoe found himself living in a house that had hardwood floor throughout, which he hated. We put rugs down wherever we could, but he still skittered from room to room. We had no yard, but we took him to a local park whenever we could, which probably wasn't often enough.

When I got pregnant, I promised him that life would be better after the baby came - I'd have a whole year off work, and we'd go for lots of walks and spend our days together.

The baby came and took all my attention. I didn't recover well from the C section, so walking was difficult. Besides, the stroller handle was too short for me. I had to bend forward to push, and it hurt my back.

And one day, Briscoe bared his teeth and growled at my baby. I lost all sense of reason. I yelled back at him with my deepest, loudest, most ferocious yell, grabbed him and literally threw him into the entryway, and slammed the door.

I was angry at him for weeks afterwards and wanted to get rid of him. Eric pleaded for us to work through it - he loved that dog as much as if he had picked him out himself. I stated my terms - Briscoe has to go back to obedience school, and we were to work with a dog behaviour therapist, and actually DO what he or she recommended.

Well, we started down that road, but I had just started a new job and things were very busy, so that slid down the tubes. We coasted. Briscoe was only dimly on my radar those days - a food dish to fill, a water dish to fill, an occasional walk around the block to deal with.

I got into the habit of letting him do his morning business on the front yard unattended while I ran around getting ready for work and getting my daughter packed up for daycare. There simply wasn't a spare minute to actually go outside with him.

Then one morning the doorbell rang, and the guy on the porch asked if the dog in the middle of the street was ours. I peered past him, and saw Briscoe's limp body in the middle of the street. I yelled to Eric, grabbed a blanket, and ran out to him. I was certain he was dead, but he was whimpering. So I gathered him up in the blanket and drove him to an animal emergency hospital. Briscoe barely moved, but made a few whimpering sounds. The whole way there, I barked at him "Don't you dare go to sleep! You stay awake!"

Briscoe spend a few nights in the hospital. Amazingly, he was in pretty good shape. A truck with a plow on the front had smacked into him, and the angle of the plow, designed to remove snow, neatly sent Briscoe sailing off to the side. If it hadn't been for the plow, Briscoe would have been a goner. The guy who came to our porch had witnessed it. He was certain that the driver didn't even know he had hit a dog.

On the way home from the hospital, I apologized to Briscoe for neglecting him, for hating him after he growled at my daughter, for not giving him the love and attention he deserved, and for letting him run around loose outside because I couldn't be bothered to go out with him.

I promised him that from that point on, he would have a wonderful life.















We arranged with a self-employed friend who was a dog-owner to take him for romps in the park a few times a week with his own dog. We tried to take him for more walks to the park. And we never let him outside loose in our yard.

Then I applied for and was offered a position out here in Calgary.

I promised Briscoe a wonderful life here. Our house is just a block from an off-lead park, the largest in the city. I promised him that there would be more walks, more time outside, and more fun.

We found that we're even busier out here than we were in Windsor. Work hours are longer and our commute is longer. Our schedules are wonkier. And now our daughter is involved in activities - ballet, gymnastics, swimming, and so on.

So we hired a dog walker to come and take our dog to the off lead park to play. And that worked out pretty well, until recently, when Briscoe nearly died from some encephylitis of the brain. Thousands and thousands of dollars later in veterinary bills (and neuroligist bills and oncologist bills and intensive round-the-clock care and an exploratory surgery and IV and nurses and so on), Briscoe is better. He has a life expectancy of a few months or a few years - they don't know. But he remains alive only because of $300/month medicine.

He's almost back to normal except he tends to poop on the spot instead of asking to go outside. And he's a little more frail, and he looks much older than he is.

He's on my lap now.

I don't think he's had a wonderful life, but it hasn't been too shabby either. People say to me "He's just a dog." But he's my dog. I want him to be happy, have some fun times, and be content.

Well, hello Sharon & Kathy!

So I know I've had at least 2 visitors to this little hovel in cyberspace!

Wish I had something intelligent to write tonight. Just got home a little bit ago and am zonked!

Love you both!

Gold shag drives me back to 5 year goals

Here's the thing about me. I'm obsessive.

I go through periods where I'm convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that I've found the Meaning Of Life And The Whole Universe And Everything, and I'm convinced that this certainty will carry me through the rest of my days, or at least through the rest of the decade.

It's my own personal 43, for those of you who are Hitchhiker fans. Hey, I am 43. What a coincidence!

Then, for no reason I can determine, I lose interest in my latest passion. It's gone. Poof.

Sometimes the passion reincarnates itself into some similar or related passion. Or perhaps not.

For instance, 1997 would be the year of Tarot. I bought about 10 different Tarot decks. I learned everything I could about reading & understanding the layouts, the cards, and so on. I loved to look at the cards - they were so beautiful! I can't say I believed that the readings held the truth, but I just enjoyed the experience.

Then I dumped the whole thing. The cards eventually became interesting things for my baby girl to look at and to chew on. And then they found their way into my stamping projects.

Yes, I was hit with rubber stamping mania. I began making my own greeting cards with a vengence. Not only that, I insisted on giving sets of blank cards to other people as gifts.

Here's an example of a greeting card I made with a Tarot card:

And here's another card I made - no Tarot card here, just stamps and assorted inks and paints:

I'm going somewhere with this, honest. (Well, the pictures of the cards are entirely gratuitous.)

Here are other things I've obsessed about:

Running - don't know why. I'm not a runner. But I do subscribe to a running magazine, and I did buy $200 running shoes, a $65 windbreaker, and $45 gloves for running in cold weather that I recently gave away to a homeless man on the street.

Home decor - I seem to come back to this one every now and then. I seem to be here now.

Artsy crafty stuff - I love the notion of decoupaging my furniture and creating bold, mixed-media designs on my walls. I've never actually done these things. I just like to think that I could if I had the time and inclination.

Weight lifting - I've come back to this one repeatedly in my life as well. I love it when my arms are hard and strong. I love to feel powerful. I'm totally NOT powerful right now - I'm quite out of shape, actually. I'm considering going back to the gym. If I wait long enough, the feeling will pass.

Being self-employed - I tend to return to this one again and again. The problem is that in between times, I'm not interested in it at all. Or maybe I'm just lazy. I tend to be interested in self-employment when I'm not liking my boss. Last year, I devoted a lot of money and time in trying to get an internet business going. It might have taken off if I hadn't changed jobs. I love my new job. I love my new coworkers. But I betcha that if I have a tiff with my new boss, I'll be back on the self-employment bandwagon again. I'll blog more about this another time, but the summary is that I'm an obstinant know-it-all who can't tolerate being told what to do.

Money - I go through these extremely frugal kicks where I wash out used ziplock sandwich bags and I shop at thrift stores. I do up a budget on excel and insist my husband follow it. (This perplexes him since he's the one who pays the bills and looks after the money, mostly because he knows if it's up to me, it might not get done.) I read books on financial planning and I fret about our debt. Clearly, I'm not in a frugal kick right now. I probably could use a frugal kick, though.

ANYWAY, so about 2 years ago, I figured out that my obsessions fit broadly into 3 categories:

1. Family & Lifestyle - this includes anything that makes our lives more fun & pleasant. The home decor thing fits in, as well as all artsy crafty things, cooking, homemaking, and anything to do with my daughter's development (because I obsess about that too even though I didn't include it in the above list).

2. Health & Recreation - this includes anything that involves getting into shape, dieting, eating more vegetables, and also traveling, and other fun things.

3. Independence - this includes anything to do with finances, my career, and continuously moving myself in a direction that allows me to set my own agenda. I'd like to either be self-employed, independently wealthy, or employed by someone who thinks my shit doesn't stink and I can't do anything wrong.

So, I decided to make these 3 areas the focus of my five year goals. I did this during a time when I was obsessed with goal setting and success. This obsession also reappears frequently.

I'm 2 years into it. 2007 will be Year 3.

I haven't looked at my goals lately, so after I posted the previous 2 entries, I pulled them up and took a look at them. I'm not doing too badly with some things, but could use some push in others.

Basically, what I did is to create yearly goals out of my 5-year goals. Then I create monthly to-do's to get me to my yearly goals.

My goal for this year was to finish my daughter's bedroom. So I need to redirect my attention from the living room and the carpet and finish my daughter's bedroom!

In 2007, we can begin to consider the living room again.

Unless I'm obsessed with something completely different by then!

Retro living room

So here's a living room look that would embrace our gold shag.



So I wonder what Eric would say if I told him that if we keep the gold shag, the walls go blue.

Groovy retro or bad shag?

So people have been telling us that we should keep the shag carpet in the living room!

Last night, we tried out a new babysitter, so she came to the house for the first time, and loved the house. She said that the shag carpet is totally retro and back. This morning, I was talking on the phone with my nephew's wife, and she too said that we should keep the shag, especially if it's in good condition.

I have a friend who said that when we pull it out, she'd like to have some. And Eric has a coworker who offered to buy it from us!

Well, I can't really go art deco with gold shag carpet, can I???

So maybe I should just give in to the carpet and go seriously retro on purpose.



So if we go groovy retro, what do we do about our antique dining room suite, bookcases, and so on?

Fortunately, we have two cool pieces of furniture that go well with the carpet, in terms of shape. They both need reupholstered. Or maybe just seriously cleaned. The sofa is a genuine article, circa 1968, in pretty good condition - it actually looked almost new until we got a hold of it. And a few years ago, we bought a chair that has a really nice shape. Unfortunately, it too has suffered our lifestyle, with child, dog, a cross country move, and general carelessness.

So basically, we have two competing influences. The carpet, a chair, and the sofa say "Go retro!" The dining room suite, marble-topped sideboard, and two antique bookcases say "Go traditional, or fake a sort of art nouveau merges into art deco kind of look. (Yes, I know they were oppositional, but Common Man didn't rush out and buy all art deco stuff - he merged some new stuff with the art nouveau stuff he already had.)

I have a pretty darned good life, don't I? The fact that I can obsess about these things means I don't have any real problems to obsess about.

The idealism of Saturdays

Ahhh . . . another Saturday morning!

Saturday mornings are like new childhoods - so much potential! The whole weekend of possibility stretches out before us. Our to-do lists look achievable. We look forward to special bonding moments with loved ones, lots of laughter, good food, relaxation, and just a lot of wonderful experiences altogether!

Contrast this to Sunday evening, when we wonder where in the hell the weekend went, and why we didn't accomplish one damned thing on our to-do list!

So my husband & daughter are out of the house most of the day. I'm thinking today I could tidy up the house so that the new sitter doesn't flee in terror tonight minutes after she arrives. I could get totally caught up on the laundry and even pick out all my outfits for the coming week. I could take the dog for a walk. I could go to Old Navy and pick up some of those girls' jeans on sale for $20 a pair that I saw advertised in a flyer with this morning's paper. I could put together my own personal toolbox that I've been thinking about, complete with a padlock, so that I could keep it upstairs and not worry that my daughter will try her hand at renovating the furniture or antique bookcases.

Or I could sit here and blog about it.

I think I need to prioritize and make up a to-do list for the day. I'm actually a big fan of to-do lists. I usually have a master to-do list of things I want to accomplish in my life, things I want to accomplish within the next 5 years, this year, this month, this week, and so on.

However, I've fallen off the wagon these past several months, and I think it's time to revisit my long-term goals and rejig my shorter term plans accordingly.

But that's a topic for another blog entry.

Today, I think I'll tidy the house, get groceries, assemble my own toolbox with a padlock, and rip out my daughter's bedroom carpet. If I accomplish all these things today, I will be very pleased. If I accomplished only half of them, I'll still be pretty happy.

"Before" pictures of my daughter's bedroom

Here are some "before" pictures of my daughter's bedroom. When these pictures were taken, the blinds were new (barely visible in right corner of 1st picture). You can't see the ceiling in these photos, but they were basic white.

The room is also a wee bit cluttery.

Note the lovely rust coloured carpet paired with pink trim.

My daughter wants to paint the furniture too. Not a bad idea.

Very cool chainstitched rugs

Today at my work, we celebrated Multicultural Day with a potluck, and then were invited to look at some very cool chainstitched rugs. I nearly bought one. I still might. I took the guy's card.

The rugs are here Cashmere Crafts, but here are a few of the ones that I was particularly interested in.

Fantasizing about the living room

These images are from homemag.com.

Here is a living room look that I like:

The only thing I don't like about it is that the blue painting on the right wall seems incongruent with the rest of the room.

Here's a fun-looking room:

I think I need to post some "before" pictures of this house!

Cool names for bands

As if I didn't have enough stuff to hold my attention, one thing I get a kick out of doing is collecting what I think would be cool names for bands. I don't actually sit around and try to think these up. Rather, I hear a phrase or an expression or a word, and I think "Hey, that would be a cool name for a band!"

Here are some names I think would make cool names for a band.

Rogue Nation
Bad Pink
Mother (would cause wonder - a tribute to Mother, or a shortened profanity?)
Avid Horsemen
Caution Horses (actually a Cowboy Junkies album name but would make a cool band name.)

I have more, but can't think of them now.

One might also wonder why I'm posting at 2:40 a.m. Wide awake for some reason.

Going Art Deco

For the past two years, I've been wrestling with what to do with this house. Summary: my husband & I moved to Calgary, moved into his parents' house, and his parents bought a condo.

Of course, all of Calgary is booming, and property values are obscene. But my husband's parents lived in a neighborhood which is now becoming impossibly swanky. Perfectly decent houses are being demolished, and being replaced with mini-castles of the arts & crafts or Frank Lloyd Wright variety.

In fact, we've determined that if we put a second floor on this house, we'd have a view of the downtown skyline on one side of the house, and the mountains on the other.

So we haven't wanted to make extensive improvements or renovations on this house, because we're holding out for the Big Reno - - or the Big Demolition Followed By Entirely New House, whichever the case may be.

The only things stopping us are lack of time & lack of money!

So I've been living in this house that feels totally my in-laws. Not that they're horrible people - I love them and very much appreciate the opportunity they've provided us.

But I want our house to express us, our lives, and so on.

Okay, I'll be even more blunt. Dang, I hope my mother-in-law doesn't blog-surf. The last thing I would ever want to do is hurt her feelings.

But let's just say her taste and mine are nowhere near each other. For instance, we haven't been able to replace the gold shag carpet in the living room yet. She argues that it's top quality and people still comment that it looks like it's new.

She's right. It does look new. It's still well-padded and very pleasant to walk barefoot on, and it's clear that she kept it very clean.

May I quote my mother?

When I was in high school, I went with my mother to pick out carpet for the living room. The salesman kept trying to talk her into a higher end carpet with the best padding. He said "This carpet with this padding will last you 30 years!"

My mother retorted "I don't want to have the same damned carpet 30 years from now!!!"

Anyway, if my mother had been in my shoes, she'd have ripped that carpet out by now.

Of course, my husband argues for prudence, and speaks of the day in the near future when we can install some low-priced but decent carpet to "tide us over" until we do the renovations.

My mother would have ignored him and ripped the carpet out herself. Then they would have been forced to get new carpet then & there.

Several friends have said "You should go hardwood."

I'd love to go hardwood. But my ever prudent husband points out that we're just going to rip it out in a few years. It would be easier to re-use carpet, perhaps in a utility room or something.

Anyway, I ramble. (Isn't that what blogs are for?)

My in-laws did do some upgrading. They spent a lot of money on new floor tiles for kitchen, hallway, and bathroom, new countertops, new wall tiles in the kitchen, paint, and so on. The kitchen looks reasonable, but the bathroom is a dog's breakfast.

The bathroom has 1950 style tiles on the wall, which are totally groovy. They absolutely CLASH with the "trying to be sophisticated" taupe-ish textured large floor tiles of the mid 90's. And the guy who did the work for them convinced them to let him cover the bathroom counter with the same glossy black countertop tiles he used in the kitchen - with GOLD trim! Oh my god, it's a travesty!

Oh, and the bathtub is pink.

The master bedroom has the same gold carpet as the living room, and the trim in the room is painted pink. Not pretty.

There are a few other unsightly things happening in the house.

Anyway, I've been trying to come up with some things we could do in the interim, but the last thing I want is a cobbled, make-shift look.

I believe, after we replace our furnace, our next major purchase will be new carpet for the living room. I'm thinking something beige and unassuming.

So we have a dining room suite that my husband inherited from his brother who passed away 7 yrs ago. It's a bit on the art deco side. I've been wondering how to incorporate those pieces into a new look, and have been perplexed. Then my husband brought another piece of furniture home - an end table kind of thing, looks like it was made in the 40's and looks like late end art deco.

So it hit me. I need to go art deco.

But right now, I'm trying to renovate my daughter's bedroom. I'm trying to do it myself. My husband has doubts about the wisdom of this. He is NOT a do-it-yourselfer kind of guy. He's a hire-someone-and-get-it-done-right-the-first-time kind of guy.

So my daughter & I picked out the room's colors, and I began to paint. I did the ceiling already - dark blue, with glow-in-the-dark stars and a moon - very cool.

I was thinking I might as well leave the carpet be while I paint (rust coloured shag), so it can be the drop cloth.

But now I'm finding I can't paint the baseboards.

So yesterday I ripped up a corner of the carpet to find hardwood underneath. Sheesh! I then knew that I had to rip out all the carpet.

So then I had another brainstorm - I should move my daughter's bed into our room for awhile, and possibly some of the furniture. This would open the room up and allow me to finish more quickly.

I went into our bedroom, pondered the layout, then rearranged the furniture. It's a bitch to move antique furniture over shag carpet, by the way.

So then I tried to move my daughter's bed into our room. It wouldn't fit through our door.

I disassembled it as far as I could, but I couldn't get some of the bolts out. So I reassembled it and put it back in her room.

I was pooped by this time. Besides, it was time to get ready to go to shul for Simchat Torah, where we danced in circles around the Torah - more physical exertion!

Today I'm pretty stiff as I type this.

But I know two things.

We're going to spiff up this house, with a nod to art deco, and I'm going to move the rest of my daughter's furniture into our bedroom and leave the bed. I can work around it.

That's another flaw of this house - it originally only had 2 bedrooms. My inlaws added one in the basement. (Actually, my mother-in-law calls it the lower level.)

Okay, enough already. If anyone actually started reading this entry, I'm sure they haven't made it this far.

A letter to my mother

Dear Mom,

It's been nearly six years since we've spoken to each other. I suppose your passing away has something to do with that. You never believed in life after death anyway. However, my imagination has led me to feel your presence occasionally. You'd probably agree that it was just my imagination, but I know you'd be really pleased that I felt like you were here.

If you're angry with me about your final days, well, you should just put that behind you. I know you always said you wanted someone to end it for you before you ended up helpless and vulnerable in a nursing home. But you should have expected that my sister and I would have been selfish enough to want to keep you, to hold on to hope that you could return to even something close to who you really were.

Besides, what point is holding a grudge against us? It's only a matter of time before we join you in the afterlife, wherever you are, if there is indeed such a thing. And should that come to pass, we expect to have a beer with you and to celebrate being together again. (Is there beer where you are?)

So do you know what's been happening with your family since you've been gone? Do they give you some sort of peephole from the other world so you can keep tabs on us?

If so, then you know that you have a granddaughter. Yep, somehow or other, my husband's little swimmer found some old remaining egg in this old body. I had her just about 9 months after you passed away. People suggest that perhaps my daughter IS you.

Sometimes I think this might be true. She has many of your traits.

• She has wavy brown hair and brown eyes.
• She's a total ham! She loves to sing, tell jokes, get up on stage, and so on. Oh sure, people say "All kids like to do that." Not true. MY child likes to do it even more than other children, and guess what - MY child does it better.
• She frequently has "Oh, piss on it!" moments. She doesn't have much patience with things that don't work, processes that fail, and so on. She'll probably parallel park just like you did - one chance and if the car doesn't slide in the first time, to hell with that, let's park somewhere else.
• She's beautiful, just like you.
• She's opinionated, just like you.
• She's brilliant, just like you.

Sometimes we have stare-downs, to see who laughs first, just like you and I did. So far, I always win, but she's getting better. I don't recall ever winning that game with you!

Oh god, would you ever love her! And you know, she knows about you, too. She refers to you as "Grandma Joyce." She asks questions about what Grandma Joyce looks like, what Grandma Joyce did, and so on.

She knows the story about you & your brothers letting Pet Pig into the kitchen. I think I told her the skating story once, but she didn't understand it. She'll understand it in a few years. I'll tell her again.

She's in kindergarten now, Mom, and you would be amazed at this school. It's the school that both you and I should have gone to when we were children. However, the school didn't exist back then, and of course, it's in a completely different country than the one you & I grew up in.

At this school, children don't sit at desks. They get to move around, work on their projects collaboratively, sit in groups for storytime or for particular lessons. Nobody would snatch away a drawing away from a child the way some idiot teacher did to you, and nobody would disrespect or humiliate a child the way some of my teachers got off on doing when I was in grade school.

It's a school that genuinely respects and feeds curious little minds.

Anyway, all this is just to tell you that you have a wonderful, intelligent, humorous, beautiful, and engaging granddaughter now.

Do you also know that we moved to Calgary? I wish you could see it. Maybe you can. It's a booming city. It seems every day, some building we're used to seeing is torn down and a new one put into its place. They're not much for history here, unfortunately. But it does have sites that you'd find extremely interesting, such as the Glenbow Museum, Heritage Park, and other such places.

There are a lot of other changes in the family - lots of new babies, an engagement, houses being built, new jobs, and so on.

So, if you do have this peephole into the world, you probably know that your mother passed away in 2004. Ninety three years old is a respectable age. Nevertheless, she knew she was dying, and she didn't want to. And frankly, we didn't want her to either.

Perhaps she's there with you now. Tell her that I made a batch of no-bake chocolate cookies a few weeks ago. I didn't have instant oatmeal on hand, so I used slow-cook oatmeal. Tell her it didn't work. But I ate the cookies anyway.

Mom, I still get fleeting nanosecond notions that I should pick up the phone and call you because it seems like it's been awhile, and then, almost the same moment, I remember that I can't. Those are hard moments.

Mom, I love you, and I miss you every single day.