Sore feet and exhaustion are the hallmarks of a good party, right?
This weekend was the culmination of about four months of planning and preparation and it came off with only a few hilarious hitches.
One day last fall, at the second family funeral in four months, I thought, "Wouldn't it be nicer to honour people and say kind things about them while they're still alive?" Just then, a picture of a tribute to my mother drifted through my mind. She had a big birthday coming up and is an avid quilter. By avid, I mean obsessed.
If my mother sat down at her sewing machines this afternoon to cut and scrap and stitch 24 hours a day, she would still have fabric left in the boxes and bags that line the walls of her sewing room five years from now.
You cannot go to her house without seeing the progress of her latest project, and starting in 1976 her standard wedding gift to my cousins has been a quilt. There are 25 of us on my Dad's side, 14 on Mom's side.
I thought that day, "What about a quilt show for the big birthday?" The folks at the fair rented me the hall and the racks they use for the quilt competition each fall, and I put out the call to my cousins about their wedding quilts. Could I borrow them? I kept it to Ontario, thinking it might be too much trouble collect the quilts from Alberta, New Brunswick and BC, and slowly, starting in April, the quilts started arriving at my house. Some were dropped into my porch on a weekday afternoon, some were left at another cousin's house for pickup, some were nearly falling apart, they'd been used so much. One cousin wouldn't give me hers until this past Friday, since she wasn't sure what to use on her bed for the weekend.
In the end, with a lot of help from my mother's friends, there were 24 quilts on display.
Mom knew about the party but not about the quilts. My big brother and my husband had a bet on what she would say when she came through the door. Neither of them put any money on her being speechless.
Mom also didn't know the fair board had installed wifi so the grandkids in Australia could come to the party, too.
She has shown her warmth and love to so many people, I was glad 200 friends and family members took the time to give a bit of it back while she can appreciate it. I'll have to start planning something for her 90th, but that can wait while I catch a nap and get a massage for my poor aching feet.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Running Partner
I am trying hard not to put any pressure on my new running partner, but I can barely contain my excitement and hope.
I guess I should call him my 'additional' running partner, since I already have the one, my beautiful and amazing Emma. But while she's fun and funny, she doesn't always keep up her end of the conversation when we talk, mostly because she's a dog. Furthermore, since she is now what's called a 'senior dog', she sometimes doesn't keep up with the running part of our runs, either.
Yesterday, my sweetheart and I spent a good part of our afternoon at Sporting Life, getting amazing service from a young helper, and buying two pairs of men's running shoes. Later in the day, Sweetie took his first tentative steps in what I'm hoping will be our running career together. He has a history of foot problems, but he's game to give it a try after seeing the success I've enjoyed over the last year. Frankly, he's enjoyed my success, too, I say with a wink and a nudge.
We're following the same program I started a year ago, called 'Couch Potato to Five K". There is no plan for a race just yet, but over the course of the next 10-12 weeks, we should be able to run together for about a half an hour at a time.
It's not just about companionship on the trails, it's actually about companionship later in life. You see, I think running could be a valueable part of my devious plan to avoid early widowhood. While I know lots of lovely widows who are active and mostly happy and fulfilled, I don't want to be one, and with a history of heart problems and early death for the men in Sweetie's family, I'm pleased as punch he's willing to take a few steps toward better health and a longer life.
Here's hoping he can walk this morning after yesterday's adventure, so we can toddle off for run number two tomorrow.
I guess I should call him my 'additional' running partner, since I already have the one, my beautiful and amazing Emma. But while she's fun and funny, she doesn't always keep up her end of the conversation when we talk, mostly because she's a dog. Furthermore, since she is now what's called a 'senior dog', she sometimes doesn't keep up with the running part of our runs, either.
Yesterday, my sweetheart and I spent a good part of our afternoon at Sporting Life, getting amazing service from a young helper, and buying two pairs of men's running shoes. Later in the day, Sweetie took his first tentative steps in what I'm hoping will be our running career together. He has a history of foot problems, but he's game to give it a try after seeing the success I've enjoyed over the last year. Frankly, he's enjoyed my success, too, I say with a wink and a nudge.
We're following the same program I started a year ago, called 'Couch Potato to Five K". There is no plan for a race just yet, but over the course of the next 10-12 weeks, we should be able to run together for about a half an hour at a time.
It's not just about companionship on the trails, it's actually about companionship later in life. You see, I think running could be a valueable part of my devious plan to avoid early widowhood. While I know lots of lovely widows who are active and mostly happy and fulfilled, I don't want to be one, and with a history of heart problems and early death for the men in Sweetie's family, I'm pleased as punch he's willing to take a few steps toward better health and a longer life.
Here's hoping he can walk this morning after yesterday's adventure, so we can toddle off for run number two tomorrow.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Casino Retirement
Who are you counting on for your retirement, yourself, your kids or your lottery ticket?
The province seems to be betting on the kids and the ticket, running massive deficits that will have to be paid off by our grandchildren, and planning for more and more casinos, even mini-ones.
The so-called modernization of gambling in Ontario could mean a casino coming to the Wasaga Beach or Collingwood: 300 slot machines and maybe a few craps tables.
Yup, the brilliant plan to get out from under a 16 billion dollar provincial deficit is to provide us with more ways to flush our money into the one armed bandits.
I don't get a rush of anything but fear when I walk into a casino. I don't smell excitement, I smell desperation.
And with about a million dollars every day being sucked out of the wallets of the dreamers just at Casino Rama there's a reason for that stench.
But the chairs are full and the dreams are big, so that's what our clever government is betting on for the future.
Nope, they're not asking older folks to pay for the services they've already received. No siree, those folks vote! They're not asking people who've benefited the most to pay more, oh, no, they're taxing the naive, who think that next push of the button will be the one to fund their golden years.
And if not, well, we can always keep that deficit going. The baby boomers grandkids can pay it off.
Frankly, I'm worried for the future as I clutch my Lottomax ticket. Hey's that's 50 million dreams tonight...
The province seems to be betting on the kids and the ticket, running massive deficits that will have to be paid off by our grandchildren, and planning for more and more casinos, even mini-ones.
The so-called modernization of gambling in Ontario could mean a casino coming to the Wasaga Beach or Collingwood: 300 slot machines and maybe a few craps tables.
Yup, the brilliant plan to get out from under a 16 billion dollar provincial deficit is to provide us with more ways to flush our money into the one armed bandits.
I don't get a rush of anything but fear when I walk into a casino. I don't smell excitement, I smell desperation.
And with about a million dollars every day being sucked out of the wallets of the dreamers just at Casino Rama there's a reason for that stench.
But the chairs are full and the dreams are big, so that's what our clever government is betting on for the future.
Nope, they're not asking older folks to pay for the services they've already received. No siree, those folks vote! They're not asking people who've benefited the most to pay more, oh, no, they're taxing the naive, who think that next push of the button will be the one to fund their golden years.
And if not, well, we can always keep that deficit going. The baby boomers grandkids can pay it off.
Frankly, I'm worried for the future as I clutch my Lottomax ticket. Hey's that's 50 million dreams tonight...
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Food for Thought on Mother's Day
I believe there is no way to have a non-polarizing discussion about how long children should be breastfed, but I also believe opening such a talk is a good way to prove your magazine might still be relevant.
Time Magazine's cover next week features a 26 year old blonde hottie mother of two in jeans and a cami-type shirt, her four year old son standing on a stool in front of her with her left breast in his mouth.
Would the cover be less controversial if the mother were less attractive? What if the child were a girl? What if the mother wasn't white? Would it be more controversial if her other son, who also breastfeeds at age five were shown? He's adopted and black, according to some reports.
Some people are worried the kid is going to be damaged, not necessarily by breastfeeding until he's four, but because people will tease him later in life about the magazine cover. Others say there's no nutritional value in the milk after six months, so the mom is really satisfying some need of her own by continuing to breastfeed. I've noticed it's almost never girl children who are the subjects in the how-long-to-breastfeeding controversies that crop up about twice a year.
Most of us have very rigid ideas about this topic, although I bet very few of us can articulate where we got those ideas. They're wrapped up our beliefs about motherhood, sexuality, Madonna complexes, women's rights and all sorts of things most of us don't want to examine in much detail.
Here's what I have concluded on the topic, after a lot of reflection on the matter:
1)People without kids need never express an opinion on any aspect of childrearing, since anything you say will be immediately dismissed. While I don't have to build a car to be able to see one headed for a ditch, my opinion on babies and children is apparently worthless since I have none.
2)If you believe in breastfeeding for a long, long time, no amount of discussion about nutrition, body image or anything else will dissuade you. It's almost as though it's a religious discussion; since challenges to beliefs on this topic very quickly degenerate into namecalling and defensiveness.
3) The words "European" and "Civilized" mean different things to different people. "Organic", too.
And remember, it's not Good Mother's Day. It's just Mother's Day.
Time Magazine's cover next week features a 26 year old blonde hottie mother of two in jeans and a cami-type shirt, her four year old son standing on a stool in front of her with her left breast in his mouth.
Would the cover be less controversial if the mother were less attractive? What if the child were a girl? What if the mother wasn't white? Would it be more controversial if her other son, who also breastfeeds at age five were shown? He's adopted and black, according to some reports.
Some people are worried the kid is going to be damaged, not necessarily by breastfeeding until he's four, but because people will tease him later in life about the magazine cover. Others say there's no nutritional value in the milk after six months, so the mom is really satisfying some need of her own by continuing to breastfeed. I've noticed it's almost never girl children who are the subjects in the how-long-to-breastfeeding controversies that crop up about twice a year.
Most of us have very rigid ideas about this topic, although I bet very few of us can articulate where we got those ideas. They're wrapped up our beliefs about motherhood, sexuality, Madonna complexes, women's rights and all sorts of things most of us don't want to examine in much detail.
Here's what I have concluded on the topic, after a lot of reflection on the matter:
1)People without kids need never express an opinion on any aspect of childrearing, since anything you say will be immediately dismissed. While I don't have to build a car to be able to see one headed for a ditch, my opinion on babies and children is apparently worthless since I have none.
2)If you believe in breastfeeding for a long, long time, no amount of discussion about nutrition, body image or anything else will dissuade you. It's almost as though it's a religious discussion; since challenges to beliefs on this topic very quickly degenerate into namecalling and defensiveness.
3) The words "European" and "Civilized" mean different things to different people. "Organic", too.
And remember, it's not Good Mother's Day. It's just Mother's Day.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Ready Questions
How long do I let a book moulder on the bedside table I can give up on it?
At what point does a well-intentioned gift become a piece of furniture, requiring dusting?
How long do I have to wait to give back a borrowed book, unread?
If I give back a borrowed book, unread, can I lie and say I read it, based on the reviews and maybe a wikipedia entry?
These are the questions eating at me as I struggle to get through several volumes that are piling up. It's getting silly, really.
I want to be inspired by Thomas Friedman's Hot, Flat and Crowded, I really would. It's certainly fascinating work, effectively connecting climate change and the US financial meltdown and a bunch of other scary stuff. If the solutions he proposes are as big as the problems I may start to despair, but I'm not there yet. I read at night lately, and at one page before I fall asleep, it's taking me a million years to get through the damn thing
It's taken so long to wade through Hot, Flat and Crowded, I have basically ignored the biography of Peter Gzowski loaned to me and sitting accusingly on the nightstand. I quite admired Morningside, but I already know the big surprises in the biography because of all the hand-wringing on the CBC when it came out. It appears a massively talented guy was an egotist, womanizer and deadbeat dad. Really. What a surprise. Frankly, I'm not sure I want to spend any time finding out more about a guy who appears, from the several interviews with the author I've heard, to have been such a jerk when the microphone was off.
Maybe I'll go back to the Twilight Series. Again. Light and frothy might be what I'm looking for. It is spring, after all.
At what point does a well-intentioned gift become a piece of furniture, requiring dusting?
How long do I have to wait to give back a borrowed book, unread?
If I give back a borrowed book, unread, can I lie and say I read it, based on the reviews and maybe a wikipedia entry?
These are the questions eating at me as I struggle to get through several volumes that are piling up. It's getting silly, really.
I want to be inspired by Thomas Friedman's Hot, Flat and Crowded, I really would. It's certainly fascinating work, effectively connecting climate change and the US financial meltdown and a bunch of other scary stuff. If the solutions he proposes are as big as the problems I may start to despair, but I'm not there yet. I read at night lately, and at one page before I fall asleep, it's taking me a million years to get through the damn thing
It's taken so long to wade through Hot, Flat and Crowded, I have basically ignored the biography of Peter Gzowski loaned to me and sitting accusingly on the nightstand. I quite admired Morningside, but I already know the big surprises in the biography because of all the hand-wringing on the CBC when it came out. It appears a massively talented guy was an egotist, womanizer and deadbeat dad. Really. What a surprise. Frankly, I'm not sure I want to spend any time finding out more about a guy who appears, from the several interviews with the author I've heard, to have been such a jerk when the microphone was off.
Maybe I'll go back to the Twilight Series. Again. Light and frothy might be what I'm looking for. It is spring, after all.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Who's on Your List?
So, Michelle Pfeiffer's "list" has Johnny Depp on it. Who'd have thought one of the most beautiful women on the planet would even have "a list", but yet, Pfeiffer told Ellen Degeneres yesterday that Depp is on her bucket list, and not in a working way. To his credit, Depp blushed a little.
I do love the concept of "the list". To refresh your memory, on an iconic episode of the TV show, Friends, each of the friends made a list of celebrities they were allowed to have an affair with, with no repercussions from their partner. Ross put Isabella Rosellini on his list and then to his chagrin, Rosellini walked into his coffee shop, whereupon he said to her, "I get to sleep with you!", only to present her with the list, which she pointed out, was laminated and absent her name. He remembered too late he had removed her, figuring the chances of meeting her were just too slim.
Obviously, the chances of any of us meeting any of the celebrities our lists are pretty small. Furthermore, it's not like the celebrity in question is required to be wooed by us mere mortals. It's all a silly fantasy, a parlour game, and the names we might put on our list might reveal more about ourselves than anything else since having never met them, we can't truly know whether we might want to have a wee fling with the celebrities we've chosen.
My list is especially troublesome since Pierre Trudeau has been unavailable for more than ten years, and I suspect I won't run into either Donald or Kiefer Sutherland any time soon.
Hey, it's complete and utter nonsense: why not have fun with it? It's not like there are rules or anything about the person being, well, alive. My chances of having an affair with Keifer Sutherland are actually about equal to that of my spending a torrid night with Pierre Trudeau.
And, while I am intrigued by Johnny Depp, I'm wavering on him because I suspect he might be a bit of a weirdo between the sheets; I get a strange vibe from his interviews.
Maybe I can ask Michelle Pfeiffer.
I do love the concept of "the list". To refresh your memory, on an iconic episode of the TV show, Friends, each of the friends made a list of celebrities they were allowed to have an affair with, with no repercussions from their partner. Ross put Isabella Rosellini on his list and then to his chagrin, Rosellini walked into his coffee shop, whereupon he said to her, "I get to sleep with you!", only to present her with the list, which she pointed out, was laminated and absent her name. He remembered too late he had removed her, figuring the chances of meeting her were just too slim.
Obviously, the chances of any of us meeting any of the celebrities our lists are pretty small. Furthermore, it's not like the celebrity in question is required to be wooed by us mere mortals. It's all a silly fantasy, a parlour game, and the names we might put on our list might reveal more about ourselves than anything else since having never met them, we can't truly know whether we might want to have a wee fling with the celebrities we've chosen.
My list is especially troublesome since Pierre Trudeau has been unavailable for more than ten years, and I suspect I won't run into either Donald or Kiefer Sutherland any time soon.
Hey, it's complete and utter nonsense: why not have fun with it? It's not like there are rules or anything about the person being, well, alive. My chances of having an affair with Keifer Sutherland are actually about equal to that of my spending a torrid night with Pierre Trudeau.
And, while I am intrigued by Johnny Depp, I'm wavering on him because I suspect he might be a bit of a weirdo between the sheets; I get a strange vibe from his interviews.
Maybe I can ask Michelle Pfeiffer.
Books Review: Divergent and Insurgent
Move over, Hunger Games, the latest dystopian futuristic fiction is even hotter, with more action and a headstrong heroine I find more interesting than Katniss Everdeen.
The second in what is expected to be a trilogy from Veronica Roth dropped last week, and Insurgent picks up the action about one breath after the end of Divergent.
Actually, I'd say Insurgent comes without a breath or a backward glance, which is appropriate, since that appears to be how the hero tries to handle her very messed-up life in the midst of war.
I had Insurgent in my hands mere hours after its arrival at Penny's bookshop, but without any kind of review in the opening pages, I was forced to re-read Divergent before plunging in, and I'm glad I did.
Divergent is set in a society in the not-too-distant future in what used to be Chicago. The society is divided, quite deliberately, into factions, each with a name and a specific set of attributes and responsibilities. The groups do not mix, although each is familiar with the functions of the other.
Beatrice is born into Abnegation, the grey-clad, mirror-eschewing group of public servants and governors. But she, like every other 16 year old, is required to choose her faction and earn her way into it. She is expected but not required to choose the faction into which she is born. She chooses Dauntless, the much-tattooed warriors and soldiers who leap on and off moving trains, and who are supposed to provide security for the city. Mayhem ensues, not only for Tris, as she renames herself, but for the society as a whole as the scientists, named Eurdite, find a way to control most of the Dauntless in an effort to overthrow the Abnegation and become defacto rulers.
In this rollicking, action-packed tale which explores a girl's efforts to find and become the best version of herself, my only regret is how long I expect to have to wait for the third and final instalment.
The second in what is expected to be a trilogy from Veronica Roth dropped last week, and Insurgent picks up the action about one breath after the end of Divergent.
Actually, I'd say Insurgent comes without a breath or a backward glance, which is appropriate, since that appears to be how the hero tries to handle her very messed-up life in the midst of war.
I had Insurgent in my hands mere hours after its arrival at Penny's bookshop, but without any kind of review in the opening pages, I was forced to re-read Divergent before plunging in, and I'm glad I did.
Divergent is set in a society in the not-too-distant future in what used to be Chicago. The society is divided, quite deliberately, into factions, each with a name and a specific set of attributes and responsibilities. The groups do not mix, although each is familiar with the functions of the other.
Beatrice is born into Abnegation, the grey-clad, mirror-eschewing group of public servants and governors. But she, like every other 16 year old, is required to choose her faction and earn her way into it. She is expected but not required to choose the faction into which she is born. She chooses Dauntless, the much-tattooed warriors and soldiers who leap on and off moving trains, and who are supposed to provide security for the city. Mayhem ensues, not only for Tris, as she renames herself, but for the society as a whole as the scientists, named Eurdite, find a way to control most of the Dauntless in an effort to overthrow the Abnegation and become defacto rulers.
In this rollicking, action-packed tale which explores a girl's efforts to find and become the best version of herself, my only regret is how long I expect to have to wait for the third and final instalment.
Monday, May 7, 2012
A hit and a miss
As soon as I'm off the air this morning, I'm headed to Toronto to pick up my sweetheart following his sunshine getaway with one of his buddies.
Sweetie once joked that he was such a good friend to this guy, he would gladly go to Cuba to pick up rum and cigars for him. They're coming home likely loaded down with both.
I expect to make a bit of a fool of myself when I first see him, with a big goofy grin and a schoolgirl giggle, just like I used to do back in the 80s, when we first started dating.
I really did enjoy having a week with the house all to myself. I watched what I wanted, listened to what I wanted and read late into the night.
And while our house isn't all that big, it seemed very big and very creaky when it was just the doggie and me. She heard some interesting stories, and happily, I am sure she's not going to tell on me.
I just hope the dog can make room for Sweetie in our bed tonight. She's gotten very used to having three-quarters of the matress and most of the covers all to herself.
Sweetie once joked that he was such a good friend to this guy, he would gladly go to Cuba to pick up rum and cigars for him. They're coming home likely loaded down with both.
I expect to make a bit of a fool of myself when I first see him, with a big goofy grin and a schoolgirl giggle, just like I used to do back in the 80s, when we first started dating.
I really did enjoy having a week with the house all to myself. I watched what I wanted, listened to what I wanted and read late into the night.
And while our house isn't all that big, it seemed very big and very creaky when it was just the doggie and me. She heard some interesting stories, and happily, I am sure she's not going to tell on me.
I just hope the dog can make room for Sweetie in our bed tonight. She's gotten very used to having three-quarters of the matress and most of the covers all to herself.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Pig in a Poke
Spare a thought today for Wilbur the pig, whose fate remains undecided in Collingwood.
In case you've missed it, Wilbur is a pet potbellied pig, about 50 pounds and not likely to get much bigger. He's about four months old, and is now in his third home, with owners who appear to be very dedicated to him.
There might never have been a problem except for questions raised by neighbours, which led to a review of the town's pet bylaw. It turns out pigs are not allowed. Last night, town council voted not to add pigs to the list. They will, however, hold a vote next week on whether to make an exception for this particular pig.
So, potbellied pigs are not allowed. Neither are giraffes or chickens. While I think a giraffe would be an awesome pet, I think I would prefer chickens. They wouldn't really be pets, though. They would make my eggs and later in life, they would become my dinner. Right now, I get my chickens from a guy on a farm outside town; I like to tell people I can meet my chickens before I eat my chickens. But I would love, love, love to be an urban chicken farmer. Wouldn't it be great to sidle out the back door of a Saturday morning to gather the makings of an omlette?
During one of our long, rambling, beach-side conversations on our trip last month, one of my girlfriends got to talking about her recently-passed-on pooch. She asserted that not only would she have eaten her dog, she would also like to have made a muff out of his hide. She bemoaned that she didn't know anyone who knows how to do such a thing, because she thought a muff would be a much better tribute than an urn of ashes on the mantle. She seemed deadly serious about it.
I would never consider eating my very spoiled, precious and pampered dog, Emma, but the Wilbur situation coupled with my buddy's opinions got me thinking: why are some animals allowed under the covers, while others become dinner?
And would my darling Emma be as sweet sauteed on a plate as she is cuddled on the couch?
In case you've missed it, Wilbur is a pet potbellied pig, about 50 pounds and not likely to get much bigger. He's about four months old, and is now in his third home, with owners who appear to be very dedicated to him.
There might never have been a problem except for questions raised by neighbours, which led to a review of the town's pet bylaw. It turns out pigs are not allowed. Last night, town council voted not to add pigs to the list. They will, however, hold a vote next week on whether to make an exception for this particular pig.
So, potbellied pigs are not allowed. Neither are giraffes or chickens. While I think a giraffe would be an awesome pet, I think I would prefer chickens. They wouldn't really be pets, though. They would make my eggs and later in life, they would become my dinner. Right now, I get my chickens from a guy on a farm outside town; I like to tell people I can meet my chickens before I eat my chickens. But I would love, love, love to be an urban chicken farmer. Wouldn't it be great to sidle out the back door of a Saturday morning to gather the makings of an omlette?
During one of our long, rambling, beach-side conversations on our trip last month, one of my girlfriends got to talking about her recently-passed-on pooch. She asserted that not only would she have eaten her dog, she would also like to have made a muff out of his hide. She bemoaned that she didn't know anyone who knows how to do such a thing, because she thought a muff would be a much better tribute than an urn of ashes on the mantle. She seemed deadly serious about it.
I would never consider eating my very spoiled, precious and pampered dog, Emma, but the Wilbur situation coupled with my buddy's opinions got me thinking: why are some animals allowed under the covers, while others become dinner?
And would my darling Emma be as sweet sauteed on a plate as she is cuddled on the couch?
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