Be It Resolved

This time last year, I had some things I wanted to do. I wanted to learn to run, lose some weight and get more fit. At the very least, I wanted to be able to tie my shoes without getting out of breath.

Check.

I'm down a dozen pounds, ran my first-ever race and I feel pretty good.
For me, the trick was to set a goal with a firm date, and never to take my eyes off it. It helped to be able to measure my progress, 1/10th of a pound or one extra minute of running at a time.

This year, my resolutions might be a bit trickier, as they're less less concrete than a number on a scale.

First off, I resolve to keep my fitness and slimness, a measurable and therefore manageable goal. But the other two will be tougher to figure out.

I want to become a better listener and a less-frequent complainer.

But how? But how do you measure such nebulous resolutions?

When I wanted to lose weight, I started by keeping track of everything I ate. Every calorie was counted, so I could understand what I was already doing, and from there, what I needed to change. It was pretty easy to figure that popcorn and beer for lunch four days a week do not make for a flat tummy.

But how do I measure how much time I spend bitching? How do I measure how much time I spent in active listening? I'm not sure there's an app for that.

The Year that Was

I'm not sorry to see the end of 2011 and I bet you're not, either.

This has been a tough year, from natural disasters like the tsunami in Japan,to man-made ones, like the ongoing financial tsunami that continues to rock the world.

For me, it's been a year of growth and setbacks. In the growth department, I found out I could run, not fast or gracefully, but long enough to, as my brother puts it, "take a layer off" and reveal a healthier, stronger body and I like to think, a calmer mind. But in the setback area, I again repeated a distressing long-term pattern in my social life, getting a bruised heart from a friend who has turned out not to be a friend after all. Mostly, I am disappointed in myself for not seeing the tell-tale signs a whole lot sooner. It's that "fool me once" thing which is so embarrassing.

I've learned a lot in 2011 and I remain grateful that I get to do what I love for a living. I'm also grateful that I remain healthy and well-loved. Now, if only I can figure out a way to avoid repeating this year's mistakes...again.

Poison for Pooches

I spent the afternoon at a vet clinic with my doggie, who had a bad case of chocolate breath. She was pretty happy, maybe even proud of herself when she arrived. She was less enthusiastic about her visit after being given the drugs necessary to rid her of her stolen treats.

While I was out, my beloved pooch gobbled down 50 bucks worth of chocolates. Not the cheap boxed-up kind from the department store, this was the good stuff. Dark and Belgian, from the lovely shop on the main street of Collingwood.

The thing about chocolate is, the better the quality, the worse it is for your puppy. The very very good stuff is basically poison for pooches. The vet said to bring her in immediately for a purging.

I wasn't there for the... shall we say, emptying, but I'm told it was a dark and disgusting mess, and the vet techs were shocked at the sheer volume of it. Further, my doggie had also managed to gulp down, seal-like, a package of wee rawhides meant for my sister in law's new puppy. Some of the knots at the ends were intact when they, ahem, saw the light, but some were missing, which means they might still need to pass.

And so, lucky me, I'm to inspect her backyard .... packages for scary rawhides for the next few days.

Before you think I'm a negligent doggy parent, be aware the chocolates and other goodies were not actually under the tree. They were behind the closed door of the spare bedroom. At least, we sure thought it was closed. How she managed to get in, I have no idea. The replacement chocolates are now in the closet of said bedroom, whose door swings out. So unless the dog is going to remove the hinges, I think we're safe.

One surprise from the adventure: my puppy doesn't like the booze-filled chocolates. Each of them was squished but left dripping on the duvet. Even doggies have their preferences, I guess.

A huge Thank You to the lovely owner of the chocolate shop who gave me a discount on my replacement goodies when she heard my tale of woe. Also thank you to Drs. Bell and Gilpin at Bellbrae Animal Hospital. Sorry for the mess.

The Christmas Gamble

I've been struggling this Christmas with charity, and I don't think I'm alone wondering how it's possible so very many people could possibly need as much stuff as is being donated to food banks and toy drives.

I don't mean to be all Scroogy, but seriously, I saw turkeys for a $1.49 a pound at one of the grocery stores this week, which translates to only about 10 bucks for a decent-sized bird.

If they're that cheap, how is is possible there are people lining up at 7 this morning at Chris Dopp's mortgage brokerage to get a free one? And (OK, this IS a bit scroogy...) if you can get up at 7 am to get a free turkey, why can't you get up at 7am to go to a job?

I am confused, wondering whether some of the people receiving all our donations might not be simply cheap, perhaps lazy or maybe even scamming the system.

Before you think me a big meany, let me tell you I know for a fact there are people in assisted housing who use whatever welfare is called now for huge plasma TVs, iPhones and $10-a-day cigarette habits. No, not all of them, but they do exist and let's not pretend otherwise.

I put these uncomfortable facts to some lovely friends of mine at a gathering this week and their reply was, "I'm OK with that."

"How?" I wanted to know.

They explained how they see their Christmas giving: It's a gamble. Yes, there are cheaters and liars and thieves. But there are also people in genuine need, who are working hard but somehow just not getting their chunk of the pie. My friends said they are confident SOME of their giving gets to those people, so it's worth it.

That's the conundrum of giving, isn't it: is knowing you're being ripped off OK if you also know at least a bit of your largess is going where it belongs?

Come to think of it, we wrap up those gadgets and geegaws and put them under the tree for our loved ones trying, but never really knowing if the present is going to be appreciated. But we give anyway, gambling that we will hit the mark and make someone's day.

Alphabet Ransom

My O is safely home, and no ransom was needed.

Earlier this week, a manilla envelope marked, 'Occupant' arrived at my door, and inside wrapped in tissue, was the O stolen from my Christmas decoration set of letters spelling out NOEL.

Also inside, a note from the Alphabet Shelter for Wayward Vowels, which explained how my errant O had been dropped off at the door by a woman with Collingwood on her breath and regret in her heart.

It was very, very clever.

And now that I'm more sure of the culprit, I'm already planning the payback.

Christopher Hitchens Gets His Answer

A giant thinker is finding out today whether he was right. Wouldn't you love to know whether Christopher Hitchens will meet his maker or just turn to dust?

Regardless of whether you agreed with him, Hitchens made a powerful argument for atheism. He was part of a group of thinkers who came to prominence in the last few years arguing that organised religion, especially as it's practised in the world now, is more of an evil than a force for good.

Ayaan Hirsi Ali, whose body was mutilated in the name of faith and whose life is under constant threat because of her writings, Sam Harris, whose musings on Christianity are really a call to arms, Richard Dawkins and Hitchens are the four "riders of the apocalypse" if you will.

I read them all, all in a row, during a several-month period I spent doing some pretty tough questioning of my own beliefs.

A couple of things struck me during that time:

First, Hitchens' writing is smooth and beautiful and well-argued but in person, in interviews, he was snarky and rude. Harris is smooth and reasonable in person and in interviews but his writing is snarky and rude.

Second, many complaints about religion hinge on the argument that the faithful can be nasty and awful and cruel. It's true, but it's a silly argument. Electricity still exists whether the guy who's twisting the wires is nice or not.

And third, people are downright uncomfortable talking about whether they believe in God. Several otherwise thoughtful people whose opinions I sought were huffy and defensive as they told me there's simply no such thing as an atheist. And no, they didn't want to borrow the books.

Rest in Peace, Hitch. Not that you think the sentiment does you any good.

To Card or Not to Card

It's not exactly Shakespeare, but it is a question facing some of us this Christmas, as technology continues seep into every corner of our lives.

For a lot of us, the question of whether to send Christmas greetings in the mail has already been decided long ago.

I have 271 friends on facebook, and most of them are also on my Christmas card list, so why would I bother picking up a pen and buying stamps when I can send a Christmas greeting to every one of them with two dozen keystrokes and the click of a mouse?

But still, Bing Crosby didn't sing about status updates, did he?

While I debated whether to bring out the big box and start addressing Christmas cards I snap up at the Boxing Day sales every year, my first missive of the season landed in the mailbox, right there beside the hydro bill.

It was a hand-addressed wish for a happy end to the year from someone I care about, but rarely see. They had taken the time to write my name. In pen, and they even slipped in a picture of their adorable little kids with the sparkly silver card.

It made my day. So it only makes sense to try to make some other friend's day. I'm hauling out my pen, and looking for my address book, the one with with the postal codes.

Hey, what do stamps cost these days?

Thinking ahead

A month to go before the big day and Sweetie is taken care of for Christmas. All I have to do now is figure out how to wrap a rather large item I found for him at a bargain price, and how to get it under the tree. Happily, some friends are storing it for now, and after all, I do have a month to figure it out.

I was surprised and happy at saving a few bucks on this kinda cool item my honey has been talking about for years (I SO want to tell what it is!) since it was touted at the store as a 'Black Friday' sale. The concept of Black Friday is still new enough this side of the border that I had to explain it to a friend of mine; "the day the stores figure they get into the black, and everything from now on is profit" is how it was explained to me.

We've generally been more excited about Boxing Day in Canada, but the Black Friday phenomenon got me thinking about shopping as sport.

A woman in California pepper-sprayed fellow shoppers as she defended the stuff she wanted to buy at a discount retailer. She was already at a discount retailer, and she brought pepper spray with her to a midnight opening as she looked for bigger bargains. Bizarre.

Now, the numbers seem to suggest this was the biggest shopping weekend the US has ever seen, with more money spent over the last three days than during the same period ever before, even during the boom years of the 90s and early 2000s. With 9% unemployment, how is it possible this was the biggest year ever?

Now I'm worried, because perhaps our US cousins are headed back into the trouble that started our 'great recession' of 2008, the one that's not over yet. If you're out of work or in trouble, doesn't it make sense to cut back on the shopping?

So maybe this is a sign of the US economy on the rebound?
Or is it a sign of collective insanity that's going to pull the world down with it?
Gee, I hope it's the former and not the latter.

The Best Superpower

I apologise if I startled you on the walking trail beside the curling club yesterday.

It was Mariah Carey's fault.

You see, I loaded my Christmas playlist onto my ipod yesterday and before I knew it, there she was, "All I want for Christmas is YOOOOOOUUUU!" with all the backup vocals and soaring stuff. It's a guilty pleasure and my favourite modern Christmas song; I just couldn't help myself.

I am well aware that my 'jazz hands' aren't exactly Broadway worthy, and I suspect my strange kick-ball-change dance moves looked more like a seizure than syncopation. Even my dog gave me a sideways look as I sashayed, shuffled and yes, twirled on the trail. But if only you could see how I felt inside as I made a stupid spectacle of myself, if only you could see how I might have looked, if only I could translate what I heard and felt into movement, you'd have been much more impressed.

If I ever get a superpower, that's the one I want: to be able to let other people see what it is we weirdoes feel like when we're doing strange stuff that doesn't make much sense.

Wouldn't it be great to hear how the off-key sound to themselves or know how the awkward and spastic feel as we dance?

Remembering Christmas

Somehow, cruising a shopping mall with a brand new pair of jeans (that fit!) and a new sweater made the Christmas season seem bright again.

It helped to be wandering in the presence of someone unremittingly positive.

My sweet and lovely sister-in-law is the kind of person you just can't refrain from loving. The entire afternoon, she chirped about the presents she had found for her grandchildren, her children, her mother, and how cute they were, how much this person likes that sort of thing, how she was creating new traditions with the grand kids, how she was looking forward to a trip to see her daughter, on and on, positive and upbeat. She clearly loves the 'giving' part of the holiday, not really thinking about the work or the potential disappointment that can come with high hopes. It was so refreshing to hear about someone's plans rather than their troubles.

But oh, she's a sneaky one and when she handed me a copy of a movie I'd been eyeing up, calling it 'not really a Christmas present', because I had to loan it to her, I remembered what I've always thought the gift-giving of Christmas is supposed to be about. It's not supposed to be the drudgery of 'having to come up with something' for your family members, but instead should be about listening to them and paying attention so your gift to them is also a gift for yourself: the satisfaction of knowing you pleased them.

I used to love the tradition of drawing names in the family because buying for one person out of the dozen gave me the opportunity to get to know that person better. Since we drew names at the end of the annual gathering, we had a full year to think up our gift. I loved spending the time thinking about someone else, asking about them, learning their needs and likes. It was like playing detective.

And so, in that spirit, after an afternoon of shopping and careful listening and a few minutes of discussion, my sweetie and I figured out what we're going to get for his sister this Christmas. She's going to be surprised and delighted. We hope.

I'll keep you posted, right after I finish putting up my Christmas decorations.

Humbug!

It's not even November and I'm already sick of Christmas.

How is this possible?
It's the pressure from my inner Martha Stewart, who wants things to be rosy and beautiful and perfect and fabulous.

Hence the re-decorating, which of course, must be done before Christmas.

Hence my high level of annoyance when one of my recently-single in laws decides that for the first time ever, that side of the family needs to have Christmas dinner on Christmas night, in spite of eight years of my hosting my family on Christmas night since no one on that side was available.

Hence my high level of annoyance when the first-ever office Christmas party is announced last week, set for a date I've already invited my friends to for my at-home gathering.

Hence my snapping at Sweetheart when he innocently asked, "We're not getting each other gifts this year, are we?" Sorry, dear. Of course you deserve a gift, and I'll be extra careful wrapping that lump of coal before I heap it on your head.

PENNance

I'm so angry about this Penn State thing, I'm about ready to explode.

In case you haven't heard about it, a football coach at the school is facing dozens of charges of abusing young boys over the last 20 years or so.

There were eyewitnesses. Even so, no one did anything to stop him, presumably worried about the reputation and therefore funding of the school and its sports rather than the health and welfare of the boys being raped.

To be clear, the allegations aren't whispers or rumours. In sworn testimony, a guy who's now a coach himself, but was at the time a student at the school, says he walked in on a coach in the middle of sodomizing a young boy. His reaction? He called his dad and then told the head coach.

On what planet does a person walk into a room where a naked man is raping a naked ten year old boy, and not jump in to save the child? On what planet do you witness that and NEVER go to the police?

On Planet Sports, I guess. Planet US Sports where there is more money than compassion, more ego than humanity, where in the name of cash, some star players finish university never having learned to read, where it seems anything goes as long as your team wins.

Now, before we get all self-righteous about the Yanks and their crazed ways, take a minute to remember Martin Kruze and what happened to him at Maple Leaf Gardens.

For that matter, also remember our sad history of residential schools, because in the end, that sorry story is not really so different from what happened at Penn State.

When idolatry and power converge and questions are silenced, sickos will find their way in.

Wallpaper How-To Tip Two:

Send husband away. As far as possible for as long as possible.

The best news so far about my years-late wallpaper job is that my sweetheart is far too busy to help.

I love him dearly, but we have both learned from hard experience and tears that we are not well suited to working together on decorating jobs and home improvement projects. It's a disappointment to my mother who judges the compatibility of a couple by their ability to install wallpaper together. Well, we're not putting up wallpaper, I'm taking it down. Slowly. Painfully.

When the 'knob and tube' wiring needed replaced, I went shopping. When I began the first of two bathroom re-dos, Sweetie wisely grabbed his fishing rod and vanished.

It's a smart move all around, since if he's not bodily in the house, I can let my projects become messy and disjointed, and don't feel I have to sweep up every ten minutes or keep the tools organised. There are scary repercussions that come with seemingly innocent questions like, "Do you know where the scissors might be?" While questions about the location of scissors might seem innocuous, girls know it's all about the tone. You know the one. The words might be about scissors, but buried in the dreaded tone are the implications about who's an idiot and why did I let you talk me into this project in the first place.

Best to work alone, not only to avoid battles over technique and helpfulness, but also because if I'm alone, we don't have to argue about whether 80s music is really crap or if baroque is the way to go. We both know who's right on that one, don't we?

Wallpaper How To

Here's my step-by-step guide to a job I really should have done when we moved into our house eight years ago:

Decide to finally tackle that long overdue job.
Check 'paint corner' in basement for supplies.
Spend nine hours tidying basement when rags, brushes, trays can't be located.

Go online to see who sells Martha Stewart paint these days.
Express disappointment to clerk at Home Depot that colours chosen eight years ago are no longer available.
Spend nine hours tidying filing cabinet when original paint chips cannot be located.

Locate paint chips in obscure corner of spare bedroom closet.
Also locate magazine clippings with pictures of 'dream' kitchen.
Dream.

Spend two hours tidying spare bedroom closet, trying on fancy dresses and wedding dress. Decide whether to throw out pantsuit that hasn't been worn in four years.

Purchase paint, paint supplies. Thank clerk for special mixes of expired paint colours.

Spend one hour tidying shed after moving nearly every article to reach buried stepladder.
Spend one hour planting tulip bulbs discovered in obscure corner of shed.

Wrestle stepladder from shed to house.

Lift teeny corner of wallpaper, discover six layers of wallpaper underneath, some of them painted.

Despair.

Saved by the Lists

I've been swimming about in a bit of a daze for a few days, wondering, "What do I do next?" I have now run the race I've been training all summer for, I hit my weight loss goal a few days later, and I finished reading my five Canadian novels in time for Georgian Bay Reads two weekends ago. As of this week, I finished updating my files and scrapbooks, sorting through two years' worth of detritus and photos.

Now what? After having a long list of goals for nearly a year, I'm at a loss.

So, this week, I started a new list, and this afternoon, the first few tentative strokes of paint went onto the faded and yellowing paint on my kitchen ceiling. The speed my projects take shape, I'll have a freshened-up place to cook just in time to start Christmas dinner. The big question is, should I do the walls in one of the three shades of yellow I already have in my house? Should I pick a new yellow? Maybe I'll go slightly mad and choose blue or green.

After the kitchen walls, I'll start a baby quilt for my expectant neice. And then? Well, by then, I'll have to start running again to get ready for next year's races, won't I?

Hallowe'en is not my friend

(I'm not even going to address the recent loss of the apostrophe in spellchecks.)

When you spend your formative years a quarter mile off the road, Trick or Treating becomes a bit tricky. My parents didn't really understand it, either, "It sounds like begging. If you need candy, we'll buy it for you. And you don't."

Needless to say, I wholeheartedly embraced Hallowe'en later in life. But it broke my heart one year, when I dressed up as Marilyn Munroe. I'm 5'10", and in my 4-inch silver spikes, I was 6'2", heavily made up and standing at the bar when a diminutive little witch said to her friend, "Oh my Gawd! That's a GIRL!"

Can you imagine anything worse for a wannabe Marilyn than being mistaken for a guy in drag? Me, neither.

So, like most Hallowe'ens, I will spend this one with the house lights off, hiding out in my hot tub in the back yard.
With gin.

The Country Drive-By

My mom has been 'flagged' again. It's a ritual that's been going on four years now and I think it's so touching and kind, but that it also says something amazing about the community in which she lives.

My Dad died four years ago this week, and every year or so, someone, someone with a ladder or a tractor or something tall, installs a brand-new Canadian flag on the pole at the entrance to our family farm. The flagpole isn't one of those jobbies with the rope that lets you lower or raise the flag; it's a fixed thing, pretty high up.

Replacing the aging flags had been my dad's job, and that first terrible year, we were preparing to call my brother to help with it when the new flag just... appeared one day. Each year now, just as the flag starts to look a titch shabby, someone replaces it. It happens when mom's away, and while it must take a bit of time to do, no one has ever told her who is responsible for the drive by.

The 'flagging' reminds me of a paper I read in my school days comparing and contrasting the rituals of different cultures when it comes to wedding gifts.

In the culture I inhabit, wedding gifts are a private matter between the giver and the recipent, delivered in wrapping paper or in an envelope to hide the gift from others' prying eyes. The exchange, and the relationship is only between the individual couple and the giver.

But in a prairie culture whose name escapes me now, I'm thinking Hutterite perhaps, the wedding gifts are always cash, and always very public. Everyone -except- the couple receiving the gift knows what's been given by whom. People come up to the bride as she and the groom dance, and clip or pin money to the back of her dress. The couple knows only the total, and their gratitude therefore flows to the entire community at large. The relationship is between the community and the couple. The gratitude from the newly married must flow to all, since there's no way to know who gave what, only the total. It's a very big difference from the individual, one-on-one relationship.

And that's the kind of thing that's going on in Clearview township. The community is looking after its own. There are likely a dozen or so people who probably know who's being so kind, but Mom doesn't know, so her gratitude necessarily flows to everyone. And, if the system works the way it ought to, she'll pay back the kindness, also anonymously to someone else in the community who could use some help. No one writes it down or keeps score, but it's a cool dynamic that keeps kindness going and I'm grateful for it, too.

When in Doubt...

...brazen it out!

I'm not sure who coined that phrase, but I decided to employ it as a technique in this weekend's Georgian Bay Reads, and I was shocked to discover, it really works!

Yes, after three years of being kicked out early, I finally defended a winning entry in the annual local literary smackdown.

Anne-Marie MacDonald's Fall on Your Knees is a dark tale, and I think I won the thing with my wholehearted embrace of its darkness, using humour.

I came up with a mantra that I repeated any chance I got, saying that Georgian Bay should read my choice because it contained treachery, depravity, obsession, attempted murder, accidental murder, lust, incest, miscegenation, lesbianism, incest, babies, suicide and JAZZ.

I turned the arguments against my book into arguments for it, and finally won.

Next year, I get to host the event, so at least I don't have to battle my way through the books. I get to watch the book battle as it happens.

But until then, the local libraries suggest you read Anne-Marie MacDonald's Fall on your Knees, it's dark, with treachery, depravity, obsession.... you get the drill.

Read Ready

I've made it through all five books in this year's Georgian Bay Reads competition, and I think this year's field is the most impressive yet.

If you're not familiar with it, Georgian Bay Reads has each library in our area choose a Canadian novel they think we should all curl up with this fall. The five 'defenders', one from each library, will argue the relative merits of each novel, and after several rounds of good-natured scrapping and voting, we'll have a winner.

I suspect my own selection has given some of the other 'defenders' some pause.
Fall on Your Knees was the first novel by Anne-Marie MacDonald. Previously, she had been a playwright. It's long, it's gritty and the subject matter ranges from racism to homophobia to incest mixed in with accidental murder of babies, some teenage prostitution and some gruesome accounts of the madness of The Great War thrown in there. In the end, it's the story of survival after pride leads to a big fall. It's not for the faint of heart, but it's very, very well written. The way MacDonald describes what it takes for a person to return from war is the first time I feel I have a true, albeit small glimmer of understanding of what a soldier copes with when they return to 'real' life.

My dark choice is up against some much lighter-hearted fare: Farley Mowat's young-adult classic, Lost in the Barrens, Yann Martel's Life of Pi, Marilyn Simonds' The Holding, and Dorris Heffron's City Wolves.

In their own way, each is a survival story.

I just hope to survive past the first or second round.

Georgian Bay Reads is on Saturday night at the Collingwood Library at 7 p.m. It's free to attend, and I sure could use your support.

How's about you Occupy a Ballot Booth?

I understand the urge to protest, to want to be part of something groovy and exciting and perhaps world-changing. I remember with a cringe the yellow overalls I wore as I sat in front of the US embassy on University Avenue in 1990, shouting, "Hell, no, we won't go, We won't fight for Texaco!".

For the record, I do think there is something fundamentally wrong with the way our current system functions; it certainly does appear sometimes like the system is rigged.

That said, I have some questions for the Occupy people:

1. Have you ever voted? I ask because it kind of wrecks your argument that democracy isn't working if you haven't yet participated in it.

2. Do you work? (writing that really hard paper on the juxtaposition of Scottish peasant feminism and the patriarchal nature of the original Greeks in third year doesn't count.) I ask because it kind of wrecks your argument about our financial system if you haven't yet participated in it.

3. Do you think it helps your cause that in pretty much every picture taken of your encampment, someone's smoking a joint?

4. Did you know the farmers who grow the local and organic food you love to gush about have to import workers from the Caribbean? I'm thinking there might be work for all, if some of us actually do some of it.

5. Who was wielding the credit card when it was racking all that debt you're complaining about? And what did you do with all that crap you bought knowing you couldn't pay for it?

I'm just askin'.

Race Day

Happily, my only goal for today's Blue Mountain Half Marathon 5K is finishing the damn thing. Hopefully before dinnertime. I have no illusions about my speed; my biggest goal being to make a memory with my niece, nephew, brother and sister in law.

Oh, and not to freeze to death or drown.

I'm SO glad the rain got itself out of its system yesterday and Friday because there really is nothing worse than running in a pounding rain.

While I've been getting ready for this event for several months now, the last few days' lead-up has been a bit anti climactic. My darling dog got suddenly sick a week ago and the very people I was using this experience to bond with have announced they're decamping to Australia, so the race began to pale somewhat in importance. The move to OZ also puts my dream of 'running race as family tradition' on hold.

All that said, there's been more gained from this experience than I intended. I started a journey to bond with my family and instead have found a sport I complain about but love, or at least, have become somewhat addicted to. I certainly feel strange and lethargic if I don't run on schedule.

It's not going to snow or rain today. I'll get to wear my new long-sleeved shirt with the cool, look-at-me-I'm-a-runner thumbholes in the cuffs, and I'm making at least one memory with my beloveds. I'm down 22 pounds and my legs have never looked better or felt stonger. All in all, I'll label this a win, even if I finish dead last.

Best and Worst Thanksgiving Ever

There just aren't enough words to describe the awesomeness of the weekend weather. I simply cannot remember a weekend like this in my life.

We have all seen Thanksgivings with rain, with snow, with sleet and hail, but seven straight days of plus- 25 and sunshine? I'll take it!

I hosted my inlaws on Monday, with a lamb raised not twenty miles away, and thank you Jamie Oliver, for the recipe which turned out perfectly. We dined early to accommodate work schedules, but had drinks on the deck and great conversation.

Saturday was a daylong Thanksgiving extravaganza with my side of the family and a special guest. My 'little' brother's family is playing host to a young student from China. She goes by Alice, but I'm very sure that's not her actual name. Alice is one of 30 kids who have come to Ontario for a month-long home stay. She's ten. Can you imagine being brave enough to travel all the way to the other side of the planet for a month at the tender age of ten? She speaks very little English, and lives in Beijing, where I'm pretty sure she's never seen a cow or an apple tree, but she wasn't afraid to take part in most of the activities we got up to, including a haywagon ride to the 'secret' waterfall, and down a closed road. She wasn't interested in our casual 5K run, though.

And that's the highlight of my weekend: running with my 10 year old niece on a country road with the leaves at full colour, the sun hot and her shouting to me as we crested the final hill together, "Leave it all on the track, Auntie Missy! Leave it all on the track! You can do it!"

The lowlight of the magnificent weekend is the news that this bright and beautiful child and her bright and beautiful family will be unavailable for a hayride or a run with me next Thanksgiving or the year after that. They have an unbelievable, once in a lifetime opportunity and they are going to take it. They're moving to Australia for two, maybe five years. I'm so excited for them, but I'm ashamed to admit I'm a teensy bit, selfishly, heartbroken, too.

Here's hoping they have 5K family races in Brisbane. I'll have to start training for a long flight.

Behind and Scared

I have a confession to make about this year's Georgian Bay Reads: I'm way, way behind in my preparations. Once again, I'm representing the Wasaga Beach public library in the annual literary smackdown, but oh, boy, I might be in some big trouble here.

I've spent so much time with running magazines the last while, I haven't even cracked two of the five selections.
As for my own choice, I read and loved it, and chose it from the list provided to me by readers in Wasaga Beach, but I haven't had a chance to re-read it and get ready to defend it as the book we should all read this year.

Eeek.

My selection, if you want to slip me a cheat-sheet, is Fall on your Knees, by Anne Marie MacDonald, whose work I just love love love. This particular novel is very dark with some really disturbing themes, but in the end, is about survival, if not triumph. At least, I think it is.... I have got to get down to work here.

Running comes Home

I've hosted Collingwood's edition of the Run for the Cure nearly every year since the town got its own run site, seven years ago. A scheduling conflict means I can't be there this year, and I'm sad about more than missing the fun of a Sunday morning with those enthusiastic and wonderful pink-clad men and women.

The first reason I'm sad to miss it is that this will be the year they hit the million dollar mark. A million dollars raised in a scant seven years. That's pretty impressive, especially considering how many different organisations and charities are asking for your charitable money these days, not to mention the rising fees for pretty much every activity, including your kids' school. The milestone means an extra-big celebration and I'm terribly sad not to be there.

The other reason I'm sad not to be there is that I think I finally 'get' the urge to be part of fundraising events like this. I confess that while I support the folks who are so intimately involved and invested in these things, and I give my money and my time, I have often found myself confounded by their passion. This year, I get it. I think.

Sunday afternoon, I will attend a memorial service for my cousin who died of cancer this week. Debbie Gordon was a lovely, lovely woman, talented and kind, a nurse and a good one. Her wedding was the first of my cousins' weddings I was old enough to attend, a winter wedding and I remember how gorgeous Debbie was in her fur-lined white cape. She will be desperately missed by her kids and grandkids and her heartbroken husband. Her cancer wasn't breast cancer, but I feel so frustrated and powerless and sad for Debbie's loss, I think I now understand the urge to run, to fund raise, to at least hand over money in the hope of making a difference.

And a difference has been made. I found out this week, because of amazing advances in research, a dear woman of my aquaintance has a better chance of living a long and healthy life even though she was born with a breast cancer death sentence. After several cancer diagnoses in her family, she tested positive for the gene that virtually guarantees a breast or ovarian tumour. Both she and her sisters have made the tough choice that many such women are making: to remove the possibility of reproductive cancers, they have opted to remove their breasts and reproductive organs entirely. Can you even imagine being presented with such an option? Before you read on, take just a minute to think about what that scene in the doctor's office must have been like.

I'm grateful for the researchers' big brains. Happy for the positive outcomes. Devastated by the loss. Frustrated and upset. And I get it. I finally get the combative words survivors use and I know why you fundraisers work so hard. I'm sorry I won't be with you this year, ladies, but in my heart I, too will be running for the cure, and I vow I'll be there next year, pledge form in hand.

The Collingwood edition of the Run for the Cure is Sunday at Harbourview Park, 9 am.

Our Own Dialect? Yous Guys is Crazy.

A group of students from the University of Toronto has spent the last two years documenting the differences in dialect between people who live in urban areas versus the folks who live in the more rural areas of the province, also known as the bush.

Their report makes much of the word mucking, at least, as it's reported in the Toronto Star, which, being from the centre of the known universe is always surprised by the fact that there are other people out there at all.

I've never heard of 'mucking' with reference to eating, only to stables, but apparently, mucking is the word employed in northern Ontario to describe wolfing down one's food.

The researchers might have been better off hanging out with some of the people in our area, where, while it's on the wane, there is also a distinct dialect.

My dad used to ask me to 'gaffle' things. I always thought it meant to retrieve, although a google search turns up a bunch of different meanings, most having to do with stealing. My dad also never leaned on things; he would be "up aggin" them, which was a short form of against, I guess.

My grandmother used to say she 'minded the time...' referring to remembering something.

And my other grandmother would use 'like' in a far different way than most kids. She tacked her 'like' onto the end of sentences for emphasis, I think. 'I was watching the hockey, like."

Which brings me to 'the hockey'. My mother doesn't watch a hockey game, nor does she watch curling or football. She watches 'the hockey' and 'the curling', since I guess there's only one.

Now, in some circles, 'Yous guys' is normal third-person discourse, and of course, there's there's the ubiquitous 'eh' many of us also tack onto the end of a sentence, in an, 'isn't that right?' search for emphasis and agreement.

So, if ever your citiot friends are in town and you want to prove your local credibility, say something like, "Yous guys wait here, eh, and I'll gaffle me a timmies to drink while I watch the hockey, like. Oh, I mind the time that missed call cost the leafs the cup..."

That'll show 'em.

Facebook Confusion - Not the Rant You Expect

Yes, a lot of people were upset with the changes that showed up on facebook last week, but I think most of them are over it now. Last week in the height of the distress, I discovered a very strange thing lurking in my facebook friend list.

Like most people, I will confirm as a 'friend' pretty much anyone I've had a conversation with. At least, if it was a friendly conversation, it's generally a yes. But once I've said yes, I don't go into a long-lost discussion. You post, I read; that's pretty much it.

However, last week, I saw a post that showed up on the wall of a friend from a long time ago, and I went to my friend's page to see what she's up to. Well, as far as I can figure, she's, um, well...dead. Her page appears to be her page, but from what I can gather from what's written there, it seems like somewhere around two and a half years ago, she died. Her kids, who I never met (this woman and I were friends at work and it was 15 years ago) apparently keep her facebook page going, and write to her once in a while, telling her how they miss her and are thinking of her.
It's a tiny bit weird, but hey, in the new digital world, whatever gets you through the day is fine with me.

Here's the thing that's bugging me: my 'friend' died, and I didn't know for two and a half years. Doesn't this say something about the word, 'friend'? I know it says something about me and how well I keep up with my friends. And not something good.

And in case you're wondering, no, I haven't 'unfriended' her. When I figure out why, I'll let you know.

Bittersweet tarts

As the old joke goes, I don't have to outrun the bear, I only have to outrun YOU. And so I claim victory over my buddy in the 'butter tart smackdown' at the GNE.

However, if you visit the baking section, off behind the quilts and photographs at the Collingwood fair this weekend, you won't see my butter tarts in first place. They're in second. But not second to my buddy's, so, I win, even though I lose.

Oh, my loss is a very sad state of affairs. My sweetie and all my friends will have to suffer through a year of taste-testing and perfecting. Yes, very sad indeed.

I think what might have landed me in second place was probably neatness. My penmanship always got me in trouble at school, too. The tarts I entered didn't have a smooth perfect edge to them; they're uneven with little ripples where the pastry was a teeny bit too big for the pan. I could have spent a lot more time trying to smooth out those edges to give them a perfectly round appearance. I could maybe have been a little more fussy. Watch out for some fussy looking tarts this time next year as I try to win back the title.

I did win the apple pie competition, but you won't see my woven lattice top on the Cortland apples, since the sponsor of the class gets to keep the pie. I get ten dollars prize money and bragging rights. And trust me when I say I plan to be insufferable about it.

Butter Tart Smackdown

The gauntlet is down.

One of my friends has picked up the challenge I've been offering this week about the local fair, the GNE. Two years ago, my butter tarts won the red ribbon, and I've been pretty much insufferable about it.

This week on the radio I've been bragging again, having decided to re-enter the competition and asking for as many bakers as possible to join me. My buddy says he's up for the challenge.

It's not the first time.

This same friend and his wonderful wife were our very first dinner guests after I moved up here to marry my sweetie. I pulled out all the stops that night and at the end of the meal, he said he couldn't just eat an offering like mine without trying to top it. Thus began what we call "gauntlet" dinners, where we try to out-do each other's culinary feats, the only proviso being the meal has to be made from scratch. He's famous for his ribs, but I countered with a Thai feast and handmade sushi. One magical night, I was blown away by his classic Beef Wellington.

Our respective spouses are very encouraging of this competition.

We'll see if the spouses get tired of sampling the tarts.
Somehow, I doubt it.

Today's the day to pull out your flour if you want to join in the competition, whether it's butter tarts you're making or if you want to show off your skill with apple pie or preserves. The Collingwood Fair runs Friday to Sunday.

One year and I'm almost there.

Losing 20 pounds in a year isn't a huge feat in the grand scheme of things, but it has made me feel good, sleep better and will soon send me shopping for pants in a size I can't rememember ever buying before. The year I've spent losing this weight has also been a journey about food, eating and exercise. Here's what has worked for me:

A little bit of obsession.
It's like that old management trope: if you don't measure it, you can't mange it. I have a program on my mobile device that lets me keep track of everything I eat, all the exercise I do and what I weigh. The program helps keep me honest, and also continually makes a compelling case for restraint, since I can see a big day of overeating and overdrinking show up on the scale a day or so later. It also helps prevent me from lying to myself, "forgetting" what I ate or 'underestimating' my calories. Let's face it: we will lie to ourselves to justify our treats.
I also spent a lot of time thinking about food and exercise, reading magazines dedicated to running and books about where food really comes from. Plus, cookbooks. Lots and lots of cookbooks.

Eating less and moving more.
That's all. Feel free to jiggle, giggle, yoga yourself, go herbal, do Jenny or whatever you like. But at the end of the day, the final answer is that you have to put in less energy than you put out, or you'll wear that energy in the form of extra weight. Generally at the back, toward the bottom.

Setting a goal.
I decided to fit back into my wedding dress by Christmas of last year. I pulled the dress out of storage and tried it on repeatedly. It was tough but my sweetie managed to get the zipper up on Christmas morning. I can now put the dress on without any assistance, and I do, most Saturday mornings. Just to prove I can.

Doing the math honestly.
Unless you've found a way to add hours to your day, you cannot eat whatever you want and then exercise it away. Example: a big bag of potato chips easily scarfed down during the first half of an episode of The Closer is about 1000 calories. To burn 1000 calories takes two solid hours of running. Fast. Which is easier: two hours of fast running or not eating the chips in the first place? I'm putting down the chips because after three months of running every second day, I still have to hurry up just to get to 'slow'. My record on the trail so far is a mere 28 minutes of loping without stopping, so two hours is nigh unto impossible.

Oh, and,
There's no such thing as spot weight loss.
When you lose weight, you lose a little bit from everywhere. If you have a big butt, you'll have a smaller butt if you lose some weight, but you'll also have a smaller tummy, oh and smaller boobs, too, which your sweetie might not like.

And so now, I enter final stage of my Hunting Weight Challenge, which now includes a 5K race and the goal of five more pounds gone. Here's hoping this time next year, I'm not offering tips for putting the weight back on.

Movie Review: Windfall

I was with a group of about 150 people at the Gayety theatre in Collingwood for a showing of this award-winning documentary about the effects of a plan for wind power on a small community in upstate New York.

The three women who have secured access to the movie are showing it as often as they can, at small halls around Clearview and elsewhere. They say they don't have an agenda, that they want you to make up your own mind. But I'll tell you, the movie certainly does have an agenda.

While in general, Windfall is well made, at one point the soundtrack was so over the top, I laughed out loud. The scene: a shadow from a turbine's blade repeatedly falling across a kitchen counter. The music swells with each turn of the blade, and as the ominous cellos are bowed in time with the shadows, I suddenly had a vision of JAWS leaping through the kitchen window.

The strongest argument made in the documentary is that turbines are bad because the very discussion of them is divisive, pitting people against one another. But what the movie maker didn't highlight is that those divisions already exist; talk of turbines only brings them up from under the surface.

The divisions come from the vastly different worldview of people come lately to the country compared with that of people trying to make their living from the land. The opponents of turbines make much about how property values will drop if turbines are built. What they maybe don't realise is people who grow food for a living only think about property values when it comes time to sell; when the fight to stay on the land is over. If property values drop, some farmers' grandkids might have a chance to choose farming as a career, and raise their own family on land their great-grandfather used to help feed a nation.

It comes down to: turbine proponents generally want to stay on the land, while opponents generally worry about the view, and rightly so; they paid a pretty penny for those vistas.

It was a bit eerie to hear the very same arguments made in Clearview township being made by people with American accents on the big screen, though. Eerie and strangely heartening. It's good to be reminded that some struggles are universal. It also helps if you're trying to anticipate the outcome.

School Photo Album

Somewhere in the boxes of photos my mother has never managed to completely sort through, there exists a series of shots I someday want to archive.

Each and every first-day-of-school morning for my entire educational career, my mother insisted on taking a picture of my brothers and me with our 'satchel and shining morning face'. It was not an option to appear in the annual photograph.

Even when I was 24 and a graduate of both university and college, my mom wanted a picture the day I headed back to university for one more course, thinking I might want to upgrade my degree.

A notable picture is the one where I'm headed into grade seven and my biggest brother is starting grade 11. My 12 year old self is so geeky and awkward but my face is shiny and excited, and I was prepared for another year of being a straight-A teacher's pet. Of course, I didn't know yet what was in store that year, the year it seems bullying was invented at Nottawasaga Creemore Central School, although we didn't call it bullying yet.

From that picture, it seems my brother might have known something about school trouble, because next to his cheery little sister's, his face is the epitome of disgust, impatience and grump. The contrast is startling. I'd love to be able to go back in time to have a conversation with him that day, to find out what was up.

The pictures not only chronicle the passage of time for my first family, but their existence also captures the optimism of my hard-working mother: no matter how many times I failed Grade 11 math, she still wanted that first-day shot.

Sizing It Up

I generally make my coffee at home or at the office, but I am a fan of the Timmys, and treat myself once in while.

I'm not a big fan, though. I'm a medium fan. Medium regular, that is.

Before long though, my medium will become a small as the coffee company changes the names of its cups. Large will become medium and what's now extra large will be renamed large to make way for the biggest of the coffees, the Extra Large, which will be a whopping 24ounces or 710 millilitres.

While Tims is at it, I suggest we get rid of all the smalls, mediums and larges, and find some way to standardize sizes elsewhere, to perhaps bring some sanity to sizing.

One day recently, as my mother continued the seemingly never-ending process of divesting her house of my childhood stuff, I took delivery of a pair of skirts I had worn during the early years of high school. I tried them on in the hope I might be the same size as I was way back then. Since I've taken up running and am watching what I eat, I thought maybe, just maybe, my high school skirts might be too big. Imagine the bragging rights!

Well, the skirts actually fit just right, even with their far-too-high 80s waists. Here's the thing, though: the skirts fit, but my pants, the ones my sweetie urged me to buy three pairs of last year because they fit so well, they are now far too big, but their labels say they're four sizes smaller than the perfectly-fitting high-school skirts. As Tina Fey would say, "What the What?"

Why can't clothes be the same as shoes? The sizes are pretty much standard, so if you're an 8, you're an 8 everywhere and you likely were an 8 last year, too.

The confusion about sizes might have to do with the fact that our feet stay the same size for a long time, but our, shall we say, assets, sometimes don't. My girlfriends tell me the size labels are all about psychology, and that retailers have done a number on them so people who are getting fatter don't have to feel bad about it and thus will keep buying more clothes.

So to straighten this out: I was a size 13 in 1989, but I'm an 8 now, even though I'm actually the same size in both centuries, which means 13 and 8 are really the same thing, the reason being that girls who were 13s in grade 12 still want to buy a 13 even though they might now be what would have been a 20 back then?

My head hurts. I wonder what size hat I need? Probably a medium.

Wasted Effort

There's a lot to be upset about in the death of Jack Layton: the sheer cruelty of cancer taking a victorious fighter just as he reaches the apex of his career, the heartbreak for his ever-hopeful fans and followers, the loss of what appears to me to have been a decent, driven, thoughtful person, far too early in their life.

The worst of it, though, is the stunning loss of potential creativity.

I was very much looking forward to watching the thrust and parry between Layton and Stephen Harper, two leaders who really, really believe their view of the world is correct and if we all would only get on board with their beliefs, all would be well. Layton's blazing passion versus Harper's gimlet-eyed cool would have been a delight to behold in Question Period, for those of us who are into that kind of thing.

I was also excited about seeing how the nascent movement to unite the left was going to turn out. Now, with the Liberals, Bloc and NDP all leaderless, we are in for a few years of one-party rule, which makes for boring politics, not to mention a clear lack of accountability.

But what I was most eagerly anticipating was the attack ads.

You have to know the attack was being burnished, in spite of Layton's illness. After all, he'd been Opposition leader since May, a full four months. It seemed like mere minutes after he became Opposition Leader, ads pillorying Stephane Dion were on air. The ad wrecking ball was swinging toward Michael Ignatieff before he'd even stepped off the plane from Harvard. But in their cases, attacking was like shooting fish in a barrel. It was obvious what the thrust would be: he's not up for the job, he's not from here. duh.

Layton might have been harder to skewer since he embraced the very things that might have been used against him. He was an unabashed mustachioed urbanite academic on a bike. How do you attack that?

In some parts of the country, the attacks could simply have shown Layton with his 'ethnic' wife on their bicycle at the gay pride parade, perhaps with the copy line, "enough said". But in other parts of the country, such an ad might have been seen as actually being in support of the NDP.

Maybe the ads would have used a line like, "He can't even walk, how could he lead?" with a shot of Layton holding up his cane. Would the ads have gone as far as to call Layton a "Pinko"?

It's tragic we'll never know what brilliance was in store.

I imagine a heartbroken advertising executive weeping today as he gently opens his palm over a calm lake in the northern woods, releasing a memory card into the waters below, the copy, pictures, video and plans for a narrative arc softly coming to rest beside the hulk of an Avro Arrow.

Storms and Change

I've been worried about what we humans have done to the world for a while now, complaining about tasteless tomatoes bred for travel not nutrition and avoiding the use of my electric clothes dryer in hopes of cutting my carbon footprint. I recycle. I walk instead of driving, I buy local and I eat local.

All of this effort is in the hope that my puny efforts combined with yours, will help prevent what's being called the most urgent environmental catastrophe ever.

But we can't count out the power of nature, and yesterday was one of the days we got a reminder of just how small we all are when one of the most powerful tornadoes in Ontario's history came roaring off Lake Huron to devastate the town of Goderich, with its gorgeous little town square.

The people of Goderich are already banding together to start the cleanup, taking down the broken trees and clearing the streets. But it will be years before the repairs are done, years before they can put back together was was destroyed in just a few seconds.

I'm not saying this storm is connected to global climate change. I'm saying that there's so much to climate change, even the biggest of our little human brains will never get around it.

And so, as I take out the trash today, and the recycling and compost, I wonder if mother nature isn't more than capable of taking care of herself, no matter what we do. I wonder if she's not more than capable of taking care of us measly humans, too.

If there was nothing you could do to change the outcome of climate change, would you do anything differently? I'm just wondering.

Ugly Hour

A lot of things are changing for me as I age. I'm not exactly in my dotage yet, but I do require glasses to read at night, there is a nasty varicose vein on the back of my right leg, and little things are adding up, like the number of candles on my birthday cake.

But there are a few great things about getting older, like the fuzziness that replaces some previously sharp memories. For example, it's nice to forget things like the pong of desperation in the air near closing time at a crowded and sweaty nightclub.

I spent Friday night in Toronto with two of my favourite girlfriends, and after a lovely dinner (and several drinks), we decided it would be a great idea to go dancing at one of the clubs on King Street.

We had a lot of fun and I loved the energy of a packed house of people dancing and carrying on, but it has been a while since I went out on the town with the girls, and there was a lot I had forgotten. Notably, I had forgotten the leer of those strange guys who stand on or very near the dance floor. They're not dancing, they're just standing there, watching the dancing. It's disquieting. I had also forgotten that sometimes, men you've never met (and frankly, don't want to know) will grab your butt as you dance, perhaps in the hope a grope will be considered charming. It isn't.

My personal favourite thing to have forgotten is the guys who come up behind a girl on the dance floor and basically spoon her as she dances, again perhaps in the hope she will find it charming. It isn't.

I was especially disturbed by all this because I had left my wedding and engagement rings firmly on, and so had my buddies. Either the lechers didn't notice or perhaps they didn't care. Again, I don't remember it being this way when I was younger and single, but maybe the rings were part of the attraction. Perhaps we were more attractive because we were not in a desperate search for validation and love. We were just there to dance.

As we got ready to leave, one of my girlfriends reminded me what she used to call the final minutes of an evening out: Ugly Hour. It's that hideous, desperate, slightly scary time of night just as the clubs close and the mist of drink and loneliness overrides caution and discretion. I'm glad it had passed from my memory, and I hope not to become reacquainted with it any time soon.

Cleaning up the puppy

My dog loves me. I can tell by the fact that if I go from one room to another, she's right there behind me. Even if my sweetheart is cuddled up with her on the couch, she leaves the room to be with me.

If I dash into a store and leave her in the car, she howls like I've taken one of her paws with me, stopping the noise only when she can see me returning.

She also sleeps in our bed (not great for spontaneous romance, let me tell you..), sometimes right under the covers and as she settles in, she is nearly always in bodily contact with me in some way, often with her chin draped across my knees, ankles or waist.

Now, you might think her devotion is about food, but I'm not the one who dishes out her grub- that's my sweetie's job. However, I do offer the thing she wants most in the whole world: exercise. She's a Weimaraner, and Weimaraners need a LOT of running. To get her enough exercise, I used to wear rollerblades while she ran, which was exhilarating but terrifying as she pulled me along at about 40 kilometres an hour. During those runs, I unknowingly taught her to stop with one word when I would pull her to a stop at each intersection, tugging at the lead and saying, "whoa, whoa, whoa..." One day, while walking on the trail, I said, "whoa," and she stopped dead in her tracks. Cool!

The problem with my darling dog's devotion is that she's disconsolate when I'm not around. We crated her for several years but I got so sick of cleaning up the blankets she ripped to shreds, we eventually put the crate away and have given her the run of our newly dog-proofed house.

But you can't dog-proof for pee. Nearly every single day, I come home to a puddle in the front foyer. Which would be fine if we had linoleum or tile, but we have hundred year old maple, and I'm worried the boards are not going to make it to a hundred and one. At first, we thought it was that she was being left too long, but recently, I forgot something not five minutes after we'd left, and the puddle was already there.

I'm running out of patience, and newspaper.

Running Repression

While you're reading this, I'm procrastinating. My house has never been cleaner, my projects never more up to date and nearly all my planned summer reading is complete. I'm contemplating starting work on next year's taxes as I avoid going for my latest run.

I should just put on the stupid shoes and go already, but I'm ashamed to admit I'm afraid of this particular phase of training. Intimidated. I'm scared I won't be able to finish and will turn into a puddle of goo on the trail. A puddle that needs to be scraped up.

After eight weeks of training, I'm moving into 'week five' of the prgogram I'm following for the 5K race I will run in October. So far, it's been relatively easy: I have no twinges in my knees anymore, and I have received quite a few compliments on my slightly altered figure. My sweetheart even stopped me in the upstairs hallway last week to say he thought my legs looked different. He couldn't quite put words to it, but thought I was leaner somehow. Stronger. He was well rewarded for the observation.

But this latest run scares me. It's three five-minute runs, with a mere two minutes of walking in between. Truthfully, it's not very much more activity than the 'week four' schedule. The additional running amounts to only two extra minutes. But still, I'm afraid.

What if I can't do all three of the runs? Worse, what if I can? Then I'll have to move on to next week, which is eight minutes of running at a time. The following week is a solid 20 minutes- all at once. eek.

Hey, does anyone need some vacuuming done today?

Luddite Comeuppance

I'm bracing for a battle over the TV.

I like to consider myself one of those people who doesn't watch much television. Some studies suggest that people who say they don't watch television actually watch about 8 hours a week of it, which is apparently only a teeny bit less viewing than the people who admit watching tons of it.

When we moved into our house, we discovered to our delight that there was an antenna in the attic, and decided to forgo installing cable or satellite. We get seven channels and except during the Brier or Scotties or Olympics, really don't miss it. We estimate we've pocketed more than $4000 with the cash we haven't laid out in the last seven years.

At the end of the month, we'll either be at the end of the gravy train, or getting off on easy street when over the air broadcasting goes digital. We've shelled out the 100 bucks for a digital transformer box, but considering we're in Collingwood and not Toronto, we're not sure it's going to make any difference to us. So far, we can't get any of our regular channels broadcasting in digital, but we're having trouble finding any information on when the switches will take place. The only firm piece of information I have is that TVO is planning to make its switch on August 18th, so I guess we'll see soon whether we're perusing the Bell and Rogers brochures, or laughing all the way to the bank.

I just know I can't miss Y&R.
Or The Good Wife.
Or Glee.
Or Grey's Anatomy.
Or CSI.

(Good thing we don't watch TV, eh?)

Happy Tomato Week

This week is the week I wait for every year with eager anticipation.. Ah yes, my favourite week of the year: the week the tomatoes arrive. I plan to gorge myself.
Of course, you can buy tomatoes every week of the year at the grocery store, but what's the point when they taste nothing like a tomato, and actually, like nothing at all.

The tomatoes you buy the rest of the year have been bred for travelling, for ease of picking, and to ripen all at once for the convenience of the superfarms in California. Like much of the food we buy in our industrialised food chain, they're not actually bred for things like, say, taste or nutrition. Flavour is nowhere on the list of factors for the breeders of the seeds.

But for those of us who know the difference, this is the week. The first of the real, honest to goodness, ripened in the sun in a field that's not in California tomatoes start to become available. I'm gobbling them down two at a time even as I keep a close eye on the little green beauties that continue to swell in my backyard.

While some people are complaining about the heat, the growing conditions for backyard tomatoes have been perfect this year, as long as you can keep them from drying out.

And there really is a difference. On my plate with a little white vinegar and salt or squeezed into a pasta sauce for use in the winter, there's a difference between the food you get at the industrial grocery and the stuff you can watch growing. More and more of us have noticed, and that's why you're seeing the proliferation of farmers' markets.

It might be about the 100 mile thing, but for me, it's all about the taste.

Chain, chain, chain

I'm done with chain restaurants. The last straw was the fifty bucks I laid out for a seafood something-or-other at a franchise in Orangeville that was so clearly, obviously microwaved, I'm pretty sure I could taste the 'beep'. It made me think that if I wanted food from a pouch or a box, I might have saved 45 of those dollars and gone to the frozen aisle at the grocery store down the street. So, when possible, it's mom-and-pop dining for me now.
So far, so good, and I do mean good: Cuomo's in Niagara Falls, NY, Mountain Shores in Collingwood, and now Greckos in North Bay. Tasty real food that an actual person in the very location where I'm eating, actually cooked. I'm not saying there's no place for the Huts, Houses and Tims, I'm just saying whenever there's a choice, I'm going with the little guy.

Inevitable, unbelievable, unspeakable

I've been in a news-free zone for several days, rolling in to a hotel with wifi last night to discover what many of you have been thinking about for a while. Oh, Norway! Poor, poor Jack Layton! And is anyone surprised in the least at Amy Winehouse, she of "Rehab- no no no" fame?
How fast the world can change, even on a dock with no electricity...

PhysiOK

Well, I feel a little silly about that whole physiotherapy thing.

I have been trying to end the screaming in my poor old knees on this quest for a measly 5K run. I was on my third visit when the revelation hit. I had been watched running, I had been given exercises, I had my shoes examined and my hips looked at, even did some running out of my shoes (by the way, I can still only last about 90 seconds at time...), and with some consternation, one of the therapists innocently posited, "You're doing some stretching after your runs, right?"

Um, well, ummm, does stretching out on the couch trying to catch my breath count?

She showed me a simple leg-lift, the one where you catch your ankle and pull it up to your butt, and at that second, when my thigh muscle was stretched a bit, my knee stopped screaming to make way for the singing of all the little angels in heaven.

And now, since I stretch after (and sometimes during) a run, I barely ever have even a twinge of pain in my knees. How embarrassing to have wasted so much time! Boy, I wish I had been paying attention in gym class. I thought the stretching was just what you did at the end of figure skating practice so you could show off while chatting up the hockey players. Not that I had much success in that direction, either.

When I told my 11 year old niece and soon-to-be road race companion what had happened and what had fixed it, she gave me a look that only a kid in the 21st century can give an adult. You know the one: incredulity tinged with disgust and a smidgen of pity. It's the same one I give my mother when she can't work her digital camera.

Ducking out of Dukan

It wasn't the diet itself that I couldn't take for more than three days: it was the complaining.

After three solid days of kvetching, whining, complaining and deep, sad sighs about all the things that aren't allowed on very restrictive Dukan Diet, I cracked a beer for my sweetheart, handed it over and said, "I would rather have you die young than listen to this!"

The point of going on a weight-loss program is to lengthen your life and make the extra years more pleasant, right? Well, I am not convinced I want my honey to live even one extra second if it means I have to hear him complain about his deprivation non-stop. The final straw come when I suggested we hang out in the hot tub, and heard the plaintive howl, " Is that allowed in Dukan?"
So, we're trying something else.

I'm calling it 'Fit for Dukan', my own made-up thing which is a combination of Fit for Life (food combinations and timing), which has worked for me in the past, and Dukan (low-carb, low fat, high-protein). It looks like this: nothing but fruit until lunch, and lunch and dinner are meat and veggies; no potatoes, no rice, no bread. We will exercise, too, but booze is still allowed, in moderation, and we get 'cheat days' once in a while when anything goes.

So far, there's been no whinging, so that's a plus.
I'll let you know whether we feel and look better in a month or so.

Concert Review: Hugh Jackman

I have come to believe Hugh Jackman is practically perfect in every way. At his sold-out show at the Princess of Wales theatre last night, he was alternately funny, sweet, sincere, quick, generous and absolutely on key with his big beautiful tenor/baritone. He knocked the socks off the entire audience. While I truly doubt anyone in that theatre arrived expecting to be less than thrilled, judging from the several standing ovations, i think no one was disappointed, either.

What I saw, from my 12th row vantage point, was an entertainer at the height of his considerable powers, but with a humility about him that is even more attractive than his very handsome face. I got the sense that he's acutely aware of his good fortune and eager to make the most of every minute of it. It's a rare thing to see someone so self assured who doesn't leave me wondering if they're not a bit of a jerk off stage. No question of that with Jackman; I want to be his buddy as well as his audience. Further, it was patently obvious that in addition to being massively talented, he was having a marvelous time up there.

It was tremendous and I feel lucky to have seen him for myself.

Many, many thanks to my lovely friends who made it happen!

Maybe her name is Kate Dukan...

I am not ashamed to admit that I'm a little bit in love with Catherine Windsor. Or Wales. Or Middleton. Whatever her last name is, she's awesome; poised, calm, cool and collected and clearly not afraid to let her sister get some limelight, so, generous, too, not to mention gorgeous, why, she's practically picture-perfect nearly all the time.

Now, Catherine is the same height as me, and she has my middle name, but that's about where the similarities end. From the research I've done, (OK, the websites that trade in this sort of gossip), I figure the duchess is fully 50 pounds lighter than I am. Fifty. Zoikes!

So, I'm going on her diet, or at least, the diet she, her sister and mother are rumoured by most of the tabloids to be have been on before the big wedding. Today is day three of Dukan, and I can honestly say, it's not much fun.

First of all, I cannot stress enough how much I hate, loathe and am disgusted by yogurt. Seriously, people, it's just half-rotten milk! Blech!

In a fit of health consciousness a few years ago, I read the 'French Women' book, but because of the preponderance of yogurt recommended, yogurt which I was supposed to make myself (rotting milk on my kitchen counter day after day? No, thanks!), I never started it.

Cottage cheese is only marginally less loathsome than yogurt, and these two products are very important in Dukan, so I'm not sure how I'm going to manage.

The meat might make up for it. There's meat on Dukan. Oh, there's lots and lots of meat, but, and here's the kicker: no booze until the fourth phase of the diet, which for me, will come in November.

Yeah....I'm thinking this fad's not going to last even until tomorrow.

The Universe Telling Me Something?

I'm in in the market for a new vehicle. Two of them, actually, since the rust buckets in my driveway are 15 and 13 years old respectively. My sweetheart and I believe in taking care of our vehicles and driving them 'til they drop, and we figure the day they die is getting close.

13 years out of the car-buying market is a long time. A lot has happened. In addition to the bankruptcies and bailouts, there are the redesigns. "What's a crossover?" my sweetie asked a few weeks ago as we headed to the first of several dealerships we've visited so far. At the end of that day, he wanted the 4-door Jeep. After the next test-drives, he wanted some sort of crossover thingy that was far, far out of our price range. At each of the dealerships we've been to, he finds something else he just loves. It's going to be a long summer.

As for me, the situation is not nearly so confusing. I adore my 13 year old car, have loved it since before I bought it and I will simply buy another of the same model when mine gives up the ghost. The only question for me is what colour.

Although, I did see the car of my dreams last night, the one I sincerely doubt will ever reside in the same tax bracket as me. The Audi TT. It's just...breathtaking. I fell in love with it the first time I saw one daintily picking its way down Wellington Street in Toronto about 10 years ago. It's a convertible with classic lines and a playful insouciance that speaks to me. It's also completely impractical, which also speaks to me. I hardly ever see them, which tells me even more about its price, and frankly, I don't even want to think about that; I want to keep it as a happy dream. A dream where I wear a scarf and there's a picnic basket in the back seat...

Right behind my dream car in the grocery store parking lot last night, were the two vehicles I'd like to see my sweetheart driving sometime between now and Christmas. They met each other in the traffic lane behind the Audi, a white, 4-door Jeep and a beige-brown Lexus crossover, the vastly expensive crossover I think would be just perfect for him. Right there in front of me as I toted home my bread and fruit, a confluence of dream cars.

I'm sure it was a sign. I'm just not sure a sign of what.

Two Steps Back

Number One: I had taken some hope from the legal travails of one of the most powerful bankers in the world. If the word of a chambermaid would be taken in such a case, maybe, just maybe we were really getting somewhere.

But no, it turns out the chambermaid who made the allegations may have lied on her taxes, and may have at one point, been, shall we say, less than virtuous, so, the case has fallen apart. SO WHAT if the maid wasn't a perfect lady; that doesn't mean she can't have been raped. The two things have nothing to do with one another. Although it's an awkward analogy, if it's stealing when you steal money from a philanthropist, what's the deal here?

Number Two: Mayors of Toronto have been attending the Gay Pride Parade for 16 years now. This year, the conservative and corpulent Rob Ford announced it was more important to spend his weekend at the family cottage than to be in the midst of the flagrant nudity and silliness that comes with the event. It's an important symbol of the city's famous tolerance that the person elected to the city's highest office shows up for at least one Pride event. But Ford apparently doesn't see it that way. His approval ratings? Sky high.

Sigh.

Our Complicated Relationship

I get a little tense when I see a police officer, no matter what the circumstances.

Don't you?

It's almost never a good thing to be dealing with the police: you're in trouble, getting a ticket, have just been in a car crash, or horror of horrors, are getting hideous news at your front door. We who work in the news media have a particularly fraught relationship with police since they generally don't want to give us information we would like about cases or situations they're handling.

Last spring was particularly tough, with the violence of the G20, and the embarrassment that has followed for many officers accused of being, shall we say, too diligent in their work controlling the unruly crowds.

But with some of his final words, York Region Constable Garret Styles did more to repair the reputation of police than seven hundred inquests and inquiries into the G20 could have done.

As he lay under that minivan yesterday morning, trapped and mortally wounded, he worried to a dispatcher about the children in the car on top of him, the teenagers who had no drivers' licences and no business being on the road at five in the morning. Even as he asked for help for himself, his concern was also for the kids who killed him. That's the epitome of service to the community, in my mind.

Today, I'm thinking about the (admittedly few) police officers of my acquaintance, and about the fact that every day, they go to work with the knowledge they could be killed on the job. I'm thinking about my buddy Trevor, one of the kindest people I've ever known, my high school friend Paula, my OPP colleagues Mark and Martin and my new friend Terry who serves with the RCMP. Thank you for your work, and yes, I promise, I'll slow down!

Serve, protect

A police officer died in the line of duty not far from here last night.

Regardless of the circumstances of what happened near Newmarket, a man who went to work last night is not coming home today.

Sometime in the next five or so days, thousands of police officers from across North America will converge on the area to pay their respects.

During those pomp-filled ceremonies, I always wonder whether the families of the fallen were truly prepared for being a mourner. Is there some training for it? And, if they had an idea of what it would be like to be in that procession, would they ever have let their loved one of of the house?

Movie Review: Bridesmaids

I wasn't expecting to cry at a movie that's been talked about as ''Hangover' for women'. I certainly wasn't expecting to be astonished. But I was.

Bridesmaids has been billed as a raunchy romp that finally lets the girls show that they can be just as gross as the guys. And it is, but it is much more, too.

So often, the entertainment media treat women's relationships as magical, life-long and deep, (Beaches), or as shallow, vain and competitive, (pretty much any situation comedy). Worse, female characters in general are are often silent eye candy or worse, merely the murder victim.

It was refreshing to see fraught female friendships explored in a way that felt frank, fresh and honest. As someone who has been hurt by the death of deep friendships which just didn't stand the test of time and trouble, it was satisfying to see situations similar to mine play themselves out through the movie makers' imagination.

I'll see it again, if any of my girlfriends want to come along.

Physiow!

If there were anyone who could get hurt trying to get up off the couch, I guess I'm it.

As I get ready for this blasted 5K race in October with my niece, brother and sister in law, I thought I was taking it easy. I'm using a program that is supposed to slowly build up my strength and endurance. I actually thought it was, well, wimpy when I started. Eight minute-long runs interspersed with brisk walking. Ha - I laugh at you, trail!

Well, the joke's on me when I can no longer take the stairs at my house.
It seems my knees need to be eased in even more easily. They were screaming so much last week, I figured my shoes were wrong, I needed orthotics, had ripped something or needed a knee replacement.

Nope. I just run wrong.

Of course, the physiotherapist I hired to do a 'gait analysis' was far too polite to use words like awkward freak, weirdo, pigeon-toed, knock kneed or ridiculous as we looked at the video of my run on her treadmill, but I'll tell you, it was an eye-opener. Let's just say I'm not quite the graceful gazelle of my imagination.

It also turns out that I have weak hips and a weak core, and both need strengthening to save my knees. So, now, before and after my six or so minutes of running, I'm doing about 20 minutes of warming up and stretching and strengthening so I don't have to collapse on the trail in tears any more.

Also while running, I can't just look around at the trees and birds. While taking smaller steps and landing in the middle of my foot, I need to focus on brushing my hips with my thumbs while carrying imaginary eggs, keeping my shoulders far from my ears and thinking about the muscles in my butt, which, by they way are almost non-existent.

Oh, the stuff we'll do to make a memory...

The Fun Police

I remember the bad old days when everyone tried so hard to be 'politically correct', and I kind of thought those days had ended. After all, it's exhausting being perpetually indignant. And while social media provides lots of fodder for people to indignant about, not all of the upset is deserved.

Now, I get the issue with the unfortunately named US congress member, Anthony Weiner. He is very appropriately having his last day on the job today because he sent pictures of his member to women he'd met on facebook and twitter. That's just rank stupidity and frankly, very creepy.

But I really think we should let off the hook the Toronto city councillor who tweeted yesterday that he loved his job because he got to hang out with hot chicks at a plaque unveiling ceremony. Have you been to a plaque unveiling? While it's very nice for the folks being honoured, you must admit they can be hokey and boring. Often, there's a dearh of snacks. Having someone good looking nearby would certainly help pass the time.

So I agree with Rob Parker's refusal to apologise after he removed the tweet. Here's what he had to say to the Toronto Sun when asked he'd learned a lesson: "If the lesson of the day is you can’t have any fun around here, then no one is going to have any fun. If people are going to look for ways to take offence in circumstances where no offence is intended and no offence has been taken and third parties insist in finding offence on their own, that’s a bad day for all of us."

He's right. No offence was intended, and none was taken. Let's let go of the gotchas and look for real things to talk about. Who was being honoured on those plaques, anyway?

Junk Mail Junk Male?

I'm happy to say no one has ever sent me a lewd photo, digitally or otherwise. I'm not sad about this and believe me, I'm not soliciting your photos.

But I just can't stop thinking about (and giggling about) the unfortunately named US congress member who sent pictures of his underpants to women he'd met through text messages, on Twitter and on facebook. The guy's name is Weiner, for heavensake! Seriously. You couldn't make this stuff up.

Weiner (insert chortle here) refuses to resign amid the scandal, proudly claiming he didn't actually have affairs with these women, at least not any real, physical contact. Apparently he got married to a very accomplished woman during the same time frame that he was sending these missives, an aide who works for Hillary Clinton, and the wife is now pregnant.

I'm completely gobsmacked by the whole thing. Why on earth would anyone imagine that sending photos of your privates would get you anywhere?
Have these social networking sites changed us so much that this is now considered courting?

Flowers, buddy. Jewellery. Never, never never a picture of your package. I don't need to know if you're left handed until we're better acquainted, and we can discuss your religion at dinner.

My Hockey Top Ten

The Canucks' run for the cup has reminded me why I don't watch hockey.
Don't get me wrong- I love it. And I'm not about to have my passport confiscated for saying otherwise.

But there are so many reasons to hate NHL hockey on TV that I just can't watch, at least not through the regular season.

The Leafs, for example.
They're numbers one through four on any top-ten list of reasons not to watch hockey. Not just because it's so patently obvious the owners don't give a skunk's hindleg whether the team ever wins again, or even Makes the playoffs, but also because there should be a team to give them a run for their money in their own neighbourhood.

And that brings us to reason number 5: Gary Bettman. For any Canadian who wants more teams in Canada, Gary Bettman is a good reason to give up on hockey, because it's patently obvious not only that he doesn't give a skunk's hindleg about Canada, but also that his expansion plan to the U.S. is silly and doomed.

So those are reasons one through five not to watch hockey. Here are the rest:

6: the crazy, humiliating sounds that come out of me when Vancouver's on a breakaway, or there's a big hit.
7: the crazy, humiliating suspension given on a clean hit to a guy who had his head down.
8: the sore muscles in my rear end from sitting on the edge of my seat through the past four games. (well, period three of game three was a less edge of the seat and more edge of night, but still...)
9: listening to the folks who say there's no such thing as a Canadian team, YES YES I heard you when you said that all the teams are Canadian if you look at the hometowns..

And the final reason on my top ten list of reasons not to watch hockey... Did I mention the leafs?

More news, but will it be good?

I just may have to switch to cable, if for no other reason than to watch my old radio friends at Rogers make their TV debuts.

I guarantee several of them started crash diets the second they found out about the new all-news cable channel starting in October.

The new channel will be a collaboration of the 680 newsroom, Macleans and the CityTV newsroom. Hey, maybe this is how Conrad Black plans to get back into Canada; Since Barbara Amiel is a columnist with MacLeans, she'll no doubt be front and centre as a commentator, right? Yeah, I'll look forward to that.

In some circles, it was no secret the channel was coming, but on the day it was announced, you'd think there might be a logo, a lineup or a clue about what 'the wheel' will look like.

Happily, I can imagine no way my old friends could make worse TV than what Sun News channel has on offer. I spent an incredulous few hours watching it recently, and frankly, could not believe it was on the air. It appeared the announcers were trying desperately to be like FOX news with gratuitous snarky asides, but there was such a dearth of content, I was shocked. Surely the newspaper chain could at least grab RSS feeds from its outlets across the country to broadcast in the ticker, but apparently no one thought of leveraging the channel's greatest asset - you know, the Sun's, um, newspapers. Instead, the assets on display were conspicuously sleeveless, fluffy-coiffed women anchors trying hard to be aggressive but talking about not very much at all.

It won't be hard for my former colleagues to kick some TV butt.

Bird love

Is there something about getting older that makes you start noticing the natural world more than you did as a kid? I remember all too well the boredom of loooong drives with my parents, and my frustration at how they would go on and on (and on and on) about flowers and birds and all that stuff sure to bores the life out of most people under 20.

But now, on the wrong side of 30, I can't take my eyes off the wildlife.

Last year, I was fascinated by the arrival of a family of owls on the trail south of Manning. This weekend, I was led on a merry chase down the trail by the bluest bird I've ever seen. The way he stayed in front of me, but just out of reach, moving on when I got within 10 feet of him, it was like the little guy knew I was totally enamoured, and was teasing. At one point, he sat on a branch overhanging the rails for several minutes, almost within touching distance for several minutes before my dog wanted to investigate, too, and the bird took off.

I couldn't wait to get home to find out what he was, and he was indeed a 'he'- a male Indigo Bunting, to be precise. So vibrant and amazingly blue, I can't wait to see him again.

Running Trap

It's amazing how supportive people are once you set what appears to be an impossible goal.

The last running I did was when I got a bad batch of shrimp, if you know what I mean, but I, in a fit of family togetherness, recently suggested to my sister in law and niece that we run a race together this year.

Her response was not the derisive laughter I was prepared for.

Nope, she promptly registered for the Blue Mountains half marathon in October, signed up my brother and niece into the 5K and said, "Get training!"

Akkkk!
I'm not even sure I can do one K, much less 5, not to mention "the half".

Now, my buddy who already runs marathons has offered to go shoe shopping with me and re-do my toes once the nails inevitably fall off.

Another girlfriend is dropping off a podcast of circuits and timing etc., to help me with my training. She, too, is going to sign up for this thing and bring along her daughter.

It's turned into a 'thing'. The only one laughing is my husband, who says this will serve me right, and no, he's not joining me on the trails.

I'm trapped! There's no way out now.
I have to get off the couch.
And I just bought a big bunch of Blockbuster's inventory, too, dammit.

Will Daytime TV be the same?

First the soaps, now, Oprah? What's a girl to watch?

I try hard to be too busy to watch daytime TV, but once in a while, I've been known to cuddle up with Oprah or Dr. Phil before and during Y&R. There were a few weeks last year I tried hard to be home on Tuesdays, because that's when Dr. Phil had his horrible housewives segments, with a group of unhappy, women duking it out, complete with the off-camera slagging. There were moments it made MMA look tame.

I became a fan of Dr. Phil when he had regular segments on Oprah, mostly because I liked how he gave people s**t for behaviour that could only be described as terrible. I was and remain surprised at how shocked the badly behaved are at being called out. In the early 90s, when Dr. Laura had just started her radio show, I'm sure people thought she was just a regular advice-giver, and would call up for help with the most bizarre scenarios, only to be blasted by the irascible host. She became less fun later on, but for a few years there, it was hilarious.

Unintentionally funny is the best funny, to my mind.

(If only Dr. Laura had Oprah backing her, things would have turned out so differently for her...)

Of course, Oprah Winfrey has made off like a bandit telling us to "be who we are", while very publicly fighting her demons. Even as she created the careers of Drs. Phil and Oz, she created 2.5 billion dollars in wealth for herself. Not bad at all, and there's more to come, of course, since she now has her own cable channel.

I just wonder what reality show will replace her at four o'clock in the fall.
I'm hoping for something about show choirs.

Running for the Dress

I hated running in gym class, don't really like being out of breath, and have always preferred starving to exercise if I need to drop some pounds, but an awesome ten year old is quite an incentive, and so I've signed on for quite a challenge.

My ten year old niece is earning herself an ipod by running each day. It's her parents' way of getting her off the couch. She is running a certain distance every day for 60 days. If she misses a day, she starts again at zero. No sixty days, no ipod.

I think they're on to something. I'd like to have a healthier, trimmer body and spend more time building better relationships with my niece and sister in law, so I'm using a similar path to get there, setting myself a challenge I hope will accomplish both.

Together, we're signing up for the Blue Mountains half marathon, me, my niece and my sister in law. Now, it will be just a regular Saturday in October for the SIL, since she already runs every day. It will be a mild challenge for the niece, who's going to do the 5K.
And for me? It will be like the apocalypse. But I'll get to talk about running with them, we'll do some trainig runs together, have a shared experience while I get fit. Winning all round.

I've started training with brisk walks. I might even read a book about running while I contemplate what 13 miles of punishment will feel like.

Oh, man, what have I done?

I've seen the future and it contains pie

I'm not sure how this happened, but I'm slowly turning my back yard into a farm. I've even started looking at urban chicken websites.

The tomato seeds I planted in March are now 8-inch plants, almost ready to go into the sunniest, warmest part of the garden. Beside the tomatoes, in the laundry room windows, a herb garden flourishes beside eight geraniums I cultivated from cuttings. They'll go into the flowerbeds in a week or so. The rhubarb I transplanted from the family farm a couple of years ago is now huge and lush. This afternoon I'm planting my 'salad table', a couple of weeks late, but I'll have my own fresh, homegrown spring mix in about two weeks, and if I'm smart and careful, it will last all summer long. This weekend, I'm bringing home some of my brother's cast off everbearing raspberry bushes.

Lest you think this bounty is just for looking at, on Tuesday, I served pasta with sauce that began as tomatoes in last year's garden, lovingly 'squeezed', bottled and stored. It was delicious and comforting to know exactly what was in it. (or to be accurate, what wasn't in it: no chemicals, no colorings and hardly any salt.)

I might try my hand at growing garlic this year, too. Just for fun. Oh, and for the taste, which is really the reason behind all this digging in the dirt. Beyond the accomplishment of saying, "I grew it myself!", I think food from my backyard actually does taste better than the stuff from the store.

Rhubarb pie, anyone?

My 19 year old self

I had the rare opportunity to visit my Alma Mater this week, and spent an unsatisfying hour wandering the campus, looking for my 19 year old self. I was hoping to talk some sense into her.

At one point, I thought I might catch a glimpse of her writing an essay at the computer lab on the second floor of the MacKinnon Building, but when I got there, I discovered it's now just a lounge. There are no "computer labs" any more: they've been replaced by wifi hotspots and ethernet cables, since most students are required to have a laptop when they arrive at university.

I didn't get to see her in her first-year dorm room, either, because the door was locked, but I think I caught sight of her shadow as she wandered toward the common area one floor up and two units over. She wondered where her philandering boyfriend had gotten to, and was about to have her heart broken.

If I'd caught up with her, I'd have told her that heartbreak is temporary, the boy with the great hair was going to end up bald and across the country, and good riddance.

I would also have told her to pay closer attention to the letter she received from her Grandmother at the start of that first year. The grandmother had lived through the depression, and sent a reminder of what an awesome opportunity her firstborn granddaughter was getting, a reminder to make the most of it and to study hard.

I remember the drama, the boy-craziness and the faces but not the names of my housemates and classmates, but the classes? Well, I remember which ones I didn't go to. For example, the sole science class required for my liberal arts BA. It was Biology, Friday mornings at 8, all the way on the other side of the campus. I think I made it to class about six times, although I did pass, but not by much. If it was so easy for me to pass, why didn't I take more science?

Here's why: I was more interested in events like a bus trip to Toronto to sit on University Avenue in front of the US embassy, wearing my tie-dye, overalls, socks and sandals with hundreds of other students, shouting at George H.W. Bush, 'Hell, no, we won't go, we won't fight for Texaco!" (He wasn't there, by the way.)

As I walked the campus in the rain Friday, sipping on a high-priced latte, I wondered when the school handed over its food services to the brand names, and also how my life might be different if I'd studied something other than protest, bands and boys.

But I also marvelled at the luck of my life - there are precious few women on this planet who get the chance to squander such an opportunity and still have things work out so well.