It's no wonder to me Terry Fallis' self-published first book has been such a success. I'm only disappointed it took me so long to get to it, in the stack of stuff beside my bed.
Best Laid Plans is a delightful romp through the back halls of Canada's parliament, including infidelity, romance, a doomed election campaign, sexual shenanigans, engineers, chess and a hovercraft. It's especially fun to read in this true-blue Tory riding where I'm sure there are still a few Liberals who dream and hope for a similar story to play out here.
The story follows the departure from political life of a speechwriter and PhD, who agrees to do one last thing for the Liberal Party, and that is, mount a campaign in a riding that has voted Conservative for ever and is likely to continue to do so.
Just the description of the narrator discovering his beloved cheating on him is worth the cover price. I'm not sure how it's going to turn out, but I'm loving it so far.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
V-Day Advice
A woman whose kids I used to look after gave me some terrific advice about picking a mate. Susan said successful couples laugh at the same things, want to do the same things with their money and love the way the other person smells, without colognes or perfumes.
Susan was twice divorced, so I give her some credit for having learned her lessons the hard way. I certainly knew she was onto something with the smell thing one day a few years ago when I was knocked off my feet by a fragrance in a store at the Eaton Centre. My sweetheart and I were high school sweethearts and took a long break before finding our way back to each other. I hadn't seen him in more than a year, but the cologne I was smelling might as well have been made from his skin. At that moment, in that store, he was there with me and all our good memories poured over me. We're happily married 8 years now. Well, mostly.
This Valentine's Day, I offer up two observations of couples I know who made their love last, because after all, whether you want to or don't, it's a day we're stuck thinking about love:
1) My grandparents were married more than 60 years. They still snuggled, cuddled and held hands. I'm told they could fight like cats and dogs, too, but what I remember about them was their physical affection. It wasn't cloying or obtrusive, they were too Presbyterian for that, but it was genuine and honest.
2) My parents were married more than 40 years, and remained interested in each other's inner lives the whole time. I'll never forget coming downstairs one Saturday morning when I was in university to hear my mother say to my dad, "I didn't know that about you!" at the breakfast table. In my 20 years of infinite wisdom, I was stopped in my tracks at the possibility these two ancient creatures who'd already been married for, like, forever, had not yet plumbed the depths of each other's identities. It gave me pause.
So, my tips for the day:
Be interested
Snuggle
Oh, and give him a sniff now and then, to appreciate how your knees still tingle.
Susan was twice divorced, so I give her some credit for having learned her lessons the hard way. I certainly knew she was onto something with the smell thing one day a few years ago when I was knocked off my feet by a fragrance in a store at the Eaton Centre. My sweetheart and I were high school sweethearts and took a long break before finding our way back to each other. I hadn't seen him in more than a year, but the cologne I was smelling might as well have been made from his skin. At that moment, in that store, he was there with me and all our good memories poured over me. We're happily married 8 years now. Well, mostly.
This Valentine's Day, I offer up two observations of couples I know who made their love last, because after all, whether you want to or don't, it's a day we're stuck thinking about love:
1) My grandparents were married more than 60 years. They still snuggled, cuddled and held hands. I'm told they could fight like cats and dogs, too, but what I remember about them was their physical affection. It wasn't cloying or obtrusive, they were too Presbyterian for that, but it was genuine and honest.
2) My parents were married more than 40 years, and remained interested in each other's inner lives the whole time. I'll never forget coming downstairs one Saturday morning when I was in university to hear my mother say to my dad, "I didn't know that about you!" at the breakfast table. In my 20 years of infinite wisdom, I was stopped in my tracks at the possibility these two ancient creatures who'd already been married for, like, forever, had not yet plumbed the depths of each other's identities. It gave me pause.
So, my tips for the day:
Be interested
Snuggle
Oh, and give him a sniff now and then, to appreciate how your knees still tingle.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Sad but not surprised
It's impossible to have missed out on Whitney Houston's remarkable career and equally remarkable demise, but it's no surprise that she died young.
I tuned in to the radio on my way home Saturday evening to hear the mega-star singer had been found dead in a hotel room in LA, and my only surprise was that she was still with us. Houston was a magnificent singer and massively talented but she fell down the rabbit hole of addiction and just couldn't get back out.
Like Amy Winehouse's death a few months ago, Houston's seemed inevitable. Sad, but inevitable.
Before we lament the fame and the money and other contributors, take a look around. Families everywhere cope with the heartbreak, failed parenting and hideous fallout of substance abuse. But for most of us, it's not quite so public. I would wager none of us knows even one family untouched in some way or another by addiction. It's a tragic failure of our species to want to alter our experience, whether we prefer to get high or low. Red wine for some of us, crack or tobacco for others, it's the nature of our beast. Some of us just get higher or lower before we're done.
I tuned in to the radio on my way home Saturday evening to hear the mega-star singer had been found dead in a hotel room in LA, and my only surprise was that she was still with us. Houston was a magnificent singer and massively talented but she fell down the rabbit hole of addiction and just couldn't get back out.
Like Amy Winehouse's death a few months ago, Houston's seemed inevitable. Sad, but inevitable.
Before we lament the fame and the money and other contributors, take a look around. Families everywhere cope with the heartbreak, failed parenting and hideous fallout of substance abuse. But for most of us, it's not quite so public. I would wager none of us knows even one family untouched in some way or another by addiction. It's a tragic failure of our species to want to alter our experience, whether we prefer to get high or low. Red wine for some of us, crack or tobacco for others, it's the nature of our beast. Some of us just get higher or lower before we're done.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Bizarre Culture
Have you ever seen an image of someone you don't recognise, only to figure out after a few milliseconds you're looking at a picture of yourself, just slightly out of context? It's rare, but it happens sometimes, and I always find it instructive to see myself as a stranger would, even just for a minute.
Today, on Groundhog Day, it happened again, not to me personally, but to me as a Canadian. I was thunderstruck by the sheer weirdness of Groundhog Day.
The whole thing is just a silly tradition and we don't actually set any stock by it. But imagine if you were new to the country and couldn't tell the people up early and out in the cold for the prediction were anything other than deadly serious. What if you couldn't tell it was all tongue in cheek? What would you think?
I would think these were a very silly people indeed, happy or not about a long-term weather forecast based on whether a furry, buck-toothed rodent (an albino one in the case of Wiarton) sees or fails to see sunshine on a particular morning.
From a distance, it's very odd, and we rarely acknowledge that it's not what it might appear to be. Which makes me think we might not really understand some of the practices we might ridicule in other cultures, because they may not be what they appear to be from the outside, either.
Although, with the trial of the Shafia family just concluded, when it comes to bizarre cultural practices, I'll take the groundhogs every time, thank you very much.
Today, on Groundhog Day, it happened again, not to me personally, but to me as a Canadian. I was thunderstruck by the sheer weirdness of Groundhog Day.
The whole thing is just a silly tradition and we don't actually set any stock by it. But imagine if you were new to the country and couldn't tell the people up early and out in the cold for the prediction were anything other than deadly serious. What if you couldn't tell it was all tongue in cheek? What would you think?
I would think these were a very silly people indeed, happy or not about a long-term weather forecast based on whether a furry, buck-toothed rodent (an albino one in the case of Wiarton) sees or fails to see sunshine on a particular morning.
From a distance, it's very odd, and we rarely acknowledge that it's not what it might appear to be. Which makes me think we might not really understand some of the practices we might ridicule in other cultures, because they may not be what they appear to be from the outside, either.
Although, with the trial of the Shafia family just concluded, when it comes to bizarre cultural practices, I'll take the groundhogs every time, thank you very much.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Books of Shame
I'm not entirely proud of what I'm reading these days, but it helps that I'm not alone loving the futuristic dystopias currently dominating the shelves for Young Adult readers, even though I'm far, far older than the readers they're aimed at.
It started with the Harry Potter stuff, written for kids but devoured by adults, too. Twilight followed and created a phenomenon with girls of all ages, including those of us far too long in the tooth to be immersed in a high school romance, even if it includes hot young vampires. The Hunger Games are about to be made into movies, don't forget Divergent and its sequels still to come, and as of this week, I'm deep into Matched and Crossed and will wait with bated breath for the third in the series.
I'm not sure what makes novels that should be limited to kids so hot for adults right now, but it might be that a similar theme runs through these stories: girls fighting to make their own choices in a world not of their making.
While I would not take the Hunger Games or Twilight books in my purse to read at the coffee shop, there's another set of books I'm much, much less proud of reading. I certainly will never finish the "Pretty Little Liars" series. I tried, I really did, but none of the characters is likable in the tales of an affluent and overindulged group of girls tormented by the secrets they keep. A ten year old of my acquaintance loaned me the first and second in the "liars" series, and even my dog disapproves. She gnawed the books, forcing me to buy new copies for my young friend. I'm not willing to take a chance on having to spend another ten bucks on yet another replacement for a story I squirmed in embarrassment to read, even in the privacy of my home; it was hard enough trying to explain to Penny's helper at Crow's Nest why I was buying that dreck the first time. Not only is the writing less than stellar, the never ending references to luxury goods make me itchy. 'Liars' characters don't pick up their purse, they pick up their Vuitton purse; they don't get in the car, they get into the Mercedes. The series has been made into a very popular TV show, and that's where it can stay, as far as I'm concerned.
Yes, I think I'll stick with the freedom fighters, and stay away from the snobs.
It started with the Harry Potter stuff, written for kids but devoured by adults, too. Twilight followed and created a phenomenon with girls of all ages, including those of us far too long in the tooth to be immersed in a high school romance, even if it includes hot young vampires. The Hunger Games are about to be made into movies, don't forget Divergent and its sequels still to come, and as of this week, I'm deep into Matched and Crossed and will wait with bated breath for the third in the series.
I'm not sure what makes novels that should be limited to kids so hot for adults right now, but it might be that a similar theme runs through these stories: girls fighting to make their own choices in a world not of their making.
While I would not take the Hunger Games or Twilight books in my purse to read at the coffee shop, there's another set of books I'm much, much less proud of reading. I certainly will never finish the "Pretty Little Liars" series. I tried, I really did, but none of the characters is likable in the tales of an affluent and overindulged group of girls tormented by the secrets they keep. A ten year old of my acquaintance loaned me the first and second in the "liars" series, and even my dog disapproves. She gnawed the books, forcing me to buy new copies for my young friend. I'm not willing to take a chance on having to spend another ten bucks on yet another replacement for a story I squirmed in embarrassment to read, even in the privacy of my home; it was hard enough trying to explain to Penny's helper at Crow's Nest why I was buying that dreck the first time. Not only is the writing less than stellar, the never ending references to luxury goods make me itchy. 'Liars' characters don't pick up their purse, they pick up their Vuitton purse; they don't get in the car, they get into the Mercedes. The series has been made into a very popular TV show, and that's where it can stay, as far as I'm concerned.
Yes, I think I'll stick with the freedom fighters, and stay away from the snobs.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Behold the Lamb
I took a chance about four months ago when I bought half a lamb from Metheral Meats in Dunedin.
Not only had I never cooked lamb, I wasn't completely convinced I would like it. Usually, lamb is a once-a-year meal for me, at the Royal Winter Fair on a big fat kaiser bun with lashes of mint sauce, so not exactly a representative sample.
There were sheep on the farm I grew up on, cute but horrible creatures who somehow must all crowd through the same tiny hole in a fence at the exact same time. My brother called them 'ranch maggots'. We sold our sheep to the hunters who walked our property during deer season. My dad had a bad experience with sweatery-tasting mutton as a child and simply wouldn't have it on the table.
But as of Sunday night, my sweetie and finished off our first half lamb, each and every bite absolutely fabulous, from the chops to the leg to the shoulder.
The last item in the freezer was the shanks, and I had no idea what to do with them until Friday afternoon at the liquor store when on the front cover of the booze and recipe magazine, I spied a gorgeous looking meal I longed to make. Happily, my braised shanks with cinnamon and honey on a bed of smashed potatoes turned out just as beautiful as the picture.
I really think the critter we've just finished consuming with such relish was extra delicious because it didn't come from a far away country, flash-frozen and packed onto a plane. Our sheep lived less than ten miles from here, roaming some of the same hills I loved as a child. It was butchered by people who love the land and are fighting to stay on it.
I'm putting in another order today and while I'm proud to support one of our local farmers, it's really more about the taste of the chops I will grill about three weeks from now.
Metheral Meats sells reasonably priced, pasture raised, hormone-free delicious lamb. No animal by-products are fed to the animals. 705-466-3135
Not only had I never cooked lamb, I wasn't completely convinced I would like it. Usually, lamb is a once-a-year meal for me, at the Royal Winter Fair on a big fat kaiser bun with lashes of mint sauce, so not exactly a representative sample.
There were sheep on the farm I grew up on, cute but horrible creatures who somehow must all crowd through the same tiny hole in a fence at the exact same time. My brother called them 'ranch maggots'. We sold our sheep to the hunters who walked our property during deer season. My dad had a bad experience with sweatery-tasting mutton as a child and simply wouldn't have it on the table.
But as of Sunday night, my sweetie and finished off our first half lamb, each and every bite absolutely fabulous, from the chops to the leg to the shoulder.
The last item in the freezer was the shanks, and I had no idea what to do with them until Friday afternoon at the liquor store when on the front cover of the booze and recipe magazine, I spied a gorgeous looking meal I longed to make. Happily, my braised shanks with cinnamon and honey on a bed of smashed potatoes turned out just as beautiful as the picture.
I really think the critter we've just finished consuming with such relish was extra delicious because it didn't come from a far away country, flash-frozen and packed onto a plane. Our sheep lived less than ten miles from here, roaming some of the same hills I loved as a child. It was butchered by people who love the land and are fighting to stay on it.
I'm putting in another order today and while I'm proud to support one of our local farmers, it's really more about the taste of the chops I will grill about three weeks from now.
Metheral Meats sells reasonably priced, pasture raised, hormone-free delicious lamb. No animal by-products are fed to the animals. 705-466-3135
Friday, January 20, 2012
Crushed. Not.
A little dream I've been nurturing for a few years died this week. My 'second husband' is no longer in the running for my tear-stained hand.
He's not that upset about it, I'd wager, since I sincerely hope he never knew he was on my crazy list. But still, it's disappointing, and it all came down to one unconscious little move.
I have been crushing on this guy since I talked to him for about ten minutes one morning some six years ago. He is bright, engaged with the world, sweet and handsome and athletic and just... lovely. I told my husband I was harbouring the crush, saying that if by some confluence of tragedy I was widowed and if my crush's wife and children were somehow lost at sea, I was going to 'go for it'. Long suffering Sweetie sighed and vowed to haunt me, but in the end, acquiesced with a mumbled, "Whatever".
Since then, I've added another awesome guy to my 'replacement husband' list. Number Three's wife is on my curling team and she has graciously allowed that if she's gone and all their children are gone, and my husband is also dead, I'm more than welcome to make a move on her man. It's very accommodating of her, don't you think?
And it might become a distant possibility, as Number Two is suddenly no longer of any interest to me. Oh, he's still super smart and handsome and seems really caring, engaged and nice, but on Wednesday as I drove along Hume street, I saw him walking his dog and he blew his nose onto the sidewalk. No tissue; just a good old Canadian one-finger sideways honk.
And just like that, the crush was over. I'm out.
He's not that upset about it, I'd wager, since I sincerely hope he never knew he was on my crazy list. But still, it's disappointing, and it all came down to one unconscious little move.
I have been crushing on this guy since I talked to him for about ten minutes one morning some six years ago. He is bright, engaged with the world, sweet and handsome and athletic and just... lovely. I told my husband I was harbouring the crush, saying that if by some confluence of tragedy I was widowed and if my crush's wife and children were somehow lost at sea, I was going to 'go for it'. Long suffering Sweetie sighed and vowed to haunt me, but in the end, acquiesced with a mumbled, "Whatever".
Since then, I've added another awesome guy to my 'replacement husband' list. Number Three's wife is on my curling team and she has graciously allowed that if she's gone and all their children are gone, and my husband is also dead, I'm more than welcome to make a move on her man. It's very accommodating of her, don't you think?
And it might become a distant possibility, as Number Two is suddenly no longer of any interest to me. Oh, he's still super smart and handsome and seems really caring, engaged and nice, but on Wednesday as I drove along Hume street, I saw him walking his dog and he blew his nose onto the sidewalk. No tissue; just a good old Canadian one-finger sideways honk.
And just like that, the crush was over. I'm out.
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