There was a time New Year's Eve was the biggest thing, most stressful, worrisome and scary. What if no one kissed me at midnight? What if the wrong person did? Where will I go, which party, bar or house, vodka or rye?
But the last few years, as Baby Duck gives way to Dom, the biggest struggle I have is staying awake all the way to midnight.
Last year, we stayed at the house of friends in who live nearer the airport, so we could jet off first thing in the morning to our freezing cold Cuban getaway. The party, like the freezing cold Cuban getaway, was a bit of a bust.
Here's hoping you get kissed by the right person, choose the best-tasting drink and are wearing a funny hat when the bells ring out.
I'm just hoping no one notices if I move all the clocks ahead an hour. Or two.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Straddling the Digital Divide
The list-makers love this time of year, not just for the naughty-versus-nice collection, but stories of the year, athletes of the year, disasters of the year and so on and so on.
A list I came across this week has me a bit worried I'm on the wrong side of the digital divide; the Huffington Post published the following items that have become obsolete in the last ten years, and I'm still using most of them!
VCRs And VHS Tapes
travel agents
land lines
book stores
maps
separation of work and personal life
forgetting (thanks to the internet's never-ending memory)
watches
900 numbers
calling people
classifieds
encyclopedias
CDs
film
address books
dialup
wires
faxes
letters
catalogs
I must admit some confusion; I never did use the 900 numbers, much of my social life is indeed organised through facebook or email, but I still wrote out Christmas cards, by hand. And to top off my confusion, this week, my 6-CD changer from 1998finally died, and I'm at a loss for what to do for music in my house, other than of course, the radio. I have several Mp3 players, but none has the cord required to send the sound through my ageing amp to my relatively new speakers. Do I get a new amp? Do I load up on a whole new system and then have to take the time to load thousands of songs into a new player? The amp I have is working fine and it offends my environmental sensibilities to throw it out while it's still functional. Oh, it's a conundrum, all right, and honestly, how can I be expected to vacuum without Handel or The Hip?!
A list I came across this week has me a bit worried I'm on the wrong side of the digital divide; the Huffington Post published the following items that have become obsolete in the last ten years, and I'm still using most of them!
VCRs And VHS Tapes
travel agents
land lines
book stores
maps
separation of work and personal life
forgetting (thanks to the internet's never-ending memory)
watches
900 numbers
calling people
classifieds
encyclopedias
CDs
film
address books
dialup
wires
faxes
letters
catalogs
I must admit some confusion; I never did use the 900 numbers, much of my social life is indeed organised through facebook or email, but I still wrote out Christmas cards, by hand. And to top off my confusion, this week, my 6-CD changer from 1998finally died, and I'm at a loss for what to do for music in my house, other than of course, the radio. I have several Mp3 players, but none has the cord required to send the sound through my ageing amp to my relatively new speakers. Do I get a new amp? Do I load up on a whole new system and then have to take the time to load thousands of songs into a new player? The amp I have is working fine and it offends my environmental sensibilities to throw it out while it's still functional. Oh, it's a conundrum, all right, and honestly, how can I be expected to vacuum without Handel or The Hip?!
Friday, December 24, 2010
Done and done
Finally done.
You ready? I was born ready.
Ready for a nap, that is.
Why do so many of do this to ourselves? Every January, I make a promise to myself that next year will be different. I vow Christmas will be simple, elegant, restrained and nice, that I will not run myself ragged and will cut down on the sheer volume of gatherings. I promise myself not to overspend, overindulge, work myself into a frenzy or build up my expectations so high they can never be reached. And every year, I find myself overspending, hungover, tired, cranky and disappointed in my less-than-elegant trimmings and family get-togethers.
So, after (yet another) meltdown of complaints and criticisms, I apologise to those who heard them.
And I vow -honest this time- next year will be different.
You ready? I was born ready.
Ready for a nap, that is.
Why do so many of do this to ourselves? Every January, I make a promise to myself that next year will be different. I vow Christmas will be simple, elegant, restrained and nice, that I will not run myself ragged and will cut down on the sheer volume of gatherings. I promise myself not to overspend, overindulge, work myself into a frenzy or build up my expectations so high they can never be reached. And every year, I find myself overspending, hungover, tired, cranky and disappointed in my less-than-elegant trimmings and family get-togethers.
So, after (yet another) meltdown of complaints and criticisms, I apologise to those who heard them.
And I vow -honest this time- next year will be different.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Service with a Smile
Someone, somewhere has figured it out and passed it along and I'm so glad.
I have never received such good service while shopping as I have in the last few days.
Calling a store in Collingwood to order a part for my snowblower: phone answered on the second ring, clerk helpful with the right number to call.
Calling the call centre who-knows-where to order a part for the snowblower: phone answered on first ring, helpful, cheerful workers on the other end.
Calling a store in Wasaga Beach to enquire about a particular pair of winter boots: answered on the second ring, and a cheerful, helpful worker who kept her promise to phone back after searching the store for the boots.
Calling a store in Barrie about the same boots: fast, friendly, helpful and cheerful, and if the boots aren't in stock when we get there, they promise to order them.
Now, if only I could cheer up the guy with the wet, cold feet who's been running a broken snowblower for two weeks.
I have never received such good service while shopping as I have in the last few days.
Calling a store in Collingwood to order a part for my snowblower: phone answered on the second ring, clerk helpful with the right number to call.
Calling the call centre who-knows-where to order a part for the snowblower: phone answered on first ring, helpful, cheerful workers on the other end.
Calling a store in Wasaga Beach to enquire about a particular pair of winter boots: answered on the second ring, and a cheerful, helpful worker who kept her promise to phone back after searching the store for the boots.
Calling a store in Barrie about the same boots: fast, friendly, helpful and cheerful, and if the boots aren't in stock when we get there, they promise to order them.
Now, if only I could cheer up the guy with the wet, cold feet who's been running a broken snowblower for two weeks.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Dinosaur tape
We had an intern at the radio station last week, a strapping young, overconfident 19 year old who expects to set the world on fire and become a TV foreign correspondent, irrespective of the fact that every broadcast outlet in the world is closing bureaus, he speaks no language but English and seemed to me to be remarkably incurious about the world around him. (come to think of it, those characteristics will set him up quite nicely for a career at Fox news...)
He nearly made me cry, this kid.
As we were going over some of the basics in our newsroom the first day, he asked me what computer program I had used when I attended Fanshawe college.
Uh, we, um, didn't.
As I began my journalism career, we in radio, big and small, were still cutting tape, actual magnetic tape, on reel-to-reel machines. Some stations were using computer programs for their music, but the news was still strictly reel to reel and carts. If there were a piece of sound we wanted rid of in a clip or interview, we literally chopped it out, sticking the remaining pieces back together with tape. On very fancy machines, there might be a special 45-degree cutter to get the splices just right. You had done a good job if you couldn't hear the splices.
These days, I sometimes complain about the fact that I do the jobs that would have been held by three or even four people 'back in the day', (newsrun, co-host and produce/host a talk show) but it dawns on me that technology has advanced to such an awesome degree in a mere 15 years, those of us with decent organisational skills really can do the jobs that used to require three people. For example, where it used to take perhaps as much as three minutes to locate and edit a clip for a newscast and then move it to the cart from which it would play during the news, now, that same work is done with two clicks of a mouse and the time it takes to type out the title. Three to five minutes minutes versus fifteen to twenty seconds. That's a lot of time saved in just over a decade.
So why does it feel as though we've made the leap from dinosaurs to manned flight, and I'm the dinosaur?
He nearly made me cry, this kid.
As we were going over some of the basics in our newsroom the first day, he asked me what computer program I had used when I attended Fanshawe college.
Uh, we, um, didn't.
As I began my journalism career, we in radio, big and small, were still cutting tape, actual magnetic tape, on reel-to-reel machines. Some stations were using computer programs for their music, but the news was still strictly reel to reel and carts. If there were a piece of sound we wanted rid of in a clip or interview, we literally chopped it out, sticking the remaining pieces back together with tape. On very fancy machines, there might be a special 45-degree cutter to get the splices just right. You had done a good job if you couldn't hear the splices.
These days, I sometimes complain about the fact that I do the jobs that would have been held by three or even four people 'back in the day', (newsrun, co-host and produce/host a talk show) but it dawns on me that technology has advanced to such an awesome degree in a mere 15 years, those of us with decent organisational skills really can do the jobs that used to require three people. For example, where it used to take perhaps as much as three minutes to locate and edit a clip for a newscast and then move it to the cart from which it would play during the news, now, that same work is done with two clicks of a mouse and the time it takes to type out the title. Three to five minutes minutes versus fifteen to twenty seconds. That's a lot of time saved in just over a decade.
So why does it feel as though we've made the leap from dinosaurs to manned flight, and I'm the dinosaur?
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Tummy Trimming
When does a coincidence become an outbreak?
Three of the men and two of the women who were at the tree trimming party have come down with various gradations of gastrointesingal upset of the 'both ends' variety. (I'm trying to be delicate here....)
A few years ago, my family had Mother's Day brunch at the Royal Botanical Gardens, and along with about 350 other people who dined there, everyone but my sister in law and me came down with salmonella poisoning. My poor sweetie wound up with a bruise on his knee where his elbow sat as he perched on the 'throne', exhausted, head on his hand for three days of misery. I'll never look at a buffet the same way again.
This seems to be different, but not much.
I'm sincerely hoping they recover, and soon. I'm also hoping they forget before next year's party.
Three of the men and two of the women who were at the tree trimming party have come down with various gradations of gastrointesingal upset of the 'both ends' variety. (I'm trying to be delicate here....)
A few years ago, my family had Mother's Day brunch at the Royal Botanical Gardens, and along with about 350 other people who dined there, everyone but my sister in law and me came down with salmonella poisoning. My poor sweetie wound up with a bruise on his knee where his elbow sat as he perched on the 'throne', exhausted, head on his hand for three days of misery. I'll never look at a buffet the same way again.
This seems to be different, but not much.
I'm sincerely hoping they recover, and soon. I'm also hoping they forget before next year's party.
Tree Trimming
I had friends in on Saturday night for my annual 'Watch Me Trim the Tree' party. It sounds kind of horrible, but actually started out innocently enough: a few years ago, friends were in the middle of a renovation and were not putting up a Christmas tree. But they were missing out on the Christmas-y feeling, so the night I put up my tree and installed the ridiculous number of clear glass ornaments I've collected over the years, I invited them over.
Each ornament I would pull out, I would exclaim over. "This one's my favourite!" and Lovely Pete would good-naturedly reply, "I can see why," So, now, we have several couples over, their children, too and I try not to freak out when the kids handle my fragile ornaments with less care than I might like.
Adults are allowed only to eat and drink, not hang the decorations, and they don't seem to mind.
But Sunday morning, as I cleared away the debris of the party, I realized there was something missing from my tree: there were no presents under it!
I had managed, by December 12th, to purchase just one lonely, sad little present, and I had picked it up in July!
Oh, I had lists. Ideas. Dreams. But nothing to wrap. So, on a slippery and snowy Sunday and Monday, I spent my days and my Christmas budget in one fell swoop.
Well, almost. There is still one aunt, one niece and a nephew whose prezzies I can't decide on. But the tree looks great, with twinkling sparkling stuff above and below.
Each ornament I would pull out, I would exclaim over. "This one's my favourite!" and Lovely Pete would good-naturedly reply, "I can see why," So, now, we have several couples over, their children, too and I try not to freak out when the kids handle my fragile ornaments with less care than I might like.
Adults are allowed only to eat and drink, not hang the decorations, and they don't seem to mind.
But Sunday morning, as I cleared away the debris of the party, I realized there was something missing from my tree: there were no presents under it!
I had managed, by December 12th, to purchase just one lonely, sad little present, and I had picked it up in July!
Oh, I had lists. Ideas. Dreams. But nothing to wrap. So, on a slippery and snowy Sunday and Monday, I spent my days and my Christmas budget in one fell swoop.
Well, almost. There is still one aunt, one niece and a nephew whose prezzies I can't decide on. But the tree looks great, with twinkling sparkling stuff above and below.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Take That!
From councillors in Collingwood to Grapes to the entire GOP, there seems to me to be a lot of angry winners around.
The US President is facing a wall of 'no' to everything he tries to do, the Republicans with their majority in the House flat out saying there will be no compromise, no talking, no discussion, no nothing, period.
In Toronto, Don Cherry didn't praise the mayor he was brought to City Hall to introduce, at least, not much. He instead berated 'pinkos', and told the "left wing kooks" to "put that in your pipe".
And here in little Collingwood, rather than articulating ideas, hopes or plans, one of our town councillors continues to write in his blog about his long-simmering distaste for the former mayor and defeated councillors. These are the same people the blogging councillor spent the last four years complaining about after meetings.
What's in common in all these cases is that there are precious few ideas being put forward and not many thoughts on offer about how to make things better. In all three cases, it's just heaps of negativity infused with a steaming dollop of nastiness.
I hope, for all our sakes, that the New Year lets the naysayers get over themselves and start some ideas percolating.
The US President is facing a wall of 'no' to everything he tries to do, the Republicans with their majority in the House flat out saying there will be no compromise, no talking, no discussion, no nothing, period.
In Toronto, Don Cherry didn't praise the mayor he was brought to City Hall to introduce, at least, not much. He instead berated 'pinkos', and told the "left wing kooks" to "put that in your pipe".
And here in little Collingwood, rather than articulating ideas, hopes or plans, one of our town councillors continues to write in his blog about his long-simmering distaste for the former mayor and defeated councillors. These are the same people the blogging councillor spent the last four years complaining about after meetings.
What's in common in all these cases is that there are precious few ideas being put forward and not many thoughts on offer about how to make things better. In all three cases, it's just heaps of negativity infused with a steaming dollop of nastiness.
I hope, for all our sakes, that the New Year lets the naysayers get over themselves and start some ideas percolating.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Meat Attack
I'm so looking forward to tonight's first Christmas party of the year.
Nearly every year, my sweetheart's company Christmas gathering starts with dinner at the beloved and venerable Rockdell on Highway 26. It's a festival of meat.
We spouses, who see each other twice a year come along with 'the boys' and we all gather in either one long or two shorter tables, usually in the 'new' room at the back and what follows is a veritable meat explosion.
No one does meat like the Rockdell. Sure, there are vegetables, but they're so very secondary, you might call them an afterthought. While my sweetie mmmms and ahhhhs over his lobster, I generally share the meat platter with someone, since it's designed for two people. Cabbage rolls followed by two schnitzels topped with two sausages, several pieces of bacon, two steaks and two pork chops. There might be some coleslaw in there, but who's got room for that when there are a few fries, a baked potato, roll and if I remember right, a wee bowl of corn?
We will leave with full bellies, enough leftovers for two lunches and quite a few laughs.
I'm not sure how we manage to pack away all the salty snacks as we play a big euchre tournament, but we do it every year. Merry Christmas boys, and whoever winds up my partner: I'm sorry for trumping your ace. I just can't seem to help it.
Nearly every year, my sweetheart's company Christmas gathering starts with dinner at the beloved and venerable Rockdell on Highway 26. It's a festival of meat.
We spouses, who see each other twice a year come along with 'the boys' and we all gather in either one long or two shorter tables, usually in the 'new' room at the back and what follows is a veritable meat explosion.
No one does meat like the Rockdell. Sure, there are vegetables, but they're so very secondary, you might call them an afterthought. While my sweetie mmmms and ahhhhs over his lobster, I generally share the meat platter with someone, since it's designed for two people. Cabbage rolls followed by two schnitzels topped with two sausages, several pieces of bacon, two steaks and two pork chops. There might be some coleslaw in there, but who's got room for that when there are a few fries, a baked potato, roll and if I remember right, a wee bowl of corn?
We will leave with full bellies, enough leftovers for two lunches and quite a few laughs.
I'm not sure how we manage to pack away all the salty snacks as we play a big euchre tournament, but we do it every year. Merry Christmas boys, and whoever winds up my partner: I'm sorry for trumping your ace. I just can't seem to help it.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Ms Bean Lives at My House
My own private Mister Bean moment tonight after hitting the magic number on my scale in this fall's Hunting Weight Challenge:
I simply could not wait to try on my wedding dress after losing the pounds I thought necessary to squeeze back into it, seven years after The Big Day.
It was a very fitted dress with a lot of boning and support built-in, so there was no need for me to wear anything under it that day, and there I was yesterday, quite chilly, desperately yanking on a zipper that did not want to pass my waist.
Complicating matters is the fact that I'm alone and the zipper is up the back of the dress.
So, I turned it around, and after several frustrating moments of battle, I managed it! Seven years later, I can still get into the dress! Woo Hoo! I win!
But would that blasted thing spin back around my oh-so-squeezed ribcage to sit where it's supposed to? No, indeed.
Breathless and frustrated and yet still somehow elated, I spent several difficult minutes heaving and wiggling and struggling until I caught a glimpse of myself in the spare room mirror, red-faced and awkward, with twin boned bulges that are supposed to be at the front of the dress, teasing me from the back. Boy, am I glad I don't have security cameras.
I simply could not wait to try on my wedding dress after losing the pounds I thought necessary to squeeze back into it, seven years after The Big Day.
It was a very fitted dress with a lot of boning and support built-in, so there was no need for me to wear anything under it that day, and there I was yesterday, quite chilly, desperately yanking on a zipper that did not want to pass my waist.
Complicating matters is the fact that I'm alone and the zipper is up the back of the dress.
So, I turned it around, and after several frustrating moments of battle, I managed it! Seven years later, I can still get into the dress! Woo Hoo! I win!
But would that blasted thing spin back around my oh-so-squeezed ribcage to sit where it's supposed to? No, indeed.
Breathless and frustrated and yet still somehow elated, I spent several difficult minutes heaving and wiggling and struggling until I caught a glimpse of myself in the spare room mirror, red-faced and awkward, with twin boned bulges that are supposed to be at the front of the dress, teasing me from the back. Boy, am I glad I don't have security cameras.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Rose Coloured Glasses?
November 22nd brings us stories every year about a late and lamented time in politics, when leaders were glamorous and people believed in ideals of government making lives better. It was a halcyon time before John F. Kennedy was assassinated. Or was it?
In 1963, humans hadn't yet set foot on the moon, and children were still crippled by polio. We hadn't yet heard of the 'invisible hand' of the markets.
Race relations were terrible; segregation was still in full force, and the book, To Kill a Mockingbird had been out for three years, but hadn't changed much yet.
A little band calling itself the Beatles released an album that day, in the UK and Canada, but they hadn't been heard yet in the US.
In 1963, the USA was involved in a disastrous overseas war fighting a near-invisible guerrilla army of insurgents. It wasn't going well and would only get worse.
As for fashion, 1963 was skinny ties for men and skirts for women-skirts that hit just above the knee along with twinsets and pillbox hats.
In 1963, there were only 6 teams in the NHL, The Toronto Maple Leafs played 70 games that season and went on to win the Stanley Cup, beating Detroit four games to three.
Ah, so I'll take the hockey and the fashions, but not much else, and I'll keep my laptop and Ipod, and hope we somehow get out of Afghanistan.
In 1963, humans hadn't yet set foot on the moon, and children were still crippled by polio. We hadn't yet heard of the 'invisible hand' of the markets.
Race relations were terrible; segregation was still in full force, and the book, To Kill a Mockingbird had been out for three years, but hadn't changed much yet.
A little band calling itself the Beatles released an album that day, in the UK and Canada, but they hadn't been heard yet in the US.
In 1963, the USA was involved in a disastrous overseas war fighting a near-invisible guerrilla army of insurgents. It wasn't going well and would only get worse.
As for fashion, 1963 was skinny ties for men and skirts for women-skirts that hit just above the knee along with twinsets and pillbox hats.
In 1963, there were only 6 teams in the NHL, The Toronto Maple Leafs played 70 games that season and went on to win the Stanley Cup, beating Detroit four games to three.
Ah, so I'll take the hockey and the fashions, but not much else, and I'll keep my laptop and Ipod, and hope we somehow get out of Afghanistan.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Our Accelerated Culture
It was at least three days after Princess Diana's death that I heard the first tasteless joke about it.
Something about dandruff and how she kept her head and shoulders under the front seat. A later, funnier joke was about Christmas gifts-- what was Diana getting for Xmas that year? The queen mum! ba-dah-dah!
But, fewer than 24 hours since the engagement announcement for Kate Middleton and Prince William, and we already have what's not likely the first tasteless joke.
Ready for it?
Kate Middleton- first woman to fit into Diana's ring since Dodi.
We're faster, but not funnier.
Something about dandruff and how she kept her head and shoulders under the front seat. A later, funnier joke was about Christmas gifts-- what was Diana getting for Xmas that year? The queen mum! ba-dah-dah!
But, fewer than 24 hours since the engagement announcement for Kate Middleton and Prince William, and we already have what's not likely the first tasteless joke.
Ready for it?
Kate Middleton- first woman to fit into Diana's ring since Dodi.
We're faster, but not funnier.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Assume and I'm a What?
I have a pair of pants that my girlfriends and I call 'the miracle pants'. They are truly amazing; giving the illusion of a shapely yet still trim derriere in a place where many other pairs either struggled to stay up, given this Scottish girl has a complete lack of junk in the trunk, or worse, give an appearance of a butt that's wider than it is deep, again because of the lack of aforementioned junk. (over-forty aside: do people still say junk in the trunk, or has everyone moved on from that particularly unfortunate phrase?
My sweetheart calls them the 'good a$$ pants' and gives me a much-welcomed wolf-whistle whenever I don them.
Now, when anyone uses the word miracle to describe a part of my body, or if there is any kind of whistling, I'll wear those pants until they fall apart. So, you can imagine my happiness on a weekend shopping trip when I found "the pants", in my size, not only available, but ridiculously on sale! I bought two pairs; didn't even need to try them on.
And so, this morning, when I clipped the tags, so excited to have another pair of miracle pants, you can imagine my disappointment when they fit everywhere but my ankles. In my excitement, I had bought the regular leg, not the long I require.
No matter how great things look 'back there' I figure floods are not coming back into style any time soon. Is anyone going to the mall today?
My sweetheart calls them the 'good a$$ pants' and gives me a much-welcomed wolf-whistle whenever I don them.
Now, when anyone uses the word miracle to describe a part of my body, or if there is any kind of whistling, I'll wear those pants until they fall apart. So, you can imagine my happiness on a weekend shopping trip when I found "the pants", in my size, not only available, but ridiculously on sale! I bought two pairs; didn't even need to try them on.
And so, this morning, when I clipped the tags, so excited to have another pair of miracle pants, you can imagine my disappointment when they fit everywhere but my ankles. In my excitement, I had bought the regular leg, not the long I require.
No matter how great things look 'back there' I figure floods are not coming back into style any time soon. Is anyone going to the mall today?
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Hockey Grudge
I was expecting hard feelings in the studio today, but instead, I just might be able to go back to watching hockey. Maybe. If I can find a team I like.
Kerry Fraser, NHL referee, was a guest on my talk show as he continues his book-promotion tour. I have wanted to talk to him for a while. 17 years or so. It's the Gretzky/Gilmour thing. I haven't been able to get over it, and wanted him to know my pain.
Before you say, 'SEVENTEEN YEARS?! Move On!" be aware there are some Canadians of Scottish descent who aren't yet 'over' Culloden or the Clearances. 1745. Look it up.
Back in '93, I was the proud recipient of a substantial award for a documentary I had produced at college. I was watching overtime in game six in the semi-final NHL series between Los Angeles and Toronto with the 'phone in my hand, ready to spend those hard-earned dollars on Stanley Cup final tickets for the series between Montreal and Toronto. You know the rest.
What Fraser told me Friday is that he does indeed feel bad for me and for all fans because of the missed call on Gretzky, but he feels worse for his parents, whose cars were vandalized that night by crazed fans, fans who had driven from Windsor to Sarnia to dispense some 'justice'. He says his mother has kept a whistle near the 'phone ever since, to fend off the crazies who call her to complain about her son.
I was angry and disappointed, but I simply cannot imagine doing anything violent against the parent of someone who made a mistake in a game. Some hockey fans are weird. That, and the Leafs are terrible. No wonder I don't watch any more.
Kerry Fraser, NHL referee, was a guest on my talk show as he continues his book-promotion tour. I have wanted to talk to him for a while. 17 years or so. It's the Gretzky/Gilmour thing. I haven't been able to get over it, and wanted him to know my pain.
Before you say, 'SEVENTEEN YEARS?! Move On!" be aware there are some Canadians of Scottish descent who aren't yet 'over' Culloden or the Clearances. 1745. Look it up.
Back in '93, I was the proud recipient of a substantial award for a documentary I had produced at college. I was watching overtime in game six in the semi-final NHL series between Los Angeles and Toronto with the 'phone in my hand, ready to spend those hard-earned dollars on Stanley Cup final tickets for the series between Montreal and Toronto. You know the rest.
What Fraser told me Friday is that he does indeed feel bad for me and for all fans because of the missed call on Gretzky, but he feels worse for his parents, whose cars were vandalized that night by crazed fans, fans who had driven from Windsor to Sarnia to dispense some 'justice'. He says his mother has kept a whistle near the 'phone ever since, to fend off the crazies who call her to complain about her son.
I was angry and disappointed, but I simply cannot imagine doing anything violent against the parent of someone who made a mistake in a game. Some hockey fans are weird. That, and the Leafs are terrible. No wonder I don't watch any more.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Defeated
I feel so very sorry for John Millar today. He's the Clearview township Ward Two candidate who lost the municipal election two weeks ago by one vote. I'm not weighing in on whether Millar or the winner, Orville Brown would be a better representative, but the way it happened has got to be embarrassing. I bet Millar feels pretty bad about the whole thing.
Ward Two encompasses Duntroon, and when Millar filed his nomination papers, that's where he lived, although his house was up for sale and he was planning a move to Creemore. The way I understand it, the house sold and closed during the election campaign and Creemore is where the Millars voted, not in their previous home ward. Neither he nor his wife voted in Duntroon. He lost by one vote, when he could have won by one. That's got to hurt.
Ward Two encompasses Duntroon, and when Millar filed his nomination papers, that's where he lived, although his house was up for sale and he was planning a move to Creemore. The way I understand it, the house sold and closed during the election campaign and Creemore is where the Millars voted, not in their previous home ward. Neither he nor his wife voted in Duntroon. He lost by one vote, when he could have won by one. That's got to hurt.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Undefeated
I'm pretty sure I'm going to be sorry I wrote this, since acknowledging a winning streak is a sure way to end it.
It's been a good season so far on the curling rink.
I'm ooooh, I'm worried to tell you this.... undefeated. (Unless you count a game in which I played for a team which wasn't my own. Which I don't.)
I'm giving the credit to my shoes. After being teased unmercifully the last several years for my footwear (what? winners isn't good enough for you?), I finally caved this summer and bought actual curling shoes, with a gripper and a built-in slider and everything. They're... well, they're just awesome, and like the proper pants I invested in last year, they have made a big difference to my game, insofar as I can concentrate on my shots rather than having to keep track of where my slider might be and rather than sitting down to install it after every end.
Please don't congratulate me on the five-game streak, though... I don't want to jinx it.
It's been a good season so far on the curling rink.
I'm ooooh, I'm worried to tell you this.... undefeated. (Unless you count a game in which I played for a team which wasn't my own. Which I don't.)
I'm giving the credit to my shoes. After being teased unmercifully the last several years for my footwear (what? winners isn't good enough for you?), I finally caved this summer and bought actual curling shoes, with a gripper and a built-in slider and everything. They're... well, they're just awesome, and like the proper pants I invested in last year, they have made a big difference to my game, insofar as I can concentrate on my shots rather than having to keep track of where my slider might be and rather than sitting down to install it after every end.
Please don't congratulate me on the five-game streak, though... I don't want to jinx it.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
A Perfect Electoral Record
I follow politics, but clearly with more bemusement than expertise.
My record when it comes to predicting elections is nearly spotless. Not even when I was running for student council at CCI or for head prefect did I manage to accurately predict the outcome. I'm like a weatherman of politics; very good at assessing what's happened, but not so great at predicting it.
For example, I wore a red hat to the polling station the day Brian Mulroney got the biggest majority in Canadian parliamentary history. I wore blue the day Jean Chretien got his big win. I used to be glued to the leadership campaigns no matter which party was choosing - you'd think I'd develop some sense of how it was going to go.
But no, you can pretty much bet that if I figure someone's going to win or lose or if I expect a close vote, voting day will show the exact opposite.
Now, I did expect that Sandra Cooper would win the mayor's position in Collingwood, but I sure didn't think her totals would be fourfold that of her closest challenger. Wow.
I also thought Norm Sandberg would somehow squeak out a victory, or at least have a good showing, but he was basically crushed by voters who want a less fractious council table, patios buildingside and a building instead of a hole at Hume and Hurontario. They're hoping to get all that from this new-look council.
I'm glad I didn't go on the record with my bad predictions.
Oops. I guess I just did.
My record when it comes to predicting elections is nearly spotless. Not even when I was running for student council at CCI or for head prefect did I manage to accurately predict the outcome. I'm like a weatherman of politics; very good at assessing what's happened, but not so great at predicting it.
For example, I wore a red hat to the polling station the day Brian Mulroney got the biggest majority in Canadian parliamentary history. I wore blue the day Jean Chretien got his big win. I used to be glued to the leadership campaigns no matter which party was choosing - you'd think I'd develop some sense of how it was going to go.
But no, you can pretty much bet that if I figure someone's going to win or lose or if I expect a close vote, voting day will show the exact opposite.
Now, I did expect that Sandra Cooper would win the mayor's position in Collingwood, but I sure didn't think her totals would be fourfold that of her closest challenger. Wow.
I also thought Norm Sandberg would somehow squeak out a victory, or at least have a good showing, but he was basically crushed by voters who want a less fractious council table, patios buildingside and a building instead of a hole at Hume and Hurontario. They're hoping to get all that from this new-look council.
I'm glad I didn't go on the record with my bad predictions.
Oops. I guess I just did.
Monday, October 25, 2010
A thoughtful voter's plea
I have a radical suggestion to make to you today, and I'm talking to you, Mister Know-it-all-sit-on-your-duff-complaining-about politics.
Please, Mister Know-Nothing, stay home today.
Please don't vote.
Oh, I know you've been hearing the stories of low voter turnout and what a tragedy it is for democracy when people can't be bothered to haul themselves to the polling station.
But I'd rather you take today off if you haven't done the work. By 'the work', I mean, going to an all-candidates meeting, talking to a candidate, listening to their platform, asking a question or two, that sort of thing.
I've done my homework, carefully made my choice and am hoping a group of thoughtful, well-intentioned, honest people will serve the town I live in for the next four years.
If you just show up and vote for the guy you're related to, the gal you bought your dog from, or the person the president of your ski club told you to vote for, you could very well cancel out my well-reasoned decision, and I'd prefer you not do that.
So, please stay home if you haven't been paying attention, stay home and don't cancel out my vote.
Or DO pay some attention- you can hear what each and every candidate in Wasaga and Collingwood has to say in podcasts on the website of the radio station where I work: www.977thebeach.ca.
Please, Mister Know-Nothing, stay home today.
Please don't vote.
Oh, I know you've been hearing the stories of low voter turnout and what a tragedy it is for democracy when people can't be bothered to haul themselves to the polling station.
But I'd rather you take today off if you haven't done the work. By 'the work', I mean, going to an all-candidates meeting, talking to a candidate, listening to their platform, asking a question or two, that sort of thing.
I've done my homework, carefully made my choice and am hoping a group of thoughtful, well-intentioned, honest people will serve the town I live in for the next four years.
If you just show up and vote for the guy you're related to, the gal you bought your dog from, or the person the president of your ski club told you to vote for, you could very well cancel out my well-reasoned decision, and I'd prefer you not do that.
So, please stay home if you haven't been paying attention, stay home and don't cancel out my vote.
Or DO pay some attention- you can hear what each and every candidate in Wasaga and Collingwood has to say in podcasts on the website of the radio station where I work: www.977thebeach.ca.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Three Years
It was three years ago today I watched my funny, sweet, dear, sick, frail father gasp his last failing breath. My brothers, their partners and children, my sweetheart and my mother were all there with him, touching him, keeping vigil.
He was taken by a strange and nasty disease that's a cousin somehow of Parkinson's. Shy Drager Syndrome, like most wasting diseases, takes a vicious toll on the victim, and on those who bear witness to its ten-year course.
We had known Dad was going to pass away for about 24 hours before he took that last breath, but the advance knowledge did nothing to lessen the shock and pain when another breath didn't come. And didn't, and still didn't. I continue to be astonished at the depth of that pain, and its ongoing strength. A thousand days have passed, but it feels like one, especially on the anniversary. I know my stoic mother suffers her loss terribly.
I still sometimes think, "Oh, I'll have to tell Dad that!" when something bizarre or noteworthy happens, only to be caught off guard yet again by the searing remembrance of that evening, that last breath and the daily niggling sense of 'missingness' ever since.
I'm going to spend today with my mother, serving 'church-lady' lunch at, oddly enough, a funeral reception. She's making sandwiches, I'll bring a lemon loaf. She and I will do our best to 'keep it together', to avoid making any of the mourners uncomfortable with our tears, always so close to the surface around this time of year. But I can't guarantee anything.
He was taken by a strange and nasty disease that's a cousin somehow of Parkinson's. Shy Drager Syndrome, like most wasting diseases, takes a vicious toll on the victim, and on those who bear witness to its ten-year course.
We had known Dad was going to pass away for about 24 hours before he took that last breath, but the advance knowledge did nothing to lessen the shock and pain when another breath didn't come. And didn't, and still didn't. I continue to be astonished at the depth of that pain, and its ongoing strength. A thousand days have passed, but it feels like one, especially on the anniversary. I know my stoic mother suffers her loss terribly.
I still sometimes think, "Oh, I'll have to tell Dad that!" when something bizarre or noteworthy happens, only to be caught off guard yet again by the searing remembrance of that evening, that last breath and the daily niggling sense of 'missingness' ever since.
I'm going to spend today with my mother, serving 'church-lady' lunch at, oddly enough, a funeral reception. She's making sandwiches, I'll bring a lemon loaf. She and I will do our best to 'keep it together', to avoid making any of the mourners uncomfortable with our tears, always so close to the surface around this time of year. But I can't guarantee anything.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Hunting: halfway there
A happy note about my 'hunting weight club': I'm halfway to my goal! Well, halfway to the number on the scale that I'm trying to get to, perhaps not so much when it comes to being able to tie my shoes without becoming breathless.
I've gone with good old-fashioned calorie reduction rather than carb-loading or carb elimination or whatever it is people do with gluten these days. I also eschewed food matching, the blood type diet, Zone, Palm Springs or whatever the hell is this week's fad. I went to a website that tells you how many calories a day you need to maintain a certain weight, put in my target weight, and I aim for fewer than that each day. I keep an .xls file of what I consume.
Eating less and doing more, funny enough, is working. So far, at least. A pair of jeans I wouldn't have even tried to put on seven weeks ago are only now slightly uncomfortable, and only for half the day.
Now, the question is, do I try on my wedding dress, or leave it on the hanger for a few more pounds? That was the arbitrary goal I set for myself when I started this exercise, after all: to be able to get back into that dress by Christmas.
Hmmmm. I tried it three pounds ago and was very disappointed. Maybe I'll wait for another three to disappear. Anybody know how many calories are burned in frustrated waiting?
I've gone with good old-fashioned calorie reduction rather than carb-loading or carb elimination or whatever it is people do with gluten these days. I also eschewed food matching, the blood type diet, Zone, Palm Springs or whatever the hell is this week's fad. I went to a website that tells you how many calories a day you need to maintain a certain weight, put in my target weight, and I aim for fewer than that each day. I keep an .xls file of what I consume.
Eating less and doing more, funny enough, is working. So far, at least. A pair of jeans I wouldn't have even tried to put on seven weeks ago are only now slightly uncomfortable, and only for half the day.
Now, the question is, do I try on my wedding dress, or leave it on the hanger for a few more pounds? That was the arbitrary goal I set for myself when I started this exercise, after all: to be able to get back into that dress by Christmas.
Hmmmm. I tried it three pounds ago and was very disappointed. Maybe I'll wait for another three to disappear. Anybody know how many calories are burned in frustrated waiting?
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
October = Arts Apparently II
Mocks over, on to GB Reads.
I'm thrilled to be taking part in this very fun evening for a second year in a row. It's a takeoff of the hugely popular Canada Reads that runs on the CBC, but is in honour of Literacy Week, and involves all the libraries in our area.
Last year, I choose to defend Margaret Atwood's Cat's Eye as a novel we all should read; a story of a woman who can only be described as a frenemy and the nasty things she does to her friends. The 'defenders' voted one another out, rather than letting the audience decide. I'm not entirely sure of the format this year. I can only say I was not the first voted off and I landed a few zingers before the night was out.
This year, my suggestion for all of us to read or re-read, is Douglas Coupland's Generation X. It has stuck with me since it came out, back in 1991, and has stood the test of time, being just as fun and current when I read it again a few weeks ago. I feel as though the characters are universal, a rare thing in a literary tradition which generally sees Canadian characters weeping in the maritimes or dashing across the prairies. I don't think Canadian writing needs to been so parochial, so provincial, to be good.
Gen X, of course, was so well received worldwide, it became the moniker for an actual generation, one to which I belong, of course, and the members of which were sometimes noted for a certain cynicism but also a sharp-eyed belief that they've been somewhat screwed by their older, boomer brothers and sisters, simply by dint of birth date. When I was reading it, I realized I've been unwittingly been quoting it for years.
The other novels up for consideration are two of Timothy Findley's: The Wars and Not Wanted on the Voyage, Tierry Grigg's Rogue's Wedding, Michael Crummey's Galore and Cathy Buchannan's The Day the Falls Stood Still. Three of the five are 'sweeping historical tours de yadda yadda yadda', one set in Newfoundland, one in Georgian Ontario and one in World War I. Findley's Not Wanted is really quite fun, a look at Noah's ark, if Noah were rather a jerk.
I think my book has a pretty good shot, especially if I take the tack that Generation X was iconic, and so is its author, who is currently doing the Massey Lectures, continuing his musings on the future and how we relate to it.
I'm ready for a scrap- I hope you'll join me at the library in Thornbury on Saturday night, 7 pm. the Leafs are likely to lose, but readers always win.
I'm thrilled to be taking part in this very fun evening for a second year in a row. It's a takeoff of the hugely popular Canada Reads that runs on the CBC, but is in honour of Literacy Week, and involves all the libraries in our area.
Last year, I choose to defend Margaret Atwood's Cat's Eye as a novel we all should read; a story of a woman who can only be described as a frenemy and the nasty things she does to her friends. The 'defenders' voted one another out, rather than letting the audience decide. I'm not entirely sure of the format this year. I can only say I was not the first voted off and I landed a few zingers before the night was out.
This year, my suggestion for all of us to read or re-read, is Douglas Coupland's Generation X. It has stuck with me since it came out, back in 1991, and has stood the test of time, being just as fun and current when I read it again a few weeks ago. I feel as though the characters are universal, a rare thing in a literary tradition which generally sees Canadian characters weeping in the maritimes or dashing across the prairies. I don't think Canadian writing needs to been so parochial, so provincial, to be good.
Gen X, of course, was so well received worldwide, it became the moniker for an actual generation, one to which I belong, of course, and the members of which were sometimes noted for a certain cynicism but also a sharp-eyed belief that they've been somewhat screwed by their older, boomer brothers and sisters, simply by dint of birth date. When I was reading it, I realized I've been unwittingly been quoting it for years.
The other novels up for consideration are two of Timothy Findley's: The Wars and Not Wanted on the Voyage, Tierry Grigg's Rogue's Wedding, Michael Crummey's Galore and Cathy Buchannan's The Day the Falls Stood Still. Three of the five are 'sweeping historical tours de yadda yadda yadda', one set in Newfoundland, one in Georgian Ontario and one in World War I. Findley's Not Wanted is really quite fun, a look at Noah's ark, if Noah were rather a jerk.
I think my book has a pretty good shot, especially if I take the tack that Generation X was iconic, and so is its author, who is currently doing the Massey Lectures, continuing his musings on the future and how we relate to it.
I'm ready for a scrap- I hope you'll join me at the library in Thornbury on Saturday night, 7 pm. the Leafs are likely to lose, but readers always win.
Monday, October 18, 2010
DD day!!
I'm giving up on the Hunting Weight challenge for a second day in a row. (OK, third, but whatever...)
Today is a day I've been waiting for, for a long, long time.
It's Double D Day. Double Down, that is.
My co-host Jeremy has procured two of the much talked-about menu item from KFC today, the day the sandwich makes its official debut in Canada.
In case you haven't heard about it, the Double Down is a bacon and cheese sandwich, but secret-recipe deep-fried chicken takes the place of the bread! Genius!
The Double Down has had the biggest selling debut for a fast food sandwich in US history, although with some controversy, since there's a fair amount of fat and salt and calories and so on and so on...and I don't care!
It's my once a year KFC indulgence and I'm going to love it! I hope.
Today is a day I've been waiting for, for a long, long time.
It's Double D Day. Double Down, that is.
My co-host Jeremy has procured two of the much talked-about menu item from KFC today, the day the sandwich makes its official debut in Canada.
In case you haven't heard about it, the Double Down is a bacon and cheese sandwich, but secret-recipe deep-fried chicken takes the place of the bread! Genius!
The Double Down has had the biggest selling debut for a fast food sandwich in US history, although with some controversy, since there's a fair amount of fat and salt and calories and so on and so on...and I don't care!
It's my once a year KFC indulgence and I'm going to love it! I hope.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
October = Arts, Apparently I
I'm not sure what the deal is with October, but it seems to be all arts, all the time, and I'm having a curious case of needing to go to a gallery.
Saturday night, it's the Creemore Mocks film festival, which is really just a great excuse to get together, drink some beer and have a laugh or two. You'd be amazed at the professional level of the movies- maximum five minutes each, and where once they were required to be a mockumentary, now, they just have to be funny.
I have about nine ideas for a film of my own, but so far, I've proven far too lazy to actually do the work. One of my ideas is documenting (mockumenting?) a church choir that sings non-church songs in a very church way, (complete with vibrato). Imagine your granny singing, 'She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean...." Another is to mockument the transformation of a Bay Street mover and shaker to a would-be farmer, using several stops along Airport Road and several changes of clothes and attitude from Mercedes to beatup pickup. At the end, the person transformed would be selling derivatives at the farmer's market--but the new derivatives would come from potato and rye rather than of mortgage backed securities. A third might be a handy dictionary of words one only hears 'north of nine'. Like 'gaffle' and 'up aggin'; favourites in certain circles. Maybe I'll get up the gumption to make one of them next year. Which is, of course, what I said last year.
Happily, I have been invited to host the event again, and I'm very excited to be pulling out at least one new joke. I used my two 'bonspiel standbys' last year, so I'll have to use my backup joke this year. I've already warned my mother about it, because it's just the teeniest bit dirty.
Next up is Georgian Bay Reads, in Thornbury, where I'm not a host, but a defender. I'll tell you more about it tomorrow.
Saturday night, it's the Creemore Mocks film festival, which is really just a great excuse to get together, drink some beer and have a laugh or two. You'd be amazed at the professional level of the movies- maximum five minutes each, and where once they were required to be a mockumentary, now, they just have to be funny.
I have about nine ideas for a film of my own, but so far, I've proven far too lazy to actually do the work. One of my ideas is documenting (mockumenting?) a church choir that sings non-church songs in a very church way, (complete with vibrato). Imagine your granny singing, 'She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean...." Another is to mockument the transformation of a Bay Street mover and shaker to a would-be farmer, using several stops along Airport Road and several changes of clothes and attitude from Mercedes to beatup pickup. At the end, the person transformed would be selling derivatives at the farmer's market--but the new derivatives would come from potato and rye rather than of mortgage backed securities. A third might be a handy dictionary of words one only hears 'north of nine'. Like 'gaffle' and 'up aggin'; favourites in certain circles. Maybe I'll get up the gumption to make one of them next year. Which is, of course, what I said last year.
Happily, I have been invited to host the event again, and I'm very excited to be pulling out at least one new joke. I used my two 'bonspiel standbys' last year, so I'll have to use my backup joke this year. I've already warned my mother about it, because it's just the teeniest bit dirty.
Next up is Georgian Bay Reads, in Thornbury, where I'm not a host, but a defender. I'll tell you more about it tomorrow.
Review- Room
I can't say enough good about this amazing book.
You might think the story of a teenaged girl held as a sex slave for seven years in a windowless shed, told by the five year old son she gave birth to alone would be morose or difficult. But Emma Donoghue has managed to find the voice of this little boy in a way that rings so awesomely true, I know exactly why it's had so much hype and has already been nominated for the Man Booker prize. I read it in one sitting, simply unable to put it down.
The story is told by Jack, whose mother was snatched from a street on her way to school seven years previous, and who is visited most nights by a man Jack calls either 'him' or 'Old Nick'. They manage to escape, and the rest of the story is about their time once they get Outside.
If Room is not nominated for the Governor General awards later today, I'll be very confused.
Get yourself a copy- it's truly magnificent.
You might think the story of a teenaged girl held as a sex slave for seven years in a windowless shed, told by the five year old son she gave birth to alone would be morose or difficult. But Emma Donoghue has managed to find the voice of this little boy in a way that rings so awesomely true, I know exactly why it's had so much hype and has already been nominated for the Man Booker prize. I read it in one sitting, simply unable to put it down.
The story is told by Jack, whose mother was snatched from a street on her way to school seven years previous, and who is visited most nights by a man Jack calls either 'him' or 'Old Nick'. They manage to escape, and the rest of the story is about their time once they get Outside.
If Room is not nominated for the Governor General awards later today, I'll be very confused.
Get yourself a copy- it's truly magnificent.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
In the System
There's a lot of chatter lately about the state of our health care system - lobbyists getting cash that should be used on patient care, wait times to make your head spin and of course, let's not forget the complaints about overpaid administrators and their vacation payouts. But the last two weeks, I've been 'in' the system, and I must say, I've been happily impressed with my experience.
My mother is 'having her eyes done'. No, not a brow lift; cataracts. At the hospital where she's having the procedure, the team looking after the patients has their work down to...well..down to a science. Wednesdays are for left eyes, Tuesdays are for rights. A simple thing, but when you think about it, a very clever way to avoid a mistake. For those of us waiting, our patient is assigned a number and in the waiting area, a screen tracks their progress. I knew the minute my mum was under the knife, (actually a laser, I guess), when she was done and long before I expected her, there she was, left eye bleary and ready for a nap. Today, we're doing the whole thing over again.
The very same day, about a week after my yearly womanly 'lube oil and filter' as my sweetie calls it, I stopped in at the lab of that very hospital to have some blood drawn and tested. I had a message from my doctor's office fewer than 24 hours later, he having received and already reviewed the results. Seriously, less than a day. That seems very very fast to me.
My only complaint about the entire experience is the unbelievably long line at the coffee shop. Maybe we can hire some lobbyists or consultants and task them with creating a framework to curb our collective addiction to Timmys.
My mother is 'having her eyes done'. No, not a brow lift; cataracts. At the hospital where she's having the procedure, the team looking after the patients has their work down to...well..down to a science. Wednesdays are for left eyes, Tuesdays are for rights. A simple thing, but when you think about it, a very clever way to avoid a mistake. For those of us waiting, our patient is assigned a number and in the waiting area, a screen tracks their progress. I knew the minute my mum was under the knife, (actually a laser, I guess), when she was done and long before I expected her, there she was, left eye bleary and ready for a nap. Today, we're doing the whole thing over again.
The very same day, about a week after my yearly womanly 'lube oil and filter' as my sweetie calls it, I stopped in at the lab of that very hospital to have some blood drawn and tested. I had a message from my doctor's office fewer than 24 hours later, he having received and already reviewed the results. Seriously, less than a day. That seems very very fast to me.
My only complaint about the entire experience is the unbelievably long line at the coffee shop. Maybe we can hire some lobbyists or consultants and task them with creating a framework to curb our collective addiction to Timmys.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
My Own Book of Awesome
I recently got some news that I didn't much like. It has thrown me for a bit of a loop. (I don't feel badly, though: don't get me started on the old bad versus badly debate- it's sure to end badly!)
Instead of wallowing in a blue funk, I'm trying to focus on things that make me happy, even if sometimes, I feel like I'm grasping at teeny tiny straws for something nice to contemplate.
Here are the five things that made me feel better this week:
Monday: Jamie Oliver's Southern Indian fish and rice soup. wow wow wow!
Tuesday: Finding five bucks in the pocket of a coat I hadn't worn since spring- morning coffee for my co-host and me!
Wednesday: My piano students actually practised!
Also Wednesday: I got to see a wee bunny scurry across my driveway and under my neighbour's deck; a cute, fuzzy white-tailed brown juvenile. I hope to see it again.
Today: I already own all the ingredients for a delicious dinner tonight, so I don't have to go to the store.
Small steps people, small steps.
Instead of wallowing in a blue funk, I'm trying to focus on things that make me happy, even if sometimes, I feel like I'm grasping at teeny tiny straws for something nice to contemplate.
Here are the five things that made me feel better this week:
Monday: Jamie Oliver's Southern Indian fish and rice soup. wow wow wow!
Tuesday: Finding five bucks in the pocket of a coat I hadn't worn since spring- morning coffee for my co-host and me!
Wednesday: My piano students actually practised!
Also Wednesday: I got to see a wee bunny scurry across my driveway and under my neighbour's deck; a cute, fuzzy white-tailed brown juvenile. I hope to see it again.
Today: I already own all the ingredients for a delicious dinner tonight, so I don't have to go to the store.
Small steps people, small steps.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
My Plan B
I have my second husband picked out.
No, I'm not done with my first (and hopefully only); I just want to be ready.
The man I've chosen doesn't know that I have wee crush on him. We've only met twice. I truly hope he never finds out my plan because even typing it right now, it sounds a little creepy. Here it is: if my husband passes away and I find out that the man I'm eyeing has become a widower, I'm definitely going to make a move. Number two, as I call him, seems like a pretty good mate: friendly, funny, good looking, sporty and seems like a good dad. I'm sure he's a good husband, too.
I ran the tragic plan past my current husband to get his approval, but for another reason, too, and here's where a funny little story becomes a lesson in how to stay married: I told my husband that I had a teensy crush on another man as a way of diffusing the power of the crush. Put another way, I revealed myself to my partner to turn what might otherwise be a harmful secret into something to bring us closer together, through laughter.
It worked brilliantly: if this guy's name ever comes up, instead of me blushing about my secret feelings, my sweetie and I get to share a joke.
I think if more people would share their silly feelings before those feelings become serious, and if more spouses would respond with kindhearted laughter and understanding, we might just see fewer broken hearts and maybe fewer broken marriages.
No, I'm not done with my first (and hopefully only); I just want to be ready.
The man I've chosen doesn't know that I have wee crush on him. We've only met twice. I truly hope he never finds out my plan because even typing it right now, it sounds a little creepy. Here it is: if my husband passes away and I find out that the man I'm eyeing has become a widower, I'm definitely going to make a move. Number two, as I call him, seems like a pretty good mate: friendly, funny, good looking, sporty and seems like a good dad. I'm sure he's a good husband, too.
I ran the tragic plan past my current husband to get his approval, but for another reason, too, and here's where a funny little story becomes a lesson in how to stay married: I told my husband that I had a teensy crush on another man as a way of diffusing the power of the crush. Put another way, I revealed myself to my partner to turn what might otherwise be a harmful secret into something to bring us closer together, through laughter.
It worked brilliantly: if this guy's name ever comes up, instead of me blushing about my secret feelings, my sweetie and I get to share a joke.
I think if more people would share their silly feelings before those feelings become serious, and if more spouses would respond with kindhearted laughter and understanding, we might just see fewer broken hearts and maybe fewer broken marriages.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Ward Four, er, Three
New experience number 10,302,983 this weekend: Moderating a candidates' meeting. I was invited to host both of two such meetings in my old stomping grounds of Dunedin, and Singhampton.
So there I was at a lectern, having comandeered an old-fashioned schoolteachers' bell, the four men vying for office having to shut up when I rang it. The very first words out of my mouth were to say, 'thanks for coming to this candidates meeting for ward four...' only to be corrected by my old 4-h leader, who was in the front row.
After that initial stumble, it became a terrific afternoon, and not because of anything the candidates had to say, or my job as ringleader. It was terrific because both community halls were filled with the members of the community, there to hear what their neighbour had to say and what those neighbours had to offer for the job. I thought it was tremendous to hear respectful, thoughtful and for the most part, good natured questioning.
The four candidates are vastly different, and yet each of them would do a bang-up job. I don't envy the voters of Ward 3.
I hear and read a lot of stories of corruption, graft and trouble in politics, and I've seen crooks and would-be crooks get into in office. But yesterday, my hope for democracy was renewed, and I was proud to help it along with my little bell.
Funny aside about Singhampton-I had quite a discussion with a certain airborne traffic reporter when I worked on the radio in Toronto. One snowy Friday afternoon, he said on air that 24 highway was closed from Shelburne to SING-um-tun. I corrected him, and he insisted it was pronounced that way, and he should know since he had "friends with a farm house up there for several years!" "Well," I replied to this very crusty fellow, "I grew up two miles away, and so did my father and his father, and none of us have heard anyone say anything but sing-HAM-ton. But, hey, you do what you like." He got it right in the next report.
So there I was at a lectern, having comandeered an old-fashioned schoolteachers' bell, the four men vying for office having to shut up when I rang it. The very first words out of my mouth were to say, 'thanks for coming to this candidates meeting for ward four...' only to be corrected by my old 4-h leader, who was in the front row.
After that initial stumble, it became a terrific afternoon, and not because of anything the candidates had to say, or my job as ringleader. It was terrific because both community halls were filled with the members of the community, there to hear what their neighbour had to say and what those neighbours had to offer for the job. I thought it was tremendous to hear respectful, thoughtful and for the most part, good natured questioning.
The four candidates are vastly different, and yet each of them would do a bang-up job. I don't envy the voters of Ward 3.
I hear and read a lot of stories of corruption, graft and trouble in politics, and I've seen crooks and would-be crooks get into in office. But yesterday, my hope for democracy was renewed, and I was proud to help it along with my little bell.
Funny aside about Singhampton-I had quite a discussion with a certain airborne traffic reporter when I worked on the radio in Toronto. One snowy Friday afternoon, he said on air that 24 highway was closed from Shelburne to SING-um-tun. I corrected him, and he insisted it was pronounced that way, and he should know since he had "friends with a farm house up there for several years!" "Well," I replied to this very crusty fellow, "I grew up two miles away, and so did my father and his father, and none of us have heard anyone say anything but sing-HAM-ton. But, hey, you do what you like." He got it right in the next report.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Candidates versus Buttertarts
I went cooking crazy this week, getting ready for a winter that's going to mean a lot of frozen dinners at my house. Starting next month, on the three nights a week that I'm at the curling rink, feel free to drop over for dinner- I can guarantee you'll get either squash soup or chicken pot pie. I've made about a thousand batches of each for re-heating through the long months when I'm not going to be at home to cook.
I feel a bit like a pioneerwoman, putting up preserves for the winter. I also managed to bottle up all tomatoes from the backyard, using my mother's 'tomato squeezer'. (it's really just a juicer, but a very cool kitchen gadget, with lots of power and noise!) I'm not sure if the juice will become pasta sauce or Bloody Marys. I guess that will depend on how well I do at the rink...
Sadly, I will have no time to hold on to my championship at the Collingwood fair when it comes to butter tarts. I simply ran out of time yesterday, and today, instead of baking, I'll be at the all-candidates meeting at the Legion, trying to figure out who to vote for in the local election.
I will also gather sound so you, too can hear from the candidates - on my talk show. So if you're baking instead of attending, be sure to tune in tomorrow and Friday for the candidates for council, and Monday for the candidates for Mayor and Deputy Mayor.
97.7 FM or www.977Thebeach.ca
I feel a bit like a pioneerwoman, putting up preserves for the winter. I also managed to bottle up all tomatoes from the backyard, using my mother's 'tomato squeezer'. (it's really just a juicer, but a very cool kitchen gadget, with lots of power and noise!) I'm not sure if the juice will become pasta sauce or Bloody Marys. I guess that will depend on how well I do at the rink...
Sadly, I will have no time to hold on to my championship at the Collingwood fair when it comes to butter tarts. I simply ran out of time yesterday, and today, instead of baking, I'll be at the all-candidates meeting at the Legion, trying to figure out who to vote for in the local election.
I will also gather sound so you, too can hear from the candidates - on my talk show. So if you're baking instead of attending, be sure to tune in tomorrow and Friday for the candidates for council, and Monday for the candidates for Mayor and Deputy Mayor.
97.7 FM or www.977Thebeach.ca
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
September 15, 2010 - Dear Fellow Sticklers
I need your help and advice, fellow stickers.
Please advise me on the best technique to employ as I attempt to refrain from violence when confronted by the most annoying pet peeve.
There could be some bad hurt coming if I ever again hear anyone say they "feel badly" about something.
You sticklers and I all know you can't feel badly unless you're touching something and doing a lousy job of it. Like a doctor, say, who is not good at palpating. That doctor would feel badly.
But if you're upset or expressing pity, you feel bad. You don't feel gladly or sadly or madly, why would you feel badly?
I can see how the mixup happens. It's an adverb versus adjective thing and when added to the verb feel, it can certainly get tricky. For me, though, it's the screaming that's going to be troublesome; screaming that's either mine or that of the next person near me who gets it wrong.
Thank you for your kind advice on this matter,
M
Please advise me on the best technique to employ as I attempt to refrain from violence when confronted by the most annoying pet peeve.
There could be some bad hurt coming if I ever again hear anyone say they "feel badly" about something.
You sticklers and I all know you can't feel badly unless you're touching something and doing a lousy job of it. Like a doctor, say, who is not good at palpating. That doctor would feel badly.
But if you're upset or expressing pity, you feel bad. You don't feel gladly or sadly or madly, why would you feel badly?
I can see how the mixup happens. It's an adverb versus adjective thing and when added to the verb feel, it can certainly get tricky. For me, though, it's the screaming that's going to be troublesome; screaming that's either mine or that of the next person near me who gets it wrong.
Thank you for your kind advice on this matter,
M
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
September 14, 2010- Yesterday
I suddenly understand what those geezers are getting at when they're quoted in those 'married 50 years!' news articles saying, "It seems like yesterday". I've always thought it seemed like yesterday to them, because, well, they've been married fifty years and their memories might not be quite as good as they once were.
But if fifty years flies past as fast as seven, we're in pretty good shape to be those geezers.
It really does seem like yesterday we failed to plan out when 'the boys' would come into the church from the vestry and so Sweetie didn't actually see me stride down the aisle.
It actually seems like yesterday I was using my calligraphy pen to address envelopes for the invitations, oh-so-carefully lettering the paper that would be in recycling bins across Ontario mere moments after they were opened.
It sure feels like yesterday my sweetie was being given (given!) three fingers of scotch at a bar down the street from the fancy china shop in Toronto where we spent several hours picking out our 'good' china and crystal. He had collapsed on a couch and the server felt sorry for him when he discovered where we'd been.
It seems like yesterday I could fit into my wedding dress.
Thankfully, my feet are the same size and my very expensive wedding shoes will never go out of style. Wow, I'm glad I didn't pick white.
But if fifty years flies past as fast as seven, we're in pretty good shape to be those geezers.
It really does seem like yesterday we failed to plan out when 'the boys' would come into the church from the vestry and so Sweetie didn't actually see me stride down the aisle.
It actually seems like yesterday I was using my calligraphy pen to address envelopes for the invitations, oh-so-carefully lettering the paper that would be in recycling bins across Ontario mere moments after they were opened.
It sure feels like yesterday my sweetie was being given (given!) three fingers of scotch at a bar down the street from the fancy china shop in Toronto where we spent several hours picking out our 'good' china and crystal. He had collapsed on a couch and the server felt sorry for him when he discovered where we'd been.
It seems like yesterday I could fit into my wedding dress.
Thankfully, my feet are the same size and my very expensive wedding shoes will never go out of style. Wow, I'm glad I didn't pick white.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
September 9, 2010 - Kooks with Books
I'm not planning to burn any books, religious or otherwise, although I must admit thinking a few harlequin romances might make some good kindling. But if I wanted to burn a book, religious or otherwise, whether making a point or a cosy fire, I'm pretty sure I should be allowed to, even if you don't want me to. I shouldn't have to worry about whether you're going to kill me for it, or if you're going to kill my family or friends.
All that said, just because I want to do something and have the right to do it, should I? Well, yes and no. If these people in Florida who are planning a 'burn your Koran day' are doing it to make a point about freedom of expression, that's one thing. If they're stoking up the fires to see what kind of reaction they might get, that's another.
If the people who are upset about the book burning plan condemn it because it's disrespectful, I can get behind that. But, if we're worried about the burning of the books because we're scared of the violence that might come from it, I can't. (The possibility of violence is real: at least 19 people were killed in the furor that surrounded those commissioned cartoons of Mohammad in Denmark. (Most of the cartoons weren't funny, by the way.))
One good thing has come from this controversy, though, which is the reminder that it's not just Islam that loonies can hide in. It turns out there are crazy Christians just like there are crazy Muslims. And before you exclaim, 'It wasn't crazed Christians flying planes into buildings!,' take a moment to think about these: abortion clinic bombings, residential schools, the Troubles, the Inquisition and The Crusades.
All that said, just because I want to do something and have the right to do it, should I? Well, yes and no. If these people in Florida who are planning a 'burn your Koran day' are doing it to make a point about freedom of expression, that's one thing. If they're stoking up the fires to see what kind of reaction they might get, that's another.
If the people who are upset about the book burning plan condemn it because it's disrespectful, I can get behind that. But, if we're worried about the burning of the books because we're scared of the violence that might come from it, I can't. (The possibility of violence is real: at least 19 people were killed in the furor that surrounded those commissioned cartoons of Mohammad in Denmark. (Most of the cartoons weren't funny, by the way.))
One good thing has come from this controversy, though, which is the reminder that it's not just Islam that loonies can hide in. It turns out there are crazy Christians just like there are crazy Muslims. And before you exclaim, 'It wasn't crazed Christians flying planes into buildings!,' take a moment to think about these: abortion clinic bombings, residential schools, the Troubles, the Inquisition and The Crusades.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
September 8, 2010 - Asking the Voters
While I don't write about it often, I am an avid follower of local politics and every time I'm out and about, I spend time asking people I meet where they stand on issues and what they think about what's going on in town. I have my own ideas, but I like to hear what other people are thinking, and quite often, the points others make are good enough to sway me.
While in some circles, it seems the municipal election is already decided, the people I've been listening to have certainly not made up their minds. Although some of my acquaintances are despairing over their choices, or what they see as a lack thereof.
One man I talked to at a party this weekend told me he didn't want to see a particular group of candidates get elected, because he was worried they were all connected to one another, either through family or business matters. While he said he didn't have a problem the candidates in this group as individuals, he felt it wouldn't be good for the town for there to be, as he saw it, a form of one-party rule.
He's got a point, but then again, maybe if a group that agreed on things were elected, there would be at least a semblance of collegiality at the council table. On the other hand, if everyone were in agreement all the time, what would happen if the group fell under the spell of a particular developer or set of ideas out of whack with the electorate?
It's worth thinking about, and I am heartened to know there are thoughtful people making careful decisions with their ballots.
While in some circles, it seems the municipal election is already decided, the people I've been listening to have certainly not made up their minds. Although some of my acquaintances are despairing over their choices, or what they see as a lack thereof.
One man I talked to at a party this weekend told me he didn't want to see a particular group of candidates get elected, because he was worried they were all connected to one another, either through family or business matters. While he said he didn't have a problem the candidates in this group as individuals, he felt it wouldn't be good for the town for there to be, as he saw it, a form of one-party rule.
He's got a point, but then again, maybe if a group that agreed on things were elected, there would be at least a semblance of collegiality at the council table. On the other hand, if everyone were in agreement all the time, what would happen if the group fell under the spell of a particular developer or set of ideas out of whack with the electorate?
It's worth thinking about, and I am heartened to know there are thoughtful people making careful decisions with their ballots.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
August 28, 2010- Dragon Disappeared
Don't come to my house today. Don't knock, don't call, don't deliver any packages or ask me for a cup of sugar; I'm not answering the door, the 'phone or any questions except those pertaining to Lisbeth Salander.
I'm now the proud owner of the paperback version of The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest, third in Steig Larsson's Millenium series. I plan to read it cover to cover today.
It's been hard waiting for my mother to return from her latest European sojourn with the book, since the hardcover came out this side of the pond, months ago, and I could have read it several times by now. I've waited because I don't want to buy the hardcover just to have it sit next to the paperbacks of the first two books on my shelves. Yes, it might seem silly, but since I'm going to read this series, like, nine times, it seems to me the volumes might as well match. (note to smug e-reader people: please, I'm not ready!)
I don't have much time to spare before I dive into the book, but my quick advice to you, even if you don't like mysteries, horror or whatever genre you think the series everyone else on the planet is reading right now might be, is this: get over it.
These are awesome stories and I can't wait to find out how it all ends!
I'm now the proud owner of the paperback version of The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest, third in Steig Larsson's Millenium series. I plan to read it cover to cover today.
It's been hard waiting for my mother to return from her latest European sojourn with the book, since the hardcover came out this side of the pond, months ago, and I could have read it several times by now. I've waited because I don't want to buy the hardcover just to have it sit next to the paperbacks of the first two books on my shelves. Yes, it might seem silly, but since I'm going to read this series, like, nine times, it seems to me the volumes might as well match. (note to smug e-reader people: please, I'm not ready!)
I don't have much time to spare before I dive into the book, but my quick advice to you, even if you don't like mysteries, horror or whatever genre you think the series everyone else on the planet is reading right now might be, is this: get over it.
These are awesome stories and I can't wait to find out how it all ends!
Friday, August 27, 2010
August 27, 2010- Counting
I'm not going to harp on and on about the Hunting Weight thing. We all know there's little in this world more annoying than a recently converted dieter talking loud and long about their newly-formed and soon-to-be-abandoned habits.
However, two observations:
1: It is difficult to maintain a calm, cool and collected yoga-type focus-on-your-breath mindset while getting a face-licking from your dog. Especially while in 'downward facing dog' pose.
2: The McDonalds website makes you look through pictures of menu items if you're looking up nutritional information. Part of my little club thing is to keep a rough count of calories consumed, and yesterday, while driving to pick up my mother from her latest international adventure, I succumbed to the allure and convenience of the Golden Arches. When I went to the website later to see how many calories I had taken in (plenty!), I discovered that in order to count the calories in those fries, I had to search through pictures of each menu item, find what I was looking for, then drag and drop it onto a little virtual tray. Only once I'd put the item on the tray would a chart detailing calories, fat, sodium etc., appear. I suspect some serious psychology was employed in the design.
By the way, have you seen the Angus burger? It looks delicious!
However, two observations:
1: It is difficult to maintain a calm, cool and collected yoga-type focus-on-your-breath mindset while getting a face-licking from your dog. Especially while in 'downward facing dog' pose.
2: The McDonalds website makes you look through pictures of menu items if you're looking up nutritional information. Part of my little club thing is to keep a rough count of calories consumed, and yesterday, while driving to pick up my mother from her latest international adventure, I succumbed to the allure and convenience of the Golden Arches. When I went to the website later to see how many calories I had taken in (plenty!), I discovered that in order to count the calories in those fries, I had to search through pictures of each menu item, find what I was looking for, then drag and drop it onto a little virtual tray. Only once I'd put the item on the tray would a chart detailing calories, fat, sodium etc., appear. I suspect some serious psychology was employed in the design.
By the way, have you seen the Angus burger? It looks delicious!
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
August 25, 2010 - Hunting Weight
I think there might be a bit of a misnomer in the club I've recently joined. I am happily married and not 'on the hunt' at all. If I manage to get to what we're calling, 'hunting weight', it will only be because I have worked hard and been strong, not because I have an agenda. (I just want to be clear on that, honey!)
At my 'girls cottage weekend' recently, as it rained and rained and rained, a girlfriend and I got talking about our respective disappointment in our growing...shall we say, assets.
She laughed at the phrase, but then, at the end of the weekend, proposed she and I create our own little mission called the Hunting Weight Club. Together, we're going to inspire and push and monitor each other as we try to reach our respective goals.
We're still working out the details, but there could well be some sort of race or something fitness-y built into it at the end. For now, we're setting weekly goals for exercise and keeping journals of our food intake.
For me, the goal is to fit back into my wedding dress, which I was very disappointed not to be able to zip up on my first anniversary, several years ago. It's in the spare room closet and I feel as though it looks at me reproachfully every time I go in there to get clean sheets. I want to be able to put it on again by Christmas. If I make it, I might even wear the darn thing to Christmas Eve dinner! Why not?
At my 'girls cottage weekend' recently, as it rained and rained and rained, a girlfriend and I got talking about our respective disappointment in our growing...shall we say, assets.
She laughed at the phrase, but then, at the end of the weekend, proposed she and I create our own little mission called the Hunting Weight Club. Together, we're going to inspire and push and monitor each other as we try to reach our respective goals.
We're still working out the details, but there could well be some sort of race or something fitness-y built into it at the end. For now, we're setting weekly goals for exercise and keeping journals of our food intake.
For me, the goal is to fit back into my wedding dress, which I was very disappointed not to be able to zip up on my first anniversary, several years ago. It's in the spare room closet and I feel as though it looks at me reproachfully every time I go in there to get clean sheets. I want to be able to put it on again by Christmas. If I make it, I might even wear the darn thing to Christmas Eve dinner! Why not?
Sunday, August 22, 2010
August 22, 2010 - Review
I'm starting to question my loyalty to Team Jen.
I'm already planning not to see the Jennifer Aniston movie that opened this weekend, the one that has every tabloid screaming about her desire to have babies again. I just can't do it. I'm so sure it's going to be...meh. Just like everything she's done in the last few years.
Thus far, I've been unwavering in my support of "America's sweetheart" compared with that crazy, heroin-taking, blood-drinking, brother-frenching, serial-adopting cutter of a vamp, Angelina, but seriously, can't Jen just make one good movie, please?
Jennifer Aniston's string of less-than-moving movies is starting to make her co-stars less exciting, too. It's quite a feat to make Gerrard Butler and his awesome abs less than amazing, but somehow, Bounty Hunter managed to be equal parts lame, boring, predictable and dumb. And I watched it with a group of grown-up women- its target audience! There was not one laugh among us, not one! Sigh.
Just once, I want to see Jennifer Aniston and someone, anyone, in even one scene as hot as nearly any scene from 'Mr. and Mrs. Smith'. I don't think it's too much to ask.
I'm already planning not to see the Jennifer Aniston movie that opened this weekend, the one that has every tabloid screaming about her desire to have babies again. I just can't do it. I'm so sure it's going to be...meh. Just like everything she's done in the last few years.
Thus far, I've been unwavering in my support of "America's sweetheart" compared with that crazy, heroin-taking, blood-drinking, brother-frenching, serial-adopting cutter of a vamp, Angelina, but seriously, can't Jen just make one good movie, please?
Jennifer Aniston's string of less-than-moving movies is starting to make her co-stars less exciting, too. It's quite a feat to make Gerrard Butler and his awesome abs less than amazing, but somehow, Bounty Hunter managed to be equal parts lame, boring, predictable and dumb. And I watched it with a group of grown-up women- its target audience! There was not one laugh among us, not one! Sigh.
Just once, I want to see Jennifer Aniston and someone, anyone, in even one scene as hot as nearly any scene from 'Mr. and Mrs. Smith'. I don't think it's too much to ask.
Monday, August 16, 2010
August 16, 2010 - Rereading Romance
A tip for all you fans of romantic fiction: under no circumstances should you try to explain the plot of the novel you're reading, no matter how breathtaking, sweeping or epic the story. Your sweetheart will laugh. Or worse, he might try very hard not to laugh.
I have been reading a lot of quite serious non-fiction lately, but decided on Thursday afternoon to go with something lighter, and I found myself revisiting my collection of historical romances by the creator of the genre, Kathleen E Woodiwiss.
As I settled in to finish 'Shanna' last night, my sweetheart asked me to briefly outline the plot.
Big mistake.
The corners of his mouth started to twitch as I told my sweetie of the immensely wealthy and striking blonde with a streak of willfulness who lived in the 1780s. She decides to thwart her father, who has demanded she find a man to marry within a year or face marriage to a man of his choosing. The year is nearly up and she decides find a man of good name bound for the gallows. The plan is, she'll marry the prisoner in exchange for easing his last days, then get to be a widow, thus appeasing Daddy and getting freedom to eventually choose her own mate. That's the first ten pages.
He had to cover his mouth to suppress his laughter as I explained how the chosen prisoner demanded a whole night with the blonde beauty, then, after being betrayed by her, through a series of impossible coincidences involving many, many corrupt and greedy men, he winds up a bondsman on the Caribbean island owned by the father where he distinguishes himself with his knowledge of engineering, horses and business, becoming indispsensible to the workings of the island.
I didn't get into the pirates, the kidnapping, rescue, near-fatal injuries, the nursing back to health, the steamy sex scenes or declarations of undying love, mostly because my sweetie couldn't hear me over the gales of laughter.
The laughter wasn't coming from him- it was from me!
It all sounded so ridiculous when I said it out loud - why is it so captivating on the page?
I guess some things just don't translate. So, my steamy romances will stay on paper from now on, complete with the 'thee's and 'ye's that make the dialogue so delicious.
I have been reading a lot of quite serious non-fiction lately, but decided on Thursday afternoon to go with something lighter, and I found myself revisiting my collection of historical romances by the creator of the genre, Kathleen E Woodiwiss.
As I settled in to finish 'Shanna' last night, my sweetheart asked me to briefly outline the plot.
Big mistake.
The corners of his mouth started to twitch as I told my sweetie of the immensely wealthy and striking blonde with a streak of willfulness who lived in the 1780s. She decides to thwart her father, who has demanded she find a man to marry within a year or face marriage to a man of his choosing. The year is nearly up and she decides find a man of good name bound for the gallows. The plan is, she'll marry the prisoner in exchange for easing his last days, then get to be a widow, thus appeasing Daddy and getting freedom to eventually choose her own mate. That's the first ten pages.
He had to cover his mouth to suppress his laughter as I explained how the chosen prisoner demanded a whole night with the blonde beauty, then, after being betrayed by her, through a series of impossible coincidences involving many, many corrupt and greedy men, he winds up a bondsman on the Caribbean island owned by the father where he distinguishes himself with his knowledge of engineering, horses and business, becoming indispsensible to the workings of the island.
I didn't get into the pirates, the kidnapping, rescue, near-fatal injuries, the nursing back to health, the steamy sex scenes or declarations of undying love, mostly because my sweetie couldn't hear me over the gales of laughter.
The laughter wasn't coming from him- it was from me!
It all sounded so ridiculous when I said it out loud - why is it so captivating on the page?
I guess some things just don't translate. So, my steamy romances will stay on paper from now on, complete with the 'thee's and 'ye's that make the dialogue so delicious.
Friday, August 13, 2010
August 13, 2010- Pizza Friday
I'm a little afraid of publishing today's thoughts. I'm worried if I'm too enthusiastic in my praise, you might rush to my favourite pizza joint and in future, I'll have to wait in long lines for my weekly treat.
But....I like it so much, I just have to share.
Each Friday, my sweetheart and I get our supper from Mountain Shores Pizza; it's a small place in the fourth block of Collingwood's main street, and man, is it ever good!
Seriously, it's the best pizza in town, and we know because we did our own little non-scientific test over the course of several months. Starting last October, Sweetie and I ordered pizza from every chain, franchise and corner shop in Collingwood, after we decided Friday night at our house would be Pizza night in perpetuity. We even tried the frozen kind from the box, and once in a while, I made pizza from scratch.
Mountain Shores won, hands-down: the mushrooms are fresh, the peppers are fresh, the cheese is plentiful, the sausage just spicy enough and the sauce is unique and delicious and the whole thing is just... awesome.
It makes Friday my favourite night of the week. Not just because of the treat, but because I don't have to wonder what we're having for dinner that night.
Now, if only we could come up with a such a brilliant and tasty plan for every other night...Sushi Tuesday, anyone?
But....I like it so much, I just have to share.
Each Friday, my sweetheart and I get our supper from Mountain Shores Pizza; it's a small place in the fourth block of Collingwood's main street, and man, is it ever good!
Seriously, it's the best pizza in town, and we know because we did our own little non-scientific test over the course of several months. Starting last October, Sweetie and I ordered pizza from every chain, franchise and corner shop in Collingwood, after we decided Friday night at our house would be Pizza night in perpetuity. We even tried the frozen kind from the box, and once in a while, I made pizza from scratch.
Mountain Shores won, hands-down: the mushrooms are fresh, the peppers are fresh, the cheese is plentiful, the sausage just spicy enough and the sauce is unique and delicious and the whole thing is just... awesome.
It makes Friday my favourite night of the week. Not just because of the treat, but because I don't have to wonder what we're having for dinner that night.
Now, if only we could come up with a such a brilliant and tasty plan for every other night...Sushi Tuesday, anyone?
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
August 11, 2010, Not a Minute Too Soon
My contact at the Ministry of Transportation tells me we're going to see heavy equipment back on the planned and much-delayed revamped Highway 26 in the next little while.
Has it been ten years since the project was announced? Or is it fifteen? It's hard to remember. What I do remember is the last seven years of being pretty sure the project has little to do with anything other than politics- both the start and the stall of it as far as I can figure.
For once, though, I'm tempted to believe the highway through nowhere might actually be finished one day. Here's why:
I went for a stroll along the Batteaux River Saturday afternoon with a group of cousins during a family reunion. (the naildriving competition was over and we weren't interested in the hayride...) As we checked out the inch and a half of water flowing over the area we call 'flat rock', we spied, in the middle of what looks to be a field, an overpass. No road on either side of it, mind you, but an overpass nonetheless. It was like a scene from Legend, the futuristic dystopia featuring Will Smith, with overgrown roads and no traffic. Truly. Bizarre.
While were were having a walk around and under the overpass, trying to imagine how a four-lane road was going to fit on its rather small width, and checking out the predictably obscene yet somehow boring graffiti, a pickup truck rumbled along. An official-looking type guy got out to snap pictures of the overpass, the river under it and a space beside it.
Afterwards, as he drove on the overpass, he told us there would be a second overpass built to accommodate westbound traffic. It would go a few yards to the east of the one we were standing on. He explained that he was a worker for the company which had won the tender, and work would be starting in the next couple of days.
Finally. Simcoe Grey's highway boondoggle might be about to come to an end, and if the timelines come to pass, two years from now, you'll be able to get from Collingwood to Stayner really fast.
Thank Goodness! It's so very important to hurry so you can get to the Airport Road/26 all-weekend-long bottleneck and practise your cursing.
Has it been ten years since the project was announced? Or is it fifteen? It's hard to remember. What I do remember is the last seven years of being pretty sure the project has little to do with anything other than politics- both the start and the stall of it as far as I can figure.
For once, though, I'm tempted to believe the highway through nowhere might actually be finished one day. Here's why:
I went for a stroll along the Batteaux River Saturday afternoon with a group of cousins during a family reunion. (the naildriving competition was over and we weren't interested in the hayride...) As we checked out the inch and a half of water flowing over the area we call 'flat rock', we spied, in the middle of what looks to be a field, an overpass. No road on either side of it, mind you, but an overpass nonetheless. It was like a scene from Legend, the futuristic dystopia featuring Will Smith, with overgrown roads and no traffic. Truly. Bizarre.
While were were having a walk around and under the overpass, trying to imagine how a four-lane road was going to fit on its rather small width, and checking out the predictably obscene yet somehow boring graffiti, a pickup truck rumbled along. An official-looking type guy got out to snap pictures of the overpass, the river under it and a space beside it.
Afterwards, as he drove on the overpass, he told us there would be a second overpass built to accommodate westbound traffic. It would go a few yards to the east of the one we were standing on. He explained that he was a worker for the company which had won the tender, and work would be starting in the next couple of days.
Finally. Simcoe Grey's highway boondoggle might be about to come to an end, and if the timelines come to pass, two years from now, you'll be able to get from Collingwood to Stayner really fast.
Thank Goodness! It's so very important to hurry so you can get to the Airport Road/26 all-weekend-long bottleneck and practise your cursing.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
August 10, 2010- Drawing Profits
Hmmm...horse-drawn carriages in downtown Collingwood?
They'll be operating by the end of the week, providing tourists and perhaps a few romantic locals with a chance to ride around the town sans engine. It's kitschy, but kinda cute, too.
I'm divided on the issue.
On one hand, I avoided the Village at Blue for the longest time, objecting to its fake facades (really, a fake fire hall? come On!), until I had an awesome meal at the Greek place, with a calibre of dining we never would have enjoyed without the massive development, Disney-style or not.
On the other hand, seriously, horse-drawn carriages? Are we completely out of cliches?
But then, I think about Frankenmuth, Michigan, a little nowhere town in the most depressed state in the US. I was there as a tourist a few weeks ago. While much of the rest of Michigan is sad, dilapidated, falling apart and unemployed, my friends and I had trouble getting a table at a patio on the very crowded and admittedly very kitschy main street on a Wednesday night.
While we were there, spending our money, a horse-drawn carriage passed by.
They'll be operating by the end of the week, providing tourists and perhaps a few romantic locals with a chance to ride around the town sans engine. It's kitschy, but kinda cute, too.
I'm divided on the issue.
On one hand, I avoided the Village at Blue for the longest time, objecting to its fake facades (really, a fake fire hall? come On!), until I had an awesome meal at the Greek place, with a calibre of dining we never would have enjoyed without the massive development, Disney-style or not.
On the other hand, seriously, horse-drawn carriages? Are we completely out of cliches?
But then, I think about Frankenmuth, Michigan, a little nowhere town in the most depressed state in the US. I was there as a tourist a few weeks ago. While much of the rest of Michigan is sad, dilapidated, falling apart and unemployed, my friends and I had trouble getting a table at a patio on the very crowded and admittedly very kitschy main street on a Wednesday night.
While we were there, spending our money, a horse-drawn carriage passed by.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
July 31, 2010 - The He-Be-Jee-Bees
When did we all start speaking in Ebonics? Have you noticed this annoying trend of inserting forms of the verb "to be" into any and all sentences? For example, "I will not be going there", "I will not be doing that". It's even infiltrated newspeak "Prime Minister will not be letting Guergis back into caucus". What's wrong with "I will not go", "I will not do", "Harper will not let". It's extra, extraneous verbiage, and I don't be understanding.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
July 28, 2010- Doggyworld
There are days I'm just the teeniest bit glad my dearly departed father is not with us, so I don't have to see his scowl when he finds out what I spend my money on.
For example, I don't know if I could put my dog in what appears to be the Taj Mahal of sleeping quarters if I had to tell him what it will cost.
The last few times we've had no one to dog/house sit while we were away, our dear darling bedhog of a pooch stayed at our vet clinic. It's a perfectly reasonable place and we know for sure she's being fed and watered and walked; she's just miserable. It seems she misses us so much and is so unused to being in a crate for long periods, she comes home exhausted and with bruising around her mouth from chewing on the bars.
So, we're trying something new, and something Dad would not approve of, not in a million years.
We're spending what seems to me to be a lot of money on very fancy digs the next time we're away overnight. No crate, no bars; it has ceramic tile walls and a glass door, like a shower door, instead. I got a tour of the facility, which even comes with a TV (sadly, a nicer one than we watch at home, tuned to Animal Planet, natch) and it's airy, clean and much bigger than any crate I've seen. It won't be as good as bedding down with mummy and daddy, but here's hoping she comes home happy, with no scars.
Sorry, Dad. I know she's 'just a dog'. But she's MY dog and if I can't take her with me, I want her safe and happy.
For example, I don't know if I could put my dog in what appears to be the Taj Mahal of sleeping quarters if I had to tell him what it will cost.
The last few times we've had no one to dog/house sit while we were away, our dear darling bedhog of a pooch stayed at our vet clinic. It's a perfectly reasonable place and we know for sure she's being fed and watered and walked; she's just miserable. It seems she misses us so much and is so unused to being in a crate for long periods, she comes home exhausted and with bruising around her mouth from chewing on the bars.
So, we're trying something new, and something Dad would not approve of, not in a million years.
We're spending what seems to me to be a lot of money on very fancy digs the next time we're away overnight. No crate, no bars; it has ceramic tile walls and a glass door, like a shower door, instead. I got a tour of the facility, which even comes with a TV (sadly, a nicer one than we watch at home, tuned to Animal Planet, natch) and it's airy, clean and much bigger than any crate I've seen. It won't be as good as bedding down with mummy and daddy, but here's hoping she comes home happy, with no scars.
Sorry, Dad. I know she's 'just a dog'. But she's MY dog and if I can't take her with me, I want her safe and happy.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
July 27, 2010- Luddite
I'm swimming around a little lost, since my computer has fallen ill and has been in the shop for nearly a week.
It started with USB ports that started failing, then the SD card wouldn't work and now it seems there's something wrong with the Motherboard (whatever that is). At one point yesterday, I was receiving advice from the technician about what to look for in a new computer.
He was going to try a few more things (he said it had now become a challenge...), but it didn't look good. At the end of the day, however, it turned out reports of my computer's death were greatly exaggerated. Well, perhaps not greatly exaggerated, more like a titch premature.
So, I'm bringing it home today, carefully.
I'm really looking forward to paying my bills, finding out what my friends are up to in the afternoons reading international newspapers, and winning arguments with the random facts I find myself looking up. Everything's true on the Internet, isn't it? My sweetie is hoping to resume empire building on the game he plays.
I'll have lots of time to surf, too, since my laundry's done, the floors are clean, the weeds pulled and the lawn mowed. Where did all that time come from?
In case you're confused, I'm writing this at work, where the computers are still working, most of the time anyway.
It started with USB ports that started failing, then the SD card wouldn't work and now it seems there's something wrong with the Motherboard (whatever that is). At one point yesterday, I was receiving advice from the technician about what to look for in a new computer.
He was going to try a few more things (he said it had now become a challenge...), but it didn't look good. At the end of the day, however, it turned out reports of my computer's death were greatly exaggerated. Well, perhaps not greatly exaggerated, more like a titch premature.
So, I'm bringing it home today, carefully.
I'm really looking forward to paying my bills, finding out what my friends are up to in the afternoons reading international newspapers, and winning arguments with the random facts I find myself looking up. Everything's true on the Internet, isn't it? My sweetie is hoping to resume empire building on the game he plays.
I'll have lots of time to surf, too, since my laundry's done, the floors are clean, the weeds pulled and the lawn mowed. Where did all that time come from?
In case you're confused, I'm writing this at work, where the computers are still working, most of the time anyway.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
July 22, 2010 Over/Under
You pretty much know as soon as someone says, "I'm not a racist, but..." that they're going to say something completely racist. As soon as your boyfriend begins 'a talk' by telling you how great you are, you can count on being dumped by the end of it.
Similarly, when a CEO talks about how much they value their employees, you just know cuts are coming. And so it happened today at Collingwood's hospital. Five of the facility's highly valued nursing jobs are being eliminated.
The reason: the scourge of underfunding. It's a very prevalent and troublesome problem, especially in taxpayer-funded organisations like hospitals and schools, and in recent years, it has been a real challenge. (although there is a lot of talk about solutions, no one in taxpayer-funded agencies has problems anymore; they have challenges)
More of us need to talk to our lenders and employers about solutions for our underfunding. "I'm not in debt-I'm underfunded!"
The hospital says it was underfunded to the tune of 400-thousand dollars last year. The 'solution' to the 'challenge' which will be cuts to front-line nursing jobs, along with cuts to operating room time (more nursing jobs) and cuts to hours for clerks.
By the way, the CEO received a 20 percent raise last year. In dollar terms, that's a raise of 38 thousand dollars from 2008 to 2009. She's now paid 227-thousand of your tax dollars. I don't imagine she faces any challenges with personal underfunding, not like the nurses or clerks will.
---Full disclosure: I was an employee of the hospital in Collingwood for three years, from 2003 to 2006, spending much of that time wordsmithing for at least three CEOs, including the one who currently holds the job. My most commonly offered advice was, "Make decisions that are defensible. Then defend them." The position I held was eliminated in 2006, although I believe there is someone working there now with the same title.
Similarly, when a CEO talks about how much they value their employees, you just know cuts are coming. And so it happened today at Collingwood's hospital. Five of the facility's highly valued nursing jobs are being eliminated.
The reason: the scourge of underfunding. It's a very prevalent and troublesome problem, especially in taxpayer-funded organisations like hospitals and schools, and in recent years, it has been a real challenge. (although there is a lot of talk about solutions, no one in taxpayer-funded agencies has problems anymore; they have challenges)
More of us need to talk to our lenders and employers about solutions for our underfunding. "I'm not in debt-I'm underfunded!"
The hospital says it was underfunded to the tune of 400-thousand dollars last year. The 'solution' to the 'challenge' which will be cuts to front-line nursing jobs, along with cuts to operating room time (more nursing jobs) and cuts to hours for clerks.
By the way, the CEO received a 20 percent raise last year. In dollar terms, that's a raise of 38 thousand dollars from 2008 to 2009. She's now paid 227-thousand of your tax dollars. I don't imagine she faces any challenges with personal underfunding, not like the nurses or clerks will.
---Full disclosure: I was an employee of the hospital in Collingwood for three years, from 2003 to 2006, spending much of that time wordsmithing for at least three CEOs, including the one who currently holds the job. My most commonly offered advice was, "Make decisions that are defensible. Then defend them." The position I held was eliminated in 2006, although I believe there is someone working there now with the same title.
Friday, July 16, 2010
July 16, 2010- Hotel Angels
I met two angels this morning in a hotel in Michigan. Darci and Jessica, you are my new personal heroes in service and helpfulness and all-round good personhood.
You see, I left my wedding ring behind in my hotel room this morning. I had taken it off while putting on skin lotion. I didn't notice until my travelling companions and I were gassing up about 10 minutes' drive away, and just about to get on the freeway. Never yet in my life have I had such a sinking feeling of panic and gut-wrenching sickness. Yes, it's just a ring, no jewels in it, plain gold and not even an inscription. But still...it's a symbol of the magic I somehow got lucky enough to share. Frankly, I didn't know how much it meant to me until I thought I'd lost it. I desperately, fervently, shakingly wanted it back. If it were in the sewer, I would have dived in to get it. (well, a clean, dry sewer, anyway....)
Darci got it the minute she saw my face. " IjustcheckedoutafewminutesagoandIthinkIleftmy weddingringinmyroom." was one breath and before I was done, she had a key card in her hand and was asking my room number. I did not refrain from running down the hall once the Slowest Elevator in the World had reached my floor.
I nearly had a heart attack when I saw the cleaners had already been at work in my room.
The sheets were gone. My ring was not on the bed. My ring was not on the bedside table. Or the floor under the bed. Or the floor near the sink. Or the floor under the desk. Or the floor in the bathroom. Or in the tub. Or the sink. Or the closet I hadn't even opened. Not in the fridge. Or the microwave. Or under the cushions of the couch. Or the cushions of the chair. Or the cushions of the other chair. Or the floor beside the bed. Or the floor on the other side of the bed. Or any of the aforementioned places when I checked the second time, trying to choke back tears.
The workers' cart in the hall was not the one that had collected my sheets. The workers in the hall were not the workers who had collected my sheets, but they could direct me to the person who had. One of them accompanied me to the lobby, handed me off to another worker, who knew where the girl was who had taken my sheets. She, too, took one look at my face and said in her nasal Michigan drawl, "Honey, I'll see what we can do, come with me." She didn't stop moving until she tipped over the enormous basket of the sheets and wet, dirty towels she had collected and which were waiting for the washing machines in the back room. Together, Darci, Jessica and I sifted quickly through the spilled linens, and we weren't having any luck when Jessica left to go to a second bin. Darci and I were at the bottom of the first bin when Jessica stood next to me, my wee ring on her index finger, "Is this it?" My knees buckled and my arms were around her neck in a nanosecond. It's actually lucky I didn't knock the ring off her hand in my enthusiasm to hug and thank her.
There was no question these two women were going to help a woman in distress. No questions about whether I had checked my luggage, no musings about how stupid a person has to be to lose their wedding ring. Just help. Simple, kind, willing help for a stranger and a guest. I won't forget it, and I will pass it on.
You see, I left my wedding ring behind in my hotel room this morning. I had taken it off while putting on skin lotion. I didn't notice until my travelling companions and I were gassing up about 10 minutes' drive away, and just about to get on the freeway. Never yet in my life have I had such a sinking feeling of panic and gut-wrenching sickness. Yes, it's just a ring, no jewels in it, plain gold and not even an inscription. But still...it's a symbol of the magic I somehow got lucky enough to share. Frankly, I didn't know how much it meant to me until I thought I'd lost it. I desperately, fervently, shakingly wanted it back. If it were in the sewer, I would have dived in to get it. (well, a clean, dry sewer, anyway....)
Darci got it the minute she saw my face. " IjustcheckedoutafewminutesagoandIthinkIleftmy weddingringinmyroom." was one breath and before I was done, she had a key card in her hand and was asking my room number. I did not refrain from running down the hall once the Slowest Elevator in the World had reached my floor.
I nearly had a heart attack when I saw the cleaners had already been at work in my room.
The sheets were gone. My ring was not on the bed. My ring was not on the bedside table. Or the floor under the bed. Or the floor near the sink. Or the floor under the desk. Or the floor in the bathroom. Or in the tub. Or the sink. Or the closet I hadn't even opened. Not in the fridge. Or the microwave. Or under the cushions of the couch. Or the cushions of the chair. Or the cushions of the other chair. Or the floor beside the bed. Or the floor on the other side of the bed. Or any of the aforementioned places when I checked the second time, trying to choke back tears.
The workers' cart in the hall was not the one that had collected my sheets. The workers in the hall were not the workers who had collected my sheets, but they could direct me to the person who had. One of them accompanied me to the lobby, handed me off to another worker, who knew where the girl was who had taken my sheets. She, too, took one look at my face and said in her nasal Michigan drawl, "Honey, I'll see what we can do, come with me." She didn't stop moving until she tipped over the enormous basket of the sheets and wet, dirty towels she had collected and which were waiting for the washing machines in the back room. Together, Darci, Jessica and I sifted quickly through the spilled linens, and we weren't having any luck when Jessica left to go to a second bin. Darci and I were at the bottom of the first bin when Jessica stood next to me, my wee ring on her index finger, "Is this it?" My knees buckled and my arms were around her neck in a nanosecond. It's actually lucky I didn't knock the ring off her hand in my enthusiasm to hug and thank her.
There was no question these two women were going to help a woman in distress. No questions about whether I had checked my luggage, no musings about how stupid a person has to be to lose their wedding ring. Just help. Simple, kind, willing help for a stranger and a guest. I won't forget it, and I will pass it on.
Monday, July 12, 2010
July 12, 2010- Missed It
I gave up on the Spain/Netherlands game at minute 112.
I just couldn't take it any more: no plays were being made, it was nil/nil after 112 minutes of play, I was late for a dinner party and it looked like they were headed to kicks. As far as I'm concerned, as soon as you go to the penalty kicks (or a shootout in hockey), you might as well bring out the scrabble board, bocce balls, badminton racquets or pool cues, 'cuz you're no longer playing the same sport.
But really, four minutes? I couldn't put in four more minutes after all those other games I sat through, trying desperately to find a reason to like soccer? Was it the vuvuzelas, or as we called them when I bought mine in the 1990s, long plastic annoying horns? Was it the sheer boredom of the football equivalent of 'the trap' in hockey? Was it the pompous British announcers? I'll never know. What I do know is that when that goal was finally scored, I was on my way to a swimming pool, refreshment and a four year break from soccer during which I will forget everything I've learned about The Beautiful Game over the last month.
I'm just glad I picked Spain to win. (and I'm not bragging, but I did pick them, from, like, day twelve. I was distracted by the Slovenian shirts and Ronaldo's abs, but then went with Spain. honest, I did.) Me and a German Octopus got it right. Now, that's a distinguished pair, and both of us have about the same level of knowledge of the game.
I just couldn't take it any more: no plays were being made, it was nil/nil after 112 minutes of play, I was late for a dinner party and it looked like they were headed to kicks. As far as I'm concerned, as soon as you go to the penalty kicks (or a shootout in hockey), you might as well bring out the scrabble board, bocce balls, badminton racquets or pool cues, 'cuz you're no longer playing the same sport.
But really, four minutes? I couldn't put in four more minutes after all those other games I sat through, trying desperately to find a reason to like soccer? Was it the vuvuzelas, or as we called them when I bought mine in the 1990s, long plastic annoying horns? Was it the sheer boredom of the football equivalent of 'the trap' in hockey? Was it the pompous British announcers? I'll never know. What I do know is that when that goal was finally scored, I was on my way to a swimming pool, refreshment and a four year break from soccer during which I will forget everything I've learned about The Beautiful Game over the last month.
I'm just glad I picked Spain to win. (and I'm not bragging, but I did pick them, from, like, day twelve. I was distracted by the Slovenian shirts and Ronaldo's abs, but then went with Spain. honest, I did.) Me and a German Octopus got it right. Now, that's a distinguished pair, and both of us have about the same level of knowledge of the game.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
July 8, 2010 Hot advice
"More tropical than the tropics," is how Environment Canada's Dave Phillips describes us these days as we swelter, sweat and sizzle through the first heat wave in what seems like a hundred years.
It's actually of course, only about three years since we've seen a sustained period of heat.
Every day this week, we're deluged with the latest oh-so-serious list of how hot it is, how hot it feels like and the things we should do or refrain from doing to beat the heat.
I hereby offer up my own personal list of things to do and to avoid during a heat wave:
Number one: Avoid driving to Toronto. This applies pretty much any time, but it is especially important to avoid the drive to the 'big smoke' during a heat wave if your air conditioning has suddenly conked out, like mine did. It's even more true if you arrive on University avenue just as a major power outage begins, like I did on Monday.
Number Two: Avoid walking distances greater than from the backyard pool to the fridge.This one goes without saying, really. Any exertion at any time is to be avoided, but during a heat wave, you have the excuse to sit really still and watch the football.
Number Three: Avoid Ironing. Even if you somehow think it might be a good idea to set up outside under an awning to avoid negating your air conditioning inside, it's just not. If it's so hot you're afraid of losing even one teeny fraction of your AC indoors, handling a hot appliance anywhere is just a bad idea. Go get yourself some knit tops and give up on the linen.
And Number Four: Freezies. Get yourself some freezies, the old-fashioned, plastic-wrapped frozen sweetened water treats. The bigger the better. If you're stuck in a Toronto traffic jam in a heat wave, are forced to walk several blocks after dropping your car off at the mechanic, or have foolishly thought linen really was the way to go this year, a freezie can make all those troubles somehow magically disappear.
It's actually of course, only about three years since we've seen a sustained period of heat.
Every day this week, we're deluged with the latest oh-so-serious list of how hot it is, how hot it feels like and the things we should do or refrain from doing to beat the heat.
I hereby offer up my own personal list of things to do and to avoid during a heat wave:
Number one: Avoid driving to Toronto. This applies pretty much any time, but it is especially important to avoid the drive to the 'big smoke' during a heat wave if your air conditioning has suddenly conked out, like mine did. It's even more true if you arrive on University avenue just as a major power outage begins, like I did on Monday.
Number Two: Avoid walking distances greater than from the backyard pool to the fridge.This one goes without saying, really. Any exertion at any time is to be avoided, but during a heat wave, you have the excuse to sit really still and watch the football.
Number Three: Avoid Ironing. Even if you somehow think it might be a good idea to set up outside under an awning to avoid negating your air conditioning inside, it's just not. If it's so hot you're afraid of losing even one teeny fraction of your AC indoors, handling a hot appliance anywhere is just a bad idea. Go get yourself some knit tops and give up on the linen.
And Number Four: Freezies. Get yourself some freezies, the old-fashioned, plastic-wrapped frozen sweetened water treats. The bigger the better. If you're stuck in a Toronto traffic jam in a heat wave, are forced to walk several blocks after dropping your car off at the mechanic, or have foolishly thought linen really was the way to go this year, a freezie can make all those troubles somehow magically disappear.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
July 4, 2010- Two friends and a Holiday
Can I offer up some thanks here, after bragging a bit about my weekend?
Two girlfriends from Toronto came up 'to the country' for their Canada Day, and I was pretty proud to show off the new Collingwood. One of my buddies lives very near the waterfront Lake Ontario, and I wanted to show off a lake you can actually swim in. The weather, the town's timelines and mine all worked together for a simply perfect time together.
They arrived the afternoon of Canada Day, and after an afternoon in the sunshine, we walked to our amazing waterfront for the terrific (although it seemed short at 18 minutes) fireworks. Both were impressed with the waterfront re-do, and surprised there had been no access to the water there for so long.
Friday night, we had some of the best service, best food and nicest ambiance we'd all had in a long time (an enormous amount of red wine notwithstanding....) at one of the downtown patios. Now, this isn't one of the patios that's being forced to move tomorrow, so next year, weather permitting, we'll do it all over again.
Thanks, Mother Nature, for serving up a great weekend.
Thanks, Server Cassie, for putting up with our 'Sex and the City' fantasies and louder-than average voices.
And thanks to 'the wood' for the downtown and First Street renovations. They look great. Please don't do anything more for a while, though, while we all get used to it.
Two girlfriends from Toronto came up 'to the country' for their Canada Day, and I was pretty proud to show off the new Collingwood. One of my buddies lives very near the waterfront Lake Ontario, and I wanted to show off a lake you can actually swim in. The weather, the town's timelines and mine all worked together for a simply perfect time together.
They arrived the afternoon of Canada Day, and after an afternoon in the sunshine, we walked to our amazing waterfront for the terrific (although it seemed short at 18 minutes) fireworks. Both were impressed with the waterfront re-do, and surprised there had been no access to the water there for so long.
Friday night, we had some of the best service, best food and nicest ambiance we'd all had in a long time (an enormous amount of red wine notwithstanding....) at one of the downtown patios. Now, this isn't one of the patios that's being forced to move tomorrow, so next year, weather permitting, we'll do it all over again.
Thanks, Mother Nature, for serving up a great weekend.
Thanks, Server Cassie, for putting up with our 'Sex and the City' fantasies and louder-than average voices.
And thanks to 'the wood' for the downtown and First Street renovations. They look great. Please don't do anything more for a while, though, while we all get used to it.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
June 28, 2010- I said I wouldn't talk politics
But I can't hold back on this one. This patio thing is stupid.
Sorry to my friends on the BIA; I like you, I really do, but this business of forcing patios to move to the curb is just plain dumb. Dumb, anti-business and not friendly at all to a downtown that appears to me to be struggling very hard.
If I were a restaurateur, I'd threaten to take my patio down, too, rather than be forced to move it.
I'd also have a wee word with councillors Foley, Jeffery, Labelle, McNabb and Sandberg and I would be sure to ask anyone who wants my vote in October where they stand on the issue.
I've just spoken with Sean Cripps at Duncan's, and his patio will be gone Monday morning. He says as far as he knows, every other patio is going to be taken down by the July 5th deadline, too.
The vote to move the patios is sure good news for the restaurants on first street and in the west end, though.
As for me, who tries to spend my money downtown whenever possible, it's looking like my backyard patio will be the only one I frequent. Sorry for the noise, neighbours!
Sorry to my friends on the BIA; I like you, I really do, but this business of forcing patios to move to the curb is just plain dumb. Dumb, anti-business and not friendly at all to a downtown that appears to me to be struggling very hard.
If I were a restaurateur, I'd threaten to take my patio down, too, rather than be forced to move it.
I'd also have a wee word with councillors Foley, Jeffery, Labelle, McNabb and Sandberg and I would be sure to ask anyone who wants my vote in October where they stand on the issue.
I've just spoken with Sean Cripps at Duncan's, and his patio will be gone Monday morning. He says as far as he knows, every other patio is going to be taken down by the July 5th deadline, too.
The vote to move the patios is sure good news for the restaurants on first street and in the west end, though.
As for me, who tries to spend my money downtown whenever possible, it's looking like my backyard patio will be the only one I frequent. Sorry for the noise, neighbours!
Monday, June 28, 2010
June 28, 2010- Sympathy for the Protesters
Well, that was exciting.
Aren't you glad we got to show off our biggest, brightest, most diverse and peaceful city to the world at the big summit over the weekend?
Aren't you glad we just spent more than billion dollars to fund extra-special vacations or renovations for a lot of cops and PR flaks?
I am not actually that excited to pay so much for.... I don't quite know what.
But I know this in my heart of hearts: Nothing that happened at the g8 and g20 took ordinary, regular voting folks like me and you into consideration.
Furthermore, I bet you twenty bucks if you asked your 12 closest friends this morning, you would not find one who thinks much of any real importance was accomplished at these meetings. Those same people would also tell you there's no way their interests were being looked out for.
But you'll also find your dozen friends confused about the protests. We can't really understand what the meeting's for, and we know we have no say in what happens, so it seems a little silly to take to the streets to be truncheoned.
I have to say, though, I have a speck of admiration for the misguided but passionate folks who get angry and violent. The rest of us are pretty sure we're not being listened to or cared about, and know that billions of dollars are being wasted and that somehow, we're likely getting screwed. But instead of doing anything about it, we're having another beer.
At least the protesters are trying to make their so-called democracy, democratic.
Aren't you glad we got to show off our biggest, brightest, most diverse and peaceful city to the world at the big summit over the weekend?
Aren't you glad we just spent more than billion dollars to fund extra-special vacations or renovations for a lot of cops and PR flaks?
I am not actually that excited to pay so much for.... I don't quite know what.
But I know this in my heart of hearts: Nothing that happened at the g8 and g20 took ordinary, regular voting folks like me and you into consideration.
Furthermore, I bet you twenty bucks if you asked your 12 closest friends this morning, you would not find one who thinks much of any real importance was accomplished at these meetings. Those same people would also tell you there's no way their interests were being looked out for.
But you'll also find your dozen friends confused about the protests. We can't really understand what the meeting's for, and we know we have no say in what happens, so it seems a little silly to take to the streets to be truncheoned.
I have to say, though, I have a speck of admiration for the misguided but passionate folks who get angry and violent. The rest of us are pretty sure we're not being listened to or cared about, and know that billions of dollars are being wasted and that somehow, we're likely getting screwed. But instead of doing anything about it, we're having another beer.
At least the protesters are trying to make their so-called democracy, democratic.
Friday, June 25, 2010
June 25, 2010- Revitalization Review
I would love to sing the praises of the 'new' Collingwood downtown, but I just can't.
It would be so satisfying to say to the nay-sayers, "look, it was a lot of time and trouble, but ain't it grand now it's done?"
I can't think grand when I'm waiting what seems like a lifetime to drive three *&%#%&@# blocks.
When I was growing up in the country, it was nearly a rule that you simply had to drive down the main street if you were coming to town.
Now, even though it's (mostly) open, I have been avoiding it like the plague. It's not the bricks, they're gorgeous, it's not the widened sidewalks, they're also terrific.
The few times I've driven down it so far, it's been agony. Not just because of all the empty storefronts, but also because every single time, I get caught behind someone who wants to turn right but can't, and I'm stuck there, staring at the aforementioned empty storefronts for far too long.
And don't even get me started on the location of the patios: it's the least-liked decision I've heard of since I moved here.
Saint Marie and Minnesota, you're my new best friends.
It would be so satisfying to say to the nay-sayers, "look, it was a lot of time and trouble, but ain't it grand now it's done?"
I can't think grand when I'm waiting what seems like a lifetime to drive three *&%#%&@# blocks.
When I was growing up in the country, it was nearly a rule that you simply had to drive down the main street if you were coming to town.
Now, even though it's (mostly) open, I have been avoiding it like the plague. It's not the bricks, they're gorgeous, it's not the widened sidewalks, they're also terrific.
It's the sticky-outy sidewalks at the intersections. I don't know what they're called, but they're a stupid waste of my time. Were pedestrians really being run down by right-turning drivers at such a rate that we had to take the sneak-around right turn option away completely?
The few times I've driven down it so far, it's been agony. Not just because of all the empty storefronts, but also because every single time, I get caught behind someone who wants to turn right but can't, and I'm stuck there, staring at the aforementioned empty storefronts for far too long.
And don't even get me started on the location of the patios: it's the least-liked decision I've heard of since I moved here.
Saint Marie and Minnesota, you're my new best friends.
Friday, June 18, 2010
June 18, 2010 - Forks in the road ahead
I missed my chance to be a deadhead, but I won't miss out on being a FredHead.
About ten days after I went to my first Grateful Dead show, waaay back in the '90s, a girlfriend acquaintance of mine called to see if I might go 'on tour' with her. She had decided to take the summer off and follow the band, catching as many shows as she could.
I was so very tempted, not only because I'd just had what I considered to be a life-altering experience at that show but also because she was a very, very cool girl and as the only girl in my family, I was hungry for female friendship. For a few minutes, I had a glimpse into a possible life I didn't quite know how to imagine.
After some thought, I turned her down, citing my well-paid summer job at a factory and my desire to be able to pay my tuition at college. My final year would start that fall, and hopefully, my real life would start immediately afterwards.
I've always wondered how my life would be different if I'd said yes. Would I have become a hippie freak, homeless, addicted to drugs, a peace activist, musician, or would I be so disgusted by the hippie freaks addicted to drugs and talking about peace that I would become a reactionary conservative drone? I'll never know, and I've always been a bit regretful about it.
So, when I went on and on about how much I'm a new-born fan of Fred Eaglesmith and a friend said, "We need to go see him again!" I didn't hesitate. So, next weekend, I'm going to a town I've never been to, to see a band I've seen only once, and hang out with people who follow this guy all over the place to hear his music. It's a bit late, but I'm finally getting ahead. Not a deadhead, a Fredhead.
By the way, if you want to see Fred Eaglesmith from the comfort of your couch instead of at the arena in Harriston, like me, tune in to David Letterman tonight.
About ten days after I went to my first Grateful Dead show, waaay back in the '90s, a girlfriend acquaintance of mine called to see if I might go 'on tour' with her. She had decided to take the summer off and follow the band, catching as many shows as she could.
I was so very tempted, not only because I'd just had what I considered to be a life-altering experience at that show but also because she was a very, very cool girl and as the only girl in my family, I was hungry for female friendship. For a few minutes, I had a glimpse into a possible life I didn't quite know how to imagine.
After some thought, I turned her down, citing my well-paid summer job at a factory and my desire to be able to pay my tuition at college. My final year would start that fall, and hopefully, my real life would start immediately afterwards.
I've always wondered how my life would be different if I'd said yes. Would I have become a hippie freak, homeless, addicted to drugs, a peace activist, musician, or would I be so disgusted by the hippie freaks addicted to drugs and talking about peace that I would become a reactionary conservative drone? I'll never know, and I've always been a bit regretful about it.
So, when I went on and on about how much I'm a new-born fan of Fred Eaglesmith and a friend said, "We need to go see him again!" I didn't hesitate. So, next weekend, I'm going to a town I've never been to, to see a band I've seen only once, and hang out with people who follow this guy all over the place to hear his music. It's a bit late, but I'm finally getting ahead. Not a deadhead, a Fredhead.
By the way, if you want to see Fred Eaglesmith from the comfort of your couch instead of at the arena in Harriston, like me, tune in to David Letterman tonight.
Monday, June 14, 2010
June 14, 2010-Another thing about the soccer
I'm not sure how I managed to miss this all these years, but I really think soccer is now the sport I will watch henceforth.
Here's why: they take their shirts off at the end of the game!!!
Now, the players might be exchanging them with one another, stamping them in the dirt or even maybe eating them; I really can't say, because I can’t take my eyes off those chiseled, glistening six-pack abs on those unbelievably hearty and strong young athletes.
wow.
How many more games are there? And when does Ronoldo play?
Here's why: they take their shirts off at the end of the game!!!
Now, the players might be exchanging them with one another, stamping them in the dirt or even maybe eating them; I really can't say, because I can’t take my eyes off those chiseled, glistening six-pack abs on those unbelievably hearty and strong young athletes.
wow.
How many more games are there? And when does Ronoldo play?
June 14, 2010- The end of the line
Tipper and Al Gore certainly gave us all a start this month when they announced their separation after 40 years of marriage. "Forty years!" a lot of people thought. "What brings an end to their much-touted romance after that amount of time?"
They’re not saying, which of course just makes us more curious. Some strange habits in the bedroom? Affairs with interns? Problems with hanging chads? We will likely never know. But it was fun to speculate.
A lovely woman friend of mine is in the process of leaving the man she married more than 30 years ago. Recently, I remarked on how great she looks, and she said, ‘I should- I just lost 165 pounds!” Besides the joking, I’ve known this sweet, kind, thoughtful and generous woman for more than 20 years and only now am I starting to get a few tentative glimpses into what her life was really like behind those closed doors. It isn’t pretty, but you would never have known it from the happy smiles in those family photos.
The fact is, you can simply never know what goes on in someone else’s marriage. You can never know what brought them together in the first place, what needs they answer in each other, and how the process works that finally breaks those millions of tiny bonds. That’s what makes coupling such a mystery, and for the lucky among us, such a blessing.
They’re not saying, which of course just makes us more curious. Some strange habits in the bedroom? Affairs with interns? Problems with hanging chads? We will likely never know. But it was fun to speculate.
A lovely woman friend of mine is in the process of leaving the man she married more than 30 years ago. Recently, I remarked on how great she looks, and she said, ‘I should- I just lost 165 pounds!” Besides the joking, I’ve known this sweet, kind, thoughtful and generous woman for more than 20 years and only now am I starting to get a few tentative glimpses into what her life was really like behind those closed doors. It isn’t pretty, but you would never have known it from the happy smiles in those family photos.
The fact is, you can simply never know what goes on in someone else’s marriage. You can never know what brought them together in the first place, what needs they answer in each other, and how the process works that finally breaks those millions of tiny bonds. That’s what makes coupling such a mystery, and for the lucky among us, such a blessing.
Friday, June 11, 2010
June 11, 2010- It IS a beautiful game
The last time I played soccer must be in grade five phys-ed.
The last time I tried to talk about it any meaningful way was during the 1998 World Cup, when I 'covered' some of the games during the tournament for the radio station I used to work for in Toronto. I use the word cover very loosely. It actually meant: go the bar where fans of that day's game are collected and twice an hour, put a couple of them on the radio, being excited, or give a report about how excited they are. If the other team scores, get your mic over to their bar, and fast. You might have noticed the 'coverage' hasn't really changed. I bet I could dig out my reports from back then and replay them, and no one would be the wiser.
The Dutch were very nice, I remember, gathered in their orange shirts somewhere along Bloor street. I had the good luck to find a member of the Canadian team who happened to be there watching, and put him on the radio. My boss thought I was a rockstar.
Really, though, that's about it for me, soccer-wise, and I'm pretty sure having my neice in a league in Richmond Hill doesn't exactly buy me any credibility.
So, my on-air partner and I were at rather a loss about what to say this week about the big tournament. We decided to do what pretty much every Canadian sportscaster is doing this week: we are making it up. The difference is, we're not pretending to know a damn thing.
We have, however, chosen teams to cheer for during the tournament. I am backing Slovenia, because I like their shirts (they remind me of Charlie Brown), followed by Portugal, because of the fabulous lips on a guy named Ronoldo. Apparently, I'm not alone in liking him, there are approximately seven million women in The Rest of the World, The Part that Watches Soccer thinking he's pretty fine. However, I'm pretty sure our radio station is the only one where you'd hear Ronoldo compared to Pavel Bure, an NHLer from the 1990s. Hey, they have the same lips.
I'm watching the France/Uruguay game right now, and I feel as though I'm being attacked by a swarm of bees. Those horns everyone's hooting! It just never stops! Can't they put them down for one minute for heavennsakes?
The last time I tried to talk about it any meaningful way was during the 1998 World Cup, when I 'covered' some of the games during the tournament for the radio station I used to work for in Toronto. I use the word cover very loosely. It actually meant: go the bar where fans of that day's game are collected and twice an hour, put a couple of them on the radio, being excited, or give a report about how excited they are. If the other team scores, get your mic over to their bar, and fast. You might have noticed the 'coverage' hasn't really changed. I bet I could dig out my reports from back then and replay them, and no one would be the wiser.
The Dutch were very nice, I remember, gathered in their orange shirts somewhere along Bloor street. I had the good luck to find a member of the Canadian team who happened to be there watching, and put him on the radio. My boss thought I was a rockstar.
Really, though, that's about it for me, soccer-wise, and I'm pretty sure having my neice in a league in Richmond Hill doesn't exactly buy me any credibility.
So, my on-air partner and I were at rather a loss about what to say this week about the big tournament. We decided to do what pretty much every Canadian sportscaster is doing this week: we are making it up. The difference is, we're not pretending to know a damn thing.
We have, however, chosen teams to cheer for during the tournament. I am backing Slovenia, because I like their shirts (they remind me of Charlie Brown), followed by Portugal, because of the fabulous lips on a guy named Ronoldo. Apparently, I'm not alone in liking him, there are approximately seven million women in The Rest of the World, The Part that Watches Soccer thinking he's pretty fine. However, I'm pretty sure our radio station is the only one where you'd hear Ronoldo compared to Pavel Bure, an NHLer from the 1990s. Hey, they have the same lips.
I'm watching the France/Uruguay game right now, and I feel as though I'm being attacked by a swarm of bees. Those horns everyone's hooting! It just never stops! Can't they put them down for one minute for heavennsakes?
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
June 9, 2010 - So far ahead, I think I'm behind
A very, very rare thing happened to me this Saturday morning as I sifted through the big fat newspaper that arrives in my mailbox on weekends. I read a review of a book I was nearly finished reading.
The import of such a discovery is huge because my usual way of acquiring a novel goes something like: read a review, fall in love with the book, write down the name of the book, stuff it into my wallet or daytimer (remember paper? Yes, I'm the one who still uses it), promptly forget about it, or shuffle it about until the pencil has worn off and it's nearly unintelligible, (remember pencils? Yes, I'm the one who still uses them) then finally put the title and author's name on my 'book list' at Christmas, and wonder what the heck my gift-giver was thinking when they wrapped up this particular tome.
This Saturday, though, the Globe had a bang-on review of the book I was nearly finished: The Imperfectionists, a fine first novel by Vancouver-based journalist Tom Rachman. I picked it up on a whim after hearing an interview with the author and deciding I simply could not finish the day without owning it. The novel is composed of a series of character sketches inserted between short histories of a European-based English-language daily newspaper. The characters are generally very flawed, if that's a polite way to put it, and yet compelling and knowable.
As a lover of newspapers and of journalists and of the dying art of the finely written word, I highly recommend it, especially for fellow journalists who, like me, are very flawed.
The import of such a discovery is huge because my usual way of acquiring a novel goes something like: read a review, fall in love with the book, write down the name of the book, stuff it into my wallet or daytimer (remember paper? Yes, I'm the one who still uses it), promptly forget about it, or shuffle it about until the pencil has worn off and it's nearly unintelligible, (remember pencils? Yes, I'm the one who still uses them) then finally put the title and author's name on my 'book list' at Christmas, and wonder what the heck my gift-giver was thinking when they wrapped up this particular tome.
This Saturday, though, the Globe had a bang-on review of the book I was nearly finished: The Imperfectionists, a fine first novel by Vancouver-based journalist Tom Rachman. I picked it up on a whim after hearing an interview with the author and deciding I simply could not finish the day without owning it. The novel is composed of a series of character sketches inserted between short histories of a European-based English-language daily newspaper. The characters are generally very flawed, if that's a polite way to put it, and yet compelling and knowable.
As a lover of newspapers and of journalists and of the dying art of the finely written word, I highly recommend it, especially for fellow journalists who, like me, are very flawed.
Monday, May 31, 2010
May 31, 2010- The Long and Short of It
I never thought the day would come when my skirts were too long. I've listened to my mother complain about the brevity of my skirts for most of my life.
But there I was in a wee sundress Saturday night, at the 'buck n doe' for one of my nieces, my well-above-the-knee skirt about a foot longer than the skirts and shorts worn by her girlfriends and bridesmaids. I was actually a little bit nervous in case the girls started dancing, moved too much and revealed more than they intended. However, perhaps the possibility of letting it all hang out was their point. After all, their contemporaries and fashion guideposts are Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton et al. and while they may not be able to point out Brazil on a map, they certainly know how to ask for a Brazilian.
Killer shoes, though. The girls at this shindig were evenly split between sparkly flip-flops and awesomely high gladiator pumps of every color. I noticed that even as skirt lengths go up and down, there are some fashion tips that hold true now, just like they did in the 90s. Here's one: white pumps look like canoes on your feet, even if you're a size three. Add a hidden platform and make the white patent, and you've got yourself a war canoe there, sister!
But again, maybe that was the point.
But there I was in a wee sundress Saturday night, at the 'buck n doe' for one of my nieces, my well-above-the-knee skirt about a foot longer than the skirts and shorts worn by her girlfriends and bridesmaids. I was actually a little bit nervous in case the girls started dancing, moved too much and revealed more than they intended. However, perhaps the possibility of letting it all hang out was their point. After all, their contemporaries and fashion guideposts are Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton et al. and while they may not be able to point out Brazil on a map, they certainly know how to ask for a Brazilian.
Killer shoes, though. The girls at this shindig were evenly split between sparkly flip-flops and awesomely high gladiator pumps of every color. I noticed that even as skirt lengths go up and down, there are some fashion tips that hold true now, just like they did in the 90s. Here's one: white pumps look like canoes on your feet, even if you're a size three. Add a hidden platform and make the white patent, and you've got yourself a war canoe there, sister!
But again, maybe that was the point.
Friday, May 28, 2010
May 28, 2010- What's in Your Trash Bag?
What does a cancelled landfill project in Simcoe County have to do with the way you buy your cookies? Maybe more than might be obvious right away.
Site 41, the contentious landfill site in Tiny Township is a dead deal But the fight over it got a lot of people thinking about what we do with our trash and where it comes from.
Of course, we take not only trash but also blue and grey and green bins to the curb, But have you looked at what's really in your garbage bag? I'll bet you about 80 percent of what's in your trash bag is packaging.
Do your cookies really need a clear plastic cover, then a plastic-coated wrapper, followed by little plastic trays inside that hold the cookies in neat rows? Maybe not.
Whose problem is all that packaging? Should we subsidise the companies that make our goods by paying for the landfills full of the packaging, or, if they had to pay for its disposal themselves, would they find a way to reduce what they wrap around their stuff?
Those are some of the questions people in groups like Zero Waste are asking, and they're starting to get some interesting answers. They're groups who've spent time thinking about the garbage we make and how less of it could be put at the curb, if it never makes it to your house.They've been thinking and lobbying and pushing for several years now.
Legislation that's coming to Queen's Park in the next week might be a first step to shift the burden for things like packaging to the people who create it, so you might find site 41 and your Fudgeos to be more connected than you thought.
Site 41, the contentious landfill site in Tiny Township is a dead deal But the fight over it got a lot of people thinking about what we do with our trash and where it comes from.
Of course, we take not only trash but also blue and grey and green bins to the curb, But have you looked at what's really in your garbage bag? I'll bet you about 80 percent of what's in your trash bag is packaging.
Do your cookies really need a clear plastic cover, then a plastic-coated wrapper, followed by little plastic trays inside that hold the cookies in neat rows? Maybe not.
Whose problem is all that packaging? Should we subsidise the companies that make our goods by paying for the landfills full of the packaging, or, if they had to pay for its disposal themselves, would they find a way to reduce what they wrap around their stuff?
Those are some of the questions people in groups like Zero Waste are asking, and they're starting to get some interesting answers. They're groups who've spent time thinking about the garbage we make and how less of it could be put at the curb, if it never makes it to your house.They've been thinking and lobbying and pushing for several years now.
Legislation that's coming to Queen's Park in the next week might be a first step to shift the burden for things like packaging to the people who create it, so you might find site 41 and your Fudgeos to be more connected than you thought.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010- Patios!
Oh, you know you clicked on this because you have an opinion.
Everyone in Collingwood and everyone who has passed through Collingwood and everyone who votes in Collingwood has on opinion on where the patios should go.
And to a man, every single person I have spoken with, with the exception of the chair of the BIA, says the patios on the main street should be next to the building. Oh, and of course, a majority on town council. This is not an attack on the decision made, but merely my observation. Seriously, not one person I've spoken with is in favour of the patios going next to the curb.
I have been repeatedly assured that it will all be fabulous once it's done, and we'll all be the happy beneficiaries of a wonderful streetscape. Certainly, First to Second street looks very fine, indeed.
Man, I sure hope this issue winds up being worth all the chewing, voting and complaining.
Of course, there was an issue about how things were to look in downtown Collingwood just before the last election, if you'll remember. Back then, a lot of people were riled up, too. Similar to the story today, just about everyone I spoke to back then was of the same opinion, failing to understand why town council had made the decision it had. A citizen's group even sprang up around The Issue. The council we have now reversed the previous council's decision, and now we have a gaping hole at a prominent corner. Currently, there's not much water in it, but some people have been filling it with spite.
Let's hope this current row doesn't turn out quite as ugly.
Everyone in Collingwood and everyone who has passed through Collingwood and everyone who votes in Collingwood has on opinion on where the patios should go.
And to a man, every single person I have spoken with, with the exception of the chair of the BIA, says the patios on the main street should be next to the building. Oh, and of course, a majority on town council. This is not an attack on the decision made, but merely my observation. Seriously, not one person I've spoken with is in favour of the patios going next to the curb.
I have been repeatedly assured that it will all be fabulous once it's done, and we'll all be the happy beneficiaries of a wonderful streetscape. Certainly, First to Second street looks very fine, indeed.
Man, I sure hope this issue winds up being worth all the chewing, voting and complaining.
Of course, there was an issue about how things were to look in downtown Collingwood just before the last election, if you'll remember. Back then, a lot of people were riled up, too. Similar to the story today, just about everyone I spoke to back then was of the same opinion, failing to understand why town council had made the decision it had. A citizen's group even sprang up around The Issue. The council we have now reversed the previous council's decision, and now we have a gaping hole at a prominent corner. Currently, there's not much water in it, but some people have been filling it with spite.
Let's hope this current row doesn't turn out quite as ugly.
May 25, 2010- A few simple rules. Guidelines, really...
A few thoughts on 'who does what' (just a preliminary list, and only according to me)
If you take a dog for a walk, it's your job to pick up their poop, even if it's disgusting.
If you take the dishes from the table, it's your job to see they get into the dishwasher.
When you give birth to a child, it's your job to do what's right for the child, even if it's contrary to what's good for you.
When you clean the house, it's your job to dust the baseboards, too.
If you're someone's sweetheart, it's your job sometimes to simply listen, without trying to solve the problem, even if you know for sure you have the answer.
Also if you're someone's sweetheart, it's your job sometimes to just shut up about that same old problem already.
If we all would just follow some of these simple rules, the world would be a happier, tidier, more peaceful place, don't you think?
If you take a dog for a walk, it's your job to pick up their poop, even if it's disgusting.
If you take the dishes from the table, it's your job to see they get into the dishwasher.
When you give birth to a child, it's your job to do what's right for the child, even if it's contrary to what's good for you.
When you clean the house, it's your job to dust the baseboards, too.
If you're someone's sweetheart, it's your job sometimes to simply listen, without trying to solve the problem, even if you know for sure you have the answer.
Also if you're someone's sweetheart, it's your job sometimes to just shut up about that same old problem already.
If we all would just follow some of these simple rules, the world would be a happier, tidier, more peaceful place, don't you think?
Thursday, May 20, 2010
May 20, 2010- Being There
One of my dear cousins had a terrible chore to do this spring: emptying the house she grew up in.
She's an only child, so at least there weren't any fights over an inheritance. Her father died quite some time ago, and it's been a couple of years since her mom passed, but she needed to wait to bring herself to start dispersing the house.
In the end, she held an auction, the old-fashioned 'countryside' variety, with tables on the front lawn and a church group offering hot dogs and pop and pie at a lunch table. It must have been a nasty job getting ready: not only dealing with the detritus of two lives and a marriage, but also sorting through her own grief and loss, and in a way, losing her family all over again, as items are discussed and bid on, then scattered to other peoples' homes.
I was there if not to bid on anything, at least to stand near my sweet cousin and just (boy do I hate this far overused phrase) be there for her. Eight other cousins made the trek to the farm for the sale, too, along with every remaining aunt and uncle well enough to travel. It was pretty fun watching two aging aunts, both of whom have a certain level of hearing loss, thinking they were being stealthy as they contemplated certain items at the top of their lungs. "That was Mum's, you know," one of them bellowed, pointing at a sturdy little rectangular glass measuring cup. The other one hollered back, "I remember she kept it in the drawer at the top of that dresser in the old kitchen..."
I had my eye on a few things, and sadly missed out on a gorgeous old 8-cup glass mixing bowl because I was in a laugh-fest with a cousin about an old blue enamel drinking cup we all remembered from the shelf at the top of Grandma's wood cookstove. It was the cup designated for thirsty grandchildren to use on our regular Sunday afternoon visits. It was never washed, just rinsed and put back on the shelf for the next kid to use. There was a chip in the rim that I can feel even now. It turns out, each of us asked our parents about that cup when they went through the divesting process twenty years ago at my grandparents' house. One cousin was texting her sister about it, joking that 'THE CUP" had just sold to a stranger for 2 bucks. We were laughing at how quickly she would get back to us, when I missed my chance and the auctioneer sold 'my' bowl, right into the hands of another cousin! Oh, well, it would have been awkward to have gotten into a bidding war with her, anyway.
Plus, just a few minutes earlier, I had snagged another, very cool glass measuring cup. I had been my grandmother's, and apparently, she stored it in a drawer at the top of a dresser, in the old kitchen.
She's an only child, so at least there weren't any fights over an inheritance. Her father died quite some time ago, and it's been a couple of years since her mom passed, but she needed to wait to bring herself to start dispersing the house.
In the end, she held an auction, the old-fashioned 'countryside' variety, with tables on the front lawn and a church group offering hot dogs and pop and pie at a lunch table. It must have been a nasty job getting ready: not only dealing with the detritus of two lives and a marriage, but also sorting through her own grief and loss, and in a way, losing her family all over again, as items are discussed and bid on, then scattered to other peoples' homes.
I was there if not to bid on anything, at least to stand near my sweet cousin and just (boy do I hate this far overused phrase) be there for her. Eight other cousins made the trek to the farm for the sale, too, along with every remaining aunt and uncle well enough to travel. It was pretty fun watching two aging aunts, both of whom have a certain level of hearing loss, thinking they were being stealthy as they contemplated certain items at the top of their lungs. "That was Mum's, you know," one of them bellowed, pointing at a sturdy little rectangular glass measuring cup. The other one hollered back, "I remember she kept it in the drawer at the top of that dresser in the old kitchen..."
I had my eye on a few things, and sadly missed out on a gorgeous old 8-cup glass mixing bowl because I was in a laugh-fest with a cousin about an old blue enamel drinking cup we all remembered from the shelf at the top of Grandma's wood cookstove. It was the cup designated for thirsty grandchildren to use on our regular Sunday afternoon visits. It was never washed, just rinsed and put back on the shelf for the next kid to use. There was a chip in the rim that I can feel even now. It turns out, each of us asked our parents about that cup when they went through the divesting process twenty years ago at my grandparents' house. One cousin was texting her sister about it, joking that 'THE CUP" had just sold to a stranger for 2 bucks. We were laughing at how quickly she would get back to us, when I missed my chance and the auctioneer sold 'my' bowl, right into the hands of another cousin! Oh, well, it would have been awkward to have gotten into a bidding war with her, anyway.
Plus, just a few minutes earlier, I had snagged another, very cool glass measuring cup. I had been my grandmother's, and apparently, she stored it in a drawer at the top of a dresser, in the old kitchen.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010- Staycation
I'm enjoying an extra-long long weekend this week, using up the vacation time I just didn't manage to take over the last year. I certainly never thought I'd be one of those people forced to take their holidays, but when you love what you do, it's not hard to find several months slipping by.
It's tragic, really, how the weather has turned, leaving me basking in sunshine and 20s, just in time for the week off. Now, don't tell 97.7's Garden Guru, Heather Ritchie, but yesterday, I went ahead and planted the tomatoes I had grown in a sunny south-facing window this spring. I'm pretty sure we're safe from any more freezes. We now enter watering season.
My plans for this week were simple: I was going to read. I was going to sit in my backyard and read the big stack of magazines and books that have been growing and growing on my bedside table. Haven't cracked one yet. First, there was a rather full weekend, then a Toronto visit with a girlfriend for an awesome dinner and much giggling. That was followed by a morning at the St. Lawrence Market, where there are still a few things for sale that I can't get up here; not many any more, but just try to find Wakame for miso soup anywhere "north of nine".
Today, I really will sit down, I swear - just as soon as I return the wrong-sized cushions for our outdoor chairs and replace them with the right-sized ones. Oh, and walk the dog and hang some laundry and move those plants that are crowded by the rhubarb, and while I'm at it, make a rhubarb pie and mow the lawn and .... I think I know why people wanting a rest actually leave town!
Once I finally manage to sit, these are the books I'm planning to finish this week: I Am Hutterite, Making Toast, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and The Imperfectionists. Two memoirs, two novels. A nice balance. Better get to it.
It's tragic, really, how the weather has turned, leaving me basking in sunshine and 20s, just in time for the week off. Now, don't tell 97.7's Garden Guru, Heather Ritchie, but yesterday, I went ahead and planted the tomatoes I had grown in a sunny south-facing window this spring. I'm pretty sure we're safe from any more freezes. We now enter watering season.
My plans for this week were simple: I was going to read. I was going to sit in my backyard and read the big stack of magazines and books that have been growing and growing on my bedside table. Haven't cracked one yet. First, there was a rather full weekend, then a Toronto visit with a girlfriend for an awesome dinner and much giggling. That was followed by a morning at the St. Lawrence Market, where there are still a few things for sale that I can't get up here; not many any more, but just try to find Wakame for miso soup anywhere "north of nine".
Today, I really will sit down, I swear - just as soon as I return the wrong-sized cushions for our outdoor chairs and replace them with the right-sized ones. Oh, and walk the dog and hang some laundry and move those plants that are crowded by the rhubarb, and while I'm at it, make a rhubarb pie and mow the lawn and .... I think I know why people wanting a rest actually leave town!
Once I finally manage to sit, these are the books I'm planning to finish this week: I Am Hutterite, Making Toast, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and The Imperfectionists. Two memoirs, two novels. A nice balance. Better get to it.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
May 8, 2010- Where the bunnies might be...
I think I might have a clue today to where the Missing Bunnies of Hume Street might be.
As I walked the beloved pooch the other day on the rail-side trail north of Collins street, a fellow dog-walker was still and staring up to the pine trees to the west of the tracks. She had found the Great Horned Owl family that has taken up residence in the area! I have been hearing rumours from the outdoors-minded around here of a developing rookery, but I had seen no evidence, in spite of clear instructions: "On the back of Sproule, just up the trail!"
But there they were, two of 'em and I realize now there's a reason they're named the Great Horned Owl, rather than the decent horned owls, mediocre horned owls or reasonable horned owls; they're enormous.
They don't move much, either, or didn't while I was there, staring. Although I'm pretty sure I got a whiff of bunny when I saw one burp.
As I walked the beloved pooch the other day on the rail-side trail north of Collins street, a fellow dog-walker was still and staring up to the pine trees to the west of the tracks. She had found the Great Horned Owl family that has taken up residence in the area! I have been hearing rumours from the outdoors-minded around here of a developing rookery, but I had seen no evidence, in spite of clear instructions: "On the back of Sproule, just up the trail!"
But there they were, two of 'em and I realize now there's a reason they're named the Great Horned Owl, rather than the decent horned owls, mediocre horned owls or reasonable horned owls; they're enormous.
They don't move much, either, or didn't while I was there, staring. Although I'm pretty sure I got a whiff of bunny when I saw one burp.
Friday, May 7, 2010
May 7, 2010 Whither Buggs et al?
One of my favourite sights on the streets of Collingwood is the family of bunnies that live on several properties around Hume and Peel streets. I first started noticing them a few years ago and their population really seemed to swell in the last few years. They were reproducing like, well, rabbits.
Their little noses and funny ears make me smile every time I see them, which has been pretty much every day for the last couple of summers.
But the bunnies are nowhere to be seen this year, nor is there any evidence of their long-eared ways. Even my doggie doesn't seem to know where they've gone, and she always gets very excited to pass through their territory, sniffing wildly at their no-doubt cute smells.
It's a little distressing, not to mention dangerous, since I crane my neck in all directions when I go through that area of town.
Where'd they go?
Their little noses and funny ears make me smile every time I see them, which has been pretty much every day for the last couple of summers.
But the bunnies are nowhere to be seen this year, nor is there any evidence of their long-eared ways. Even my doggie doesn't seem to know where they've gone, and she always gets very excited to pass through their territory, sniffing wildly at their no-doubt cute smells.
It's a little distressing, not to mention dangerous, since I crane my neck in all directions when I go through that area of town.
Where'd they go?
Friday, April 30, 2010
April 30, 2010- Not Really Spring Cleaning
If it rains tomorrow, as it is scheduled to, I have an inside job all ready to go.
I'm going to tackle The Beast, the beast I call Wedding World. WW lives in my basement and has done so since we moved into our house six years ago. Six or seven shelving units filled with miscellaneous things, mostly kitchen-type stuff received as wedding gifts, things that have not yet made it into circulation in the house. They're just.... well.... not our taste. (is that a polite way to say ugly?)
It's been, yes, six years. But while we really could use the extra space, we can't just throw out the items in WW, or sell them at a yard sale; that would be plain wrong. They were heart-gifts: carefully chosen by people we cared enough about to invite to Our Big Day. Furthermore, I know if I had a yard sale, somehow the gift-givers would show up, especially the givers of the very ugliest gifts.
It's terrible having this kind of guilty conscience. Even though I suspect one particular box of kitchen storage boxes was actually a regift, unless the other tag is actually in there, I can't tell and there it sits, accusingly. These items are occasionally moved around within the basement, although, generally just to the other things around them, the ones I actually use and, well... like.
So this weekend, since I can't bring myself to part with these tactile pieces of affection, Wedding World is officially being moved to another corner of the basement. Where at least I won't trip over all that love.
I'm going to tackle The Beast, the beast I call Wedding World. WW lives in my basement and has done so since we moved into our house six years ago. Six or seven shelving units filled with miscellaneous things, mostly kitchen-type stuff received as wedding gifts, things that have not yet made it into circulation in the house. They're just.... well.... not our taste. (is that a polite way to say ugly?)
It's been, yes, six years. But while we really could use the extra space, we can't just throw out the items in WW, or sell them at a yard sale; that would be plain wrong. They were heart-gifts: carefully chosen by people we cared enough about to invite to Our Big Day. Furthermore, I know if I had a yard sale, somehow the gift-givers would show up, especially the givers of the very ugliest gifts.
It's terrible having this kind of guilty conscience. Even though I suspect one particular box of kitchen storage boxes was actually a regift, unless the other tag is actually in there, I can't tell and there it sits, accusingly. These items are occasionally moved around within the basement, although, generally just to the other things around them, the ones I actually use and, well... like.
So this weekend, since I can't bring myself to part with these tactile pieces of affection, Wedding World is officially being moved to another corner of the basement. Where at least I won't trip over all that love.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
April 27, 2010 - Finishing Up
I always thought I was a finisher. 'Get the job done, even if it's not perfect.' But I've had to have a wee re-think on that, considering I am just now, four long years after beginning a modest renovation on a powder room, finishing it off.
To be fair, it was an unintentional renovation. I just wanted to see whether there was real oak underneath that hideous grey paint. By the time I got five layers of paint off one wainscoted wall, I had ruined the linoleum. Since I was pulling up the linoleum, it only stands to reason I should get rid of the ugly vanity, and if the vanity had to go, we might as well get a new loo, the low-flow, environment-friendly kind, and since we're putting in a sink, well, we might as well pull out that ugly cupboard while we're at it. Plus, in addition to the five layers of paint, (probably lead paint, which would explain a lot..), there were three layers of wallpaper, and I had to learn how to tile and grout.
But still; four years?!
Again, to be fair, two of those years were foolishly spent waiting for the return of a plumber after I said, 'Oh, I'm not in a hurry..." when he asked when I wanted some pipes moved and replaced. Happily, in November, my sweetheart and his friends found the time to rip out the old pipes and replace them with new ones. Funny enough we now have extra water pressure upstairs, too.
And finally, I can see the finish line. I've figured out the basic carpentry (and only had to re-purchase one the boards for the bulkhead after screwing it up...), I've boxed in the new pipes, installed a piece of drywall, mudded, sanded, and today could be the day I paint. We'll see. I have even figured out how I'm going to repair the trim I mangled in my excitement to install the new sink. A lovely carpenter gifted me with a nailset, so my new trim will be tidy.
Yes, in another couple of months, after I've used up my last excuse, I will finally be able to say, "Oh, indeed, I did the whole thing myself; it wasn't hard at all!"
To be fair, it was an unintentional renovation. I just wanted to see whether there was real oak underneath that hideous grey paint. By the time I got five layers of paint off one wainscoted wall, I had ruined the linoleum. Since I was pulling up the linoleum, it only stands to reason I should get rid of the ugly vanity, and if the vanity had to go, we might as well get a new loo, the low-flow, environment-friendly kind, and since we're putting in a sink, well, we might as well pull out that ugly cupboard while we're at it. Plus, in addition to the five layers of paint, (probably lead paint, which would explain a lot..), there were three layers of wallpaper, and I had to learn how to tile and grout.
But still; four years?!
Again, to be fair, two of those years were foolishly spent waiting for the return of a plumber after I said, 'Oh, I'm not in a hurry..." when he asked when I wanted some pipes moved and replaced. Happily, in November, my sweetheart and his friends found the time to rip out the old pipes and replace them with new ones. Funny enough we now have extra water pressure upstairs, too.
And finally, I can see the finish line. I've figured out the basic carpentry (and only had to re-purchase one the boards for the bulkhead after screwing it up...), I've boxed in the new pipes, installed a piece of drywall, mudded, sanded, and today could be the day I paint. We'll see. I have even figured out how I'm going to repair the trim I mangled in my excitement to install the new sink. A lovely carpenter gifted me with a nailset, so my new trim will be tidy.
Yes, in another couple of months, after I've used up my last excuse, I will finally be able to say, "Oh, indeed, I did the whole thing myself; it wasn't hard at all!"
Thursday, April 22, 2010
New Year's, Christmas, Your Birthday and the Last Day of School
Yes, every favourite day of the year, wrapped in one fish-scented, hungover, sleepover campout weekend for the boys.
As I write, three grownup, responsible men are in my living room, agonizing over the grocery list for Fishin' Season Weekend. Somewhere in Niagara Falls, a different set of grownup, responsible men, are rifling through assorted frozen meat from a year's worth of hunting, to bring to share.
It's hard to describe how big FSW is to these guys, and my sweetheart in particular. They talk about it all year long, keep track of the weather for several weeks in advance, keep photo albums of adventures from years past and every 'last Saturday of April', off they go to a favourite spot in a bend of the Pretty River, the same one they've been going to since high school. They pitch their tents, drink some beer (caesars or scotch nowadays), and tell tall tales about FSWs past. Like the time one friend took a swim in the 'empties pool' (literally, one of those little plastic backyard swimming pools), and needed nine stitches. I'm so sorry for the nurse who had to look after him. Or the time two girls fell into the river while dancing, and had to hang their clothes by the fire, watching them steam in the frigid April night. Or how's about the nickname one of the guys was given because of his antics in 1987, and who goes by that nickname to this day?
These days, the equipment is high tech; no styrofoam coolers of cheap beer. One guy has a teepee complete with a woodstove and camping cots, another brings a whole tricked-out camping kitchen, complete with drawers for storage and an oven.
Friday night at midnight, the trout streams officially open for the season. It's the reason for FSW in the first place, and sometimes, someone will even catch a fish.
But mostly, it's about the friends, and now, the memories.
And I vow never to fall in the river again.
As I write, three grownup, responsible men are in my living room, agonizing over the grocery list for Fishin' Season Weekend. Somewhere in Niagara Falls, a different set of grownup, responsible men, are rifling through assorted frozen meat from a year's worth of hunting, to bring to share.
It's hard to describe how big FSW is to these guys, and my sweetheart in particular. They talk about it all year long, keep track of the weather for several weeks in advance, keep photo albums of adventures from years past and every 'last Saturday of April', off they go to a favourite spot in a bend of the Pretty River, the same one they've been going to since high school. They pitch their tents, drink some beer (caesars or scotch nowadays), and tell tall tales about FSWs past. Like the time one friend took a swim in the 'empties pool' (literally, one of those little plastic backyard swimming pools), and needed nine stitches. I'm so sorry for the nurse who had to look after him. Or the time two girls fell into the river while dancing, and had to hang their clothes by the fire, watching them steam in the frigid April night. Or how's about the nickname one of the guys was given because of his antics in 1987, and who goes by that nickname to this day?
These days, the equipment is high tech; no styrofoam coolers of cheap beer. One guy has a teepee complete with a woodstove and camping cots, another brings a whole tricked-out camping kitchen, complete with drawers for storage and an oven.
Friday night at midnight, the trout streams officially open for the season. It's the reason for FSW in the first place, and sometimes, someone will even catch a fish.
But mostly, it's about the friends, and now, the memories.
And I vow never to fall in the river again.
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