During my conference experience the last couple of days, I've learned a few things.
I can lose on a consistently staggering level at Blackjack.
Staggering.
Hotel food for the masses can be very very good.
It is actually possible to pull a presentation out of your whassit on a day's notice. I'll frame this positively and take this as a testament to their faith in me.
Oy. Da fatigue. My last conference day is tomorrow.
Watch this space.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Monday, August 29, 2005
Yoga Cats
Well, my cats have discovered yoga too, so to speak.
I did my yoga routine on Friday night and again this evening. They all have this bemused look on their faces, as if to say "How nice to see you down here!" When I was doing the corpse pose, Lolly put his head right in my hand and lay down. I just couldn't be mad.
Had a wonderful drive in the country today that I will tell you about later. Right now, I am preparing for a three day conference at work and I'm getting some freelance work done, so you may not hear from me until later in the week.
Until then, wish me luck for Monday - that's Casino Night!
I did my yoga routine on Friday night and again this evening. They all have this bemused look on their faces, as if to say "How nice to see you down here!" When I was doing the corpse pose, Lolly put his head right in my hand and lay down. I just couldn't be mad.
Had a wonderful drive in the country today that I will tell you about later. Right now, I am preparing for a three day conference at work and I'm getting some freelance work done, so you may not hear from me until later in the week.
Until then, wish me luck for Monday - that's Casino Night!
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Little Boat in Greektown
Last night I went over to The Guru’s for my first real, bona fide yoga lesson. I arrived on her doorstep, late due to an unanticipated pet food run, wearing jogging pants and an old t-shrit inscribed with "Animal Miracles: I Believe." Ahem. At any rate...
Yoga. What a revelation! It’s so different from doing yoga with a video. With The Guru I got detailed instructions on how poses should feel. Videos on the other hand, leave me wondering if that searing pain through my leg is transcendental or terminal.
We did a full, gentle, comprehensive practice. I like gentle. I like comprehensive. Facials are like this. But I digress.
We started off with breathing. This has always been a big thing for me. There are times I realize I’m actually holding my breath. It’s a wonder I haven’t keeled over from oxygen deprivation. Anyway, this part is called Mudru – I think. It’s about centering yourself and preparing for practice.
Once we got breathing done, we moved into a pose called Little Boat which, if I may indulge in a moment of unfettered girlieism, I think is just the cutest name for a pose - ever. You lie on your back with your knees up and your arms lightly clasped around them. Then as you breathe in you ever so gently pull your knees towards you. It helps to limber up your lower back and hip.
We did hip rotations and The Cat, then Downward Dog, some full body twists and then finished up with the Corpse pose, which is great because you can lie down.
The Cat was a source of particular hilarity. Most of us are familiar with this pose. It’s the kind of stretch most of us first encountered in junior high school, eliciting at the time no end of smirks and stifled laughter as I recall. Why? Well you are on all fours and in synch with your breathing, rolling up and then arching your back.
“Stick that tailbone in the air people!”
This is the kind of thing The Marine would see and remark “You know, there are plenty of Japanese business men who would pay to see this on the internet.”
After we were done I felt incredibly relaxed. It was amazing how aware I'd become of the tension I had been holding in my body. This was particularly the case with the hip rolls. I worked on my right side first. Afterwards, my left side felt like it was three inches higher and I could feel the blood rushing in my right leg.
I also liked the analogy The Guru used about the ground as a support. It really helped to think of the ground as pushing or holding me up, that it wasn’t something that was working against me.
After we were done, The Guru barbecued some Rainbow Trout, or as my Granny was so fond of saying “Burnt the arse aff it.” I prefer the term “seared” myself. It was incredibly delicious along with a salad of cucumber and tomatoes from the neighbour’s garden. Actually, The Guru confessed that she’d run out of tomatoes on one occasion and had full on raided their garden. Rightfully so I say. There are always too many damn tomatoes at the end of summer anyway.
I took the Gardiner home and passed the CNE just as the fireworks were going. It was magical, a last real taste of summer before the crispness creeps back into the air.
I woke up this morning after sleeping like the dead. I think I’m on to something here.
Namaste.
Yoga. What a revelation! It’s so different from doing yoga with a video. With The Guru I got detailed instructions on how poses should feel. Videos on the other hand, leave me wondering if that searing pain through my leg is transcendental or terminal.
We did a full, gentle, comprehensive practice. I like gentle. I like comprehensive. Facials are like this. But I digress.
We started off with breathing. This has always been a big thing for me. There are times I realize I’m actually holding my breath. It’s a wonder I haven’t keeled over from oxygen deprivation. Anyway, this part is called Mudru – I think. It’s about centering yourself and preparing for practice.
Once we got breathing done, we moved into a pose called Little Boat which, if I may indulge in a moment of unfettered girlieism, I think is just the cutest name for a pose - ever. You lie on your back with your knees up and your arms lightly clasped around them. Then as you breathe in you ever so gently pull your knees towards you. It helps to limber up your lower back and hip.
We did hip rotations and The Cat, then Downward Dog, some full body twists and then finished up with the Corpse pose, which is great because you can lie down.
The Cat was a source of particular hilarity. Most of us are familiar with this pose. It’s the kind of stretch most of us first encountered in junior high school, eliciting at the time no end of smirks and stifled laughter as I recall. Why? Well you are on all fours and in synch with your breathing, rolling up and then arching your back.
“Stick that tailbone in the air people!”
This is the kind of thing The Marine would see and remark “You know, there are plenty of Japanese business men who would pay to see this on the internet.”
After we were done I felt incredibly relaxed. It was amazing how aware I'd become of the tension I had been holding in my body. This was particularly the case with the hip rolls. I worked on my right side first. Afterwards, my left side felt like it was three inches higher and I could feel the blood rushing in my right leg.
I also liked the analogy The Guru used about the ground as a support. It really helped to think of the ground as pushing or holding me up, that it wasn’t something that was working against me.
After we were done, The Guru barbecued some Rainbow Trout, or as my Granny was so fond of saying “Burnt the arse aff it.” I prefer the term “seared” myself. It was incredibly delicious along with a salad of cucumber and tomatoes from the neighbour’s garden. Actually, The Guru confessed that she’d run out of tomatoes on one occasion and had full on raided their garden. Rightfully so I say. There are always too many damn tomatoes at the end of summer anyway.
I took the Gardiner home and passed the CNE just as the fireworks were going. It was magical, a last real taste of summer before the crispness creeps back into the air.
I woke up this morning after sleeping like the dead. I think I’m on to something here.
Namaste.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
A Penny Saved
Friends, Romans is proud to introduce a new exclusive:
Great Moments in Bargain History
In this day of unfettered consumerism, I feel it is important to celebrate the frugal and diligent hunter of the retail realm. Feel free to contact me via email with your own stories (you can access this by viewing my profile) and you too can have your budgetary triumph chronicled here for the ages.
Our most recent bargain bonanza relates to my pursuit of a stainless steel garbage can for the kitchen. Our other bin just wasn't cutting it. On and on I travelled to Zellers, to Walmart, to Homesense. The average price seemed to be $45.00.
Then last Saturday, fortune aided me. We were at Canadian Tire. The Marine was checking out car parts; I myself was in pursuit fabric softener. And there it was! Stainless steel foot pedal lidded garbage cans on sale for $24.99!
HUZAH!
Great Moments in Bargain History
In this day of unfettered consumerism, I feel it is important to celebrate the frugal and diligent hunter of the retail realm. Feel free to contact me via email with your own stories (you can access this by viewing my profile) and you too can have your budgetary triumph chronicled here for the ages.
Our most recent bargain bonanza relates to my pursuit of a stainless steel garbage can for the kitchen. Our other bin just wasn't cutting it. On and on I travelled to Zellers, to Walmart, to Homesense. The average price seemed to be $45.00.
Then last Saturday, fortune aided me. We were at Canadian Tire. The Marine was checking out car parts; I myself was in pursuit fabric softener. And there it was! Stainless steel foot pedal lidded garbage cans on sale for $24.99!
HUZAH!
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Weighty Matters
The Globe and Mail is currently running a series where they provide excerpts from a newly published book. This week it’s The Hungry Years by William Leith. I always find books about being fat so tedious.
It’s always the same schtick.
Someone is depressed or a food addict or otherwise out of control. It's never normal people dealing with normal problems who would just like to lose a few pounds. I suppose an itemization of epic failure makes for more compelling reading, but I just find it annoying. Overweight people are always presented this way. Maybe the appeal is some bastardized there but for the grace of God process. I can imagine the reader saying to him or herself, “Hey I may be maxed out on my credit cards, in a loveless marriage and in a career I hate, but at least I’m not fat. I’m not that out of control.”
For that is what we’re really talking about. That is the label that is being applied.
I remember a girl in high school saying she’d rather have cancer than be fat. (I don’t want to even imagine her internal landscape.) But I bring this up because many times, this is actually how people view the matter of weight. This is the trashing of other human beings that goes on.
I’m really trying to read the book excerpts with an open mind, to be understanding, but as someone who has had a weight problem since childhood, well forgive me. I just don’t get it. In my darkest moments I have never come close to feeling like I'm going to lose the will to live if I don’t have white bread toast with butter for breakfast. That being said, food shouldn't be exempt from the realm of addiction. What I don't understand is why food addiction is behind the weight problems of seemingly everyone who decides to write a book about the experience. It's an inaccurate picture that is being painted.
Another example. I picked up the latest issue of Oxygen, a women's fitness magazine. I find doing this hard. As I shuffle my size 18 frame to the check out, I feel like a walking joke. But I do it anyway because I like to read these magazines. It's important to not give up and have a sense of what you're aiming for. The magazine also has excellent health and exercise information and the success stories give me hope.
But I found the success story I read in this latest issue questionable. Here’s why. The feature was about a woman who lost 43 pounds and was featured on the Dr. Phil show. She used his book, The Ultimate Weight Solution, and got stellar results.
Great. Good for you missy.
Here, according to the article, is what this woman ate in a typical day when she was overweight.
Breakfast: Pop-Tarts, Fruit Loops, Captain Crunch, Diet Coke (heh!)
Snack: Reese's Peanut Butter Cups
Lunch: French Fries, Toast
Snack: Junk Food
Dinner: Any meat. Mashed Potatoes with Gravy, One Vegetable (yes. one.)
Snack: Popcorn with Butter. Junk Food.
Am I the only one who finds this ridiculous? Did I miss something? How can you eat like this and NOT expect to be overweight?
I don't vent vent my frustration like I am the Mother Teresa of healthy eating. I’m anything but.
But seriously y'all. C’mon.
I'm overweight. I'm probably technically obese. I don't eat like this woman did.
Have I had my moments of bad food choices? Yup. I still do. All the time. There have been plenty of occasions that I could have called a friend when I was upset. I got chocolate covered almonds instead.
There are many days, usually late afternoon, when my brain is fried and I’m tired, that I get a chocolate bar from the vending machine because that’s easier than taking a 10 minute walk. Guilty as charged.
Do I like potato chips more than I like celery? You bet your ass I do.
But I think I’m like most people with a weight problem. It caught up with me somehow. I had food allergies I wasn’t aware of initially – always a way to gain. I don’t exercise enough because it’s tough and tiring and I hate it. Or I get too wrapped up in things – usually taking care of everything else but myself and not setting appropriate boundaries. But none of these things are an excuse. They are all simply choices and my weight is a result of them. I can deal with that.
What I can't deal with is being lumped in with the whacked out food addicts or (let's be blunt shall we?) idiots who are regularly making food choices universally acknowledged as just plain stupid. Here’s the dirty little secret about being fat. Overweight people, like most people, have healthy meals, day in and day out. We’re not chronic out of control eaters that come home and scarf down a gallon of ice cream, or an extra large bag of Doritos because we had a bad day or hate our lives or can’t control our emotions.
We have crappy metabolisms, or can’t handle carbohydrates well. We don't make exercise a priority. Or we’re just busy, muddling through as best we can. Unlike most people, we can’t have French fries two or three times a week or regular helpings of comfort food when in crisis, and not pay for it with some kind of weight gain.
But does any of that get considered? No. To be overweight in this day and age is to be crucified on the cross of public judgment. You’re a loser. You don’t count.
I do count. I’m not a loser.
I hold down a job. Pay my bills. Contribute. I’m a kind and compassionate person. I’m also a size 18.
Do I like being overweight? No I don’t. No one bit. At all. Would I like to do something about it? Yes, and I will. I got a new career after 12 years of being a secretary. Frankly, if I can do that, I can do anything.
I want to stop living a life where if I get dessert, I’m not wondering if people are looking at me thinking, “She shouldn’t be having that”.
I want my knees to stop hurting.
I want to wear clothes I really like. Not being able to wear clothes you love is a drag. In fact, there’s a special kind of heartbreak in trying on a pair of pants, fastening them up and having the button snap off in one gut wrenching rip, as it's unable to hold back your girth. Then you put the pants back and get out of the store as quickly as possible, hoping a sales clerk hasn't noticed.
Or your pregnant friends, oblivious in their understandable joy, talk about how excited they are to be expecting, but that they hope they don’t get too fat and can lose the weight soon, because they can’t stand feeling like a whale in their maternity clothes – clothes that are at least three sizes smaller than what you wear every day.
I wear what fits, not what I like. Who I am is never presented to the world.
How ironic that I can be so big and yet so invisible. And I suppose in numbing myself to the fallout that comes with being overweight, I have numbed myself period.
This is my experience. Not the experience of everyone with a weight problem. They may not even think they have a problem and God love ‘em I say. That’s their life and their choice. Be happy. Life’s too short. But this is my life and I’m not happy about this and I'm going to do something about it once and for all.
I’m starting my next great journey.
It’s always the same schtick.
Someone is depressed or a food addict or otherwise out of control. It's never normal people dealing with normal problems who would just like to lose a few pounds. I suppose an itemization of epic failure makes for more compelling reading, but I just find it annoying. Overweight people are always presented this way. Maybe the appeal is some bastardized there but for the grace of God process. I can imagine the reader saying to him or herself, “Hey I may be maxed out on my credit cards, in a loveless marriage and in a career I hate, but at least I’m not fat. I’m not that out of control.”
For that is what we’re really talking about. That is the label that is being applied.
I remember a girl in high school saying she’d rather have cancer than be fat. (I don’t want to even imagine her internal landscape.) But I bring this up because many times, this is actually how people view the matter of weight. This is the trashing of other human beings that goes on.
I’m really trying to read the book excerpts with an open mind, to be understanding, but as someone who has had a weight problem since childhood, well forgive me. I just don’t get it. In my darkest moments I have never come close to feeling like I'm going to lose the will to live if I don’t have white bread toast with butter for breakfast. That being said, food shouldn't be exempt from the realm of addiction. What I don't understand is why food addiction is behind the weight problems of seemingly everyone who decides to write a book about the experience. It's an inaccurate picture that is being painted.
Another example. I picked up the latest issue of Oxygen, a women's fitness magazine. I find doing this hard. As I shuffle my size 18 frame to the check out, I feel like a walking joke. But I do it anyway because I like to read these magazines. It's important to not give up and have a sense of what you're aiming for. The magazine also has excellent health and exercise information and the success stories give me hope.
But I found the success story I read in this latest issue questionable. Here’s why. The feature was about a woman who lost 43 pounds and was featured on the Dr. Phil show. She used his book, The Ultimate Weight Solution, and got stellar results.
Great. Good for you missy.
Here, according to the article, is what this woman ate in a typical day when she was overweight.
Breakfast: Pop-Tarts, Fruit Loops, Captain Crunch, Diet Coke (heh!)
Snack: Reese's Peanut Butter Cups
Lunch: French Fries, Toast
Snack: Junk Food
Dinner: Any meat. Mashed Potatoes with Gravy, One Vegetable (yes. one.)
Snack: Popcorn with Butter. Junk Food.
Am I the only one who finds this ridiculous? Did I miss something? How can you eat like this and NOT expect to be overweight?
I don't vent vent my frustration like I am the Mother Teresa of healthy eating. I’m anything but.
But seriously y'all. C’mon.
I'm overweight. I'm probably technically obese. I don't eat like this woman did.
Have I had my moments of bad food choices? Yup. I still do. All the time. There have been plenty of occasions that I could have called a friend when I was upset. I got chocolate covered almonds instead.
There are many days, usually late afternoon, when my brain is fried and I’m tired, that I get a chocolate bar from the vending machine because that’s easier than taking a 10 minute walk. Guilty as charged.
Do I like potato chips more than I like celery? You bet your ass I do.
But I think I’m like most people with a weight problem. It caught up with me somehow. I had food allergies I wasn’t aware of initially – always a way to gain. I don’t exercise enough because it’s tough and tiring and I hate it. Or I get too wrapped up in things – usually taking care of everything else but myself and not setting appropriate boundaries. But none of these things are an excuse. They are all simply choices and my weight is a result of them. I can deal with that.
What I can't deal with is being lumped in with the whacked out food addicts or (let's be blunt shall we?) idiots who are regularly making food choices universally acknowledged as just plain stupid. Here’s the dirty little secret about being fat. Overweight people, like most people, have healthy meals, day in and day out. We’re not chronic out of control eaters that come home and scarf down a gallon of ice cream, or an extra large bag of Doritos because we had a bad day or hate our lives or can’t control our emotions.
We have crappy metabolisms, or can’t handle carbohydrates well. We don't make exercise a priority. Or we’re just busy, muddling through as best we can. Unlike most people, we can’t have French fries two or three times a week or regular helpings of comfort food when in crisis, and not pay for it with some kind of weight gain.
But does any of that get considered? No. To be overweight in this day and age is to be crucified on the cross of public judgment. You’re a loser. You don’t count.
I do count. I’m not a loser.
I hold down a job. Pay my bills. Contribute. I’m a kind and compassionate person. I’m also a size 18.
Do I like being overweight? No I don’t. No one bit. At all. Would I like to do something about it? Yes, and I will. I got a new career after 12 years of being a secretary. Frankly, if I can do that, I can do anything.
I want to stop living a life where if I get dessert, I’m not wondering if people are looking at me thinking, “She shouldn’t be having that”.
I want my knees to stop hurting.
I want to wear clothes I really like. Not being able to wear clothes you love is a drag. In fact, there’s a special kind of heartbreak in trying on a pair of pants, fastening them up and having the button snap off in one gut wrenching rip, as it's unable to hold back your girth. Then you put the pants back and get out of the store as quickly as possible, hoping a sales clerk hasn't noticed.
Or your pregnant friends, oblivious in their understandable joy, talk about how excited they are to be expecting, but that they hope they don’t get too fat and can lose the weight soon, because they can’t stand feeling like a whale in their maternity clothes – clothes that are at least three sizes smaller than what you wear every day.
I wear what fits, not what I like. Who I am is never presented to the world.
How ironic that I can be so big and yet so invisible. And I suppose in numbing myself to the fallout that comes with being overweight, I have numbed myself period.
This is my experience. Not the experience of everyone with a weight problem. They may not even think they have a problem and God love ‘em I say. That’s their life and their choice. Be happy. Life’s too short. But this is my life and I’m not happy about this and I'm going to do something about it once and for all.
I’m starting my next great journey.
Annoyance
You know, it's a real drag when you check out your blog page and you see five comments posted, only to find that the comments are actually the blogosphere's answer to SPAM.
"Loved your blog. Check out mine on Adult Acne."
"Your blog's great. Wouldn't you like to make money out of it? Check out my blog to find out how."
GRRRRRRRRRRR.
Anyway, I'd actually planned to post a longer diatribe this evening, but I'm worn out. Sorry if I've disappointed, but trust me; my next blog is gonna be a lu-lu.
"Loved your blog. Check out mine on Adult Acne."
"Your blog's great. Wouldn't you like to make money out of it? Check out my blog to find out how."
GRRRRRRRRRRR.
Anyway, I'd actually planned to post a longer diatribe this evening, but I'm worn out. Sorry if I've disappointed, but trust me; my next blog is gonna be a lu-lu.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
All Over Bar the Cryin'
Today I took Toby to his new home - Brampton, of all places. It was very bittersweet. To be completely honest, I was hesitant. I really didn't want to give him away, but part of me felt overwhelmed at the thought of another cat.
It all started out well enough. I managed to get Toby into a kennel cab and up to his new place. His new family, quite simply, are my dream adoptees. I couldn't have asked for better people to give Toby a home. They were in love at first sight. As for Toby's new buddy, Zappa, he is a wonderful little fellow too. Neither of them were hissing or remotely aggressive with each other. It seemed almost meant to be. I said goodbye, leaving Toby under the couch lounging with Zappa, safe in the promise of more treats to come as his new Daddy remarked "Hello Toby. Welcome to the spa!" Heh!
Afterwards, I drove over to my parents house. I took a route up main street on what was a glorious late summer day. You can imagine, in weather like this, Brampton in its frontier prime, a small town in the country tagging on to Toronto's ascension, building quaint manor homes and cottages, welcoming industry, nary a shadow ahead - or so it must have seemed.
Rosy, my niece was waiting for me. She's been staying with her grandparents while her parents are in Thailand. She was so excited to see me because she was able, at long last and with much fanfare, to present me with her collection of Care Bears in their entirety. I was, needless to say, immensely impressed.
It was a great afternoon of chatting with my Mum, teaching Rosy dominos and blowing off the office work I was planning to do this weekend.
Courtesy of The Marine, I then returned home to a hallway emptied of all the things I had looked out for Goodwill yesterday . I had been merciless. We don't have a lot of extraneous items to begin with, but I was really thoughtful about this process, evaluating each item with the subtlety of Lorenzo Lamas on Are You Hot? Had I used it? Did I like it?
A perfect example was the white and gold ceiling fan I had. I had been keeping it for sentimental reasons. My Dad had installed it in my room and I remembered how decadent it felt to have a ceiling fan in my room as a pre-teen. I felt so classy and stylish, obtaining what I thought was my first legitimate taste of Harlowesque glamour.
That fan has been sitting in the spare room for over a year. We'll probably never use it. It fits essentially nowhere as far as our planned decor scheme is concerned. And in terms of sentiment, of what value is it to a memory of my father, lying in a room, redundant? I have so many other and better memories, other trinkets like letters he has written me and books he's picked up for me because he thought I'd like them. And my father is quite simply a practical man. As he would say "Get it outta here!"
Then I remembered the tail end of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes that we caught on TVO last night. Monroe was a killer comedienne, so vastly underrated. Who else could say a line like "I can be smart when it's important." and leave you laughing so hard you're hurting? I haven't thought of Monroe since my teenage obsession her. It was nice to be reminded of that time.
I headed upstairs, cloaked in a good memory. Old stuff I didn't use or want anymore was gone. I was feeling lighter. Then I got to the top and saw Cookie. All at once, I remembered how timid and angry he used to be, scowling under the bed, grudgingly coming out only to eat food. Some meds and one week with Toby later, he's a whole new cat who's actually letting me pet him. I remembered how yesterday morning, Toby was giving Cookie kisses.
I've been a basket case ever since, crying, wondering if I did the right thing giving Toby away. Even after being with us just a week, I'm gutted. I don't know why I'm so upset. The joy Toby's new guardians will obviously take from him being with them is of little comfort right now. I'm feeling his absence keenly.
Maybe I'm feeling other absences. Maybe I'm feeling what it's like to not be the rescuer all the time, to say look you handle this. I can't. Maybe I'm feeling relief. Maybe I'm feeling what it's like to just let go.
Maybe I'm feeling. Period.
It all started out well enough. I managed to get Toby into a kennel cab and up to his new place. His new family, quite simply, are my dream adoptees. I couldn't have asked for better people to give Toby a home. They were in love at first sight. As for Toby's new buddy, Zappa, he is a wonderful little fellow too. Neither of them were hissing or remotely aggressive with each other. It seemed almost meant to be. I said goodbye, leaving Toby under the couch lounging with Zappa, safe in the promise of more treats to come as his new Daddy remarked "Hello Toby. Welcome to the spa!" Heh!
Afterwards, I drove over to my parents house. I took a route up main street on what was a glorious late summer day. You can imagine, in weather like this, Brampton in its frontier prime, a small town in the country tagging on to Toronto's ascension, building quaint manor homes and cottages, welcoming industry, nary a shadow ahead - or so it must have seemed.
Rosy, my niece was waiting for me. She's been staying with her grandparents while her parents are in Thailand. She was so excited to see me because she was able, at long last and with much fanfare, to present me with her collection of Care Bears in their entirety. I was, needless to say, immensely impressed.
It was a great afternoon of chatting with my Mum, teaching Rosy dominos and blowing off the office work I was planning to do this weekend.
Courtesy of The Marine, I then returned home to a hallway emptied of all the things I had looked out for Goodwill yesterday . I had been merciless. We don't have a lot of extraneous items to begin with, but I was really thoughtful about this process, evaluating each item with the subtlety of Lorenzo Lamas on Are You Hot? Had I used it? Did I like it?
A perfect example was the white and gold ceiling fan I had. I had been keeping it for sentimental reasons. My Dad had installed it in my room and I remembered how decadent it felt to have a ceiling fan in my room as a pre-teen. I felt so classy and stylish, obtaining what I thought was my first legitimate taste of Harlowesque glamour.
That fan has been sitting in the spare room for over a year. We'll probably never use it. It fits essentially nowhere as far as our planned decor scheme is concerned. And in terms of sentiment, of what value is it to a memory of my father, lying in a room, redundant? I have so many other and better memories, other trinkets like letters he has written me and books he's picked up for me because he thought I'd like them. And my father is quite simply a practical man. As he would say "Get it outta here!"
Then I remembered the tail end of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes that we caught on TVO last night. Monroe was a killer comedienne, so vastly underrated. Who else could say a line like "I can be smart when it's important." and leave you laughing so hard you're hurting? I haven't thought of Monroe since my teenage obsession her. It was nice to be reminded of that time.
I headed upstairs, cloaked in a good memory. Old stuff I didn't use or want anymore was gone. I was feeling lighter. Then I got to the top and saw Cookie. All at once, I remembered how timid and angry he used to be, scowling under the bed, grudgingly coming out only to eat food. Some meds and one week with Toby later, he's a whole new cat who's actually letting me pet him. I remembered how yesterday morning, Toby was giving Cookie kisses.
I've been a basket case ever since, crying, wondering if I did the right thing giving Toby away. Even after being with us just a week, I'm gutted. I don't know why I'm so upset. The joy Toby's new guardians will obviously take from him being with them is of little comfort right now. I'm feeling his absence keenly.
Maybe I'm feeling other absences. Maybe I'm feeling what it's like to not be the rescuer all the time, to say look you handle this. I can't. Maybe I'm feeling relief. Maybe I'm feeling what it's like to just let go.
Maybe I'm feeling. Period.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Some Things Are Only Funny ' Cause They're True
A joke from my desk calendar.
Q. What do you call a musician without a girlfriend?
A. Homeless.
Q. What do you call a musician without a girlfriend?
A. Homeless.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Lucky Star...Not
I have to admit I feel rather conflicted after hearing about Madonna's riding accident.
First of all, I LOVE Madonna. Always have. I'm sorry to hear she fell off her horse and broke bones. Why the media hysteria? Some reports I've seen from Britain, Sky News in particular, were treating the story like it was a siesmic world event.
Huh?
She fell off a horse.
A brand new horse. Do you know how much horses cost?
Oh yeah. While riding around on her English country estate.
But then this got me thinking, which I am inclined to do on occassion. Why do I dismiss her pain? Essentially that's what I'm doing isn't it? She's rich and materially comfortable, ergo her pain doesn't count.
I take it back. Forgive me for thinking out loud on a blog. I think what's bothered me about this is the time spent covering something that's essentially benign. Madonna fell. She broke bones. She'll recover swimmingly.
(Trust me on this one. Her comeback after the Erotica era was second only to Christ's resurrection.)
But I digress. Why the hoopla? Why should I care? I'm sorry it happened, but my life's going on. Why are stories like this treated on a par with oil spills and hurricanes and Parliamentary tomfoolery?
I don't get it. But for the record, I hope Madonna gets well soon. Birthday bone breakage is a serious bummer.
First of all, I LOVE Madonna. Always have. I'm sorry to hear she fell off her horse and broke bones. Why the media hysteria? Some reports I've seen from Britain, Sky News in particular, were treating the story like it was a siesmic world event.
Huh?
She fell off a horse.
A brand new horse. Do you know how much horses cost?
Oh yeah. While riding around on her English country estate.
But then this got me thinking, which I am inclined to do on occassion. Why do I dismiss her pain? Essentially that's what I'm doing isn't it? She's rich and materially comfortable, ergo her pain doesn't count.
I take it back. Forgive me for thinking out loud on a blog. I think what's bothered me about this is the time spent covering something that's essentially benign. Madonna fell. She broke bones. She'll recover swimmingly.
(Trust me on this one. Her comeback after the Erotica era was second only to Christ's resurrection.)
But I digress. Why the hoopla? Why should I care? I'm sorry it happened, but my life's going on. Why are stories like this treated on a par with oil spills and hurricanes and Parliamentary tomfoolery?
I don't get it. But for the record, I hope Madonna gets well soon. Birthday bone breakage is a serious bummer.
The Book of Ruth
Well.
I am delighted to report that Toby has been adopted! He'll be going to his new home with Ruth and her cat Zappa very shortly. Sometimes, a good deed is rewarded. I've just come home tonight to see him looking healthier than ever. It's a good feeling to know he's going to a home where he'll be loved and cared for.
I'm still having a miniature nervous breakdown at work this week. It started on Sunday. I'd had just a terrible week before - unable to concentrate, tired. I get so caught up in everything. It's hard right now. I'm trying to prepare a process document while managing projects with essentially no process in place. Ah...life in a vacuum.
My naturopath prescribed me a remedy called Ignatia. It's for ultra-sensitive types. Moi? Ultra-sensitive? Well I suppose picking up rocks and bringing them home because I thought they were lonely would qualify. I suppose. I was just a kid when I did this. Now I just pick up stray paper clips and pens because they actually have a use, and there they are, just abandoned on the street. How can you just walk on by?
Or maybe it's just me.
Anyway, I don't know how or if homeopathy works, but if I'm experiencing a placebo affect, I'll take it. I actually got through the day without chocolate.
I am delighted to report that Toby has been adopted! He'll be going to his new home with Ruth and her cat Zappa very shortly. Sometimes, a good deed is rewarded. I've just come home tonight to see him looking healthier than ever. It's a good feeling to know he's going to a home where he'll be loved and cared for.
I'm still having a miniature nervous breakdown at work this week. It started on Sunday. I'd had just a terrible week before - unable to concentrate, tired. I get so caught up in everything. It's hard right now. I'm trying to prepare a process document while managing projects with essentially no process in place. Ah...life in a vacuum.
My naturopath prescribed me a remedy called Ignatia. It's for ultra-sensitive types. Moi? Ultra-sensitive? Well I suppose picking up rocks and bringing them home because I thought they were lonely would qualify. I suppose. I was just a kid when I did this. Now I just pick up stray paper clips and pens because they actually have a use, and there they are, just abandoned on the street. How can you just walk on by?
Or maybe it's just me.
Anyway, I don't know how or if homeopathy works, but if I'm experiencing a placebo affect, I'll take it. I actually got through the day without chocolate.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Questions
- Why is it when you get a blister, within two days of a scab forming, it begins to come off, exposing raw, irritated skin that is nowhere near healed?
- Joey Ramone is dead, yet Pat Boone lives?
- Why do cats need to sleep 17 hours a day? What the hell are they doing to result in such a level of fatigue? Oh I'm sorry. I forgot. Looking at me witheringly like I'm some tiresome moron does take up a lot of energy. I withdraw the question.
- In the song Cherish, Kool and the Gang asks the musical question "If you receive your calling before I awake, could I make it through the night?" OK. First of all, how's he going to know? If she receives her calling, he's asleep. And if he's made it through the night, i.e. he wakes up and she's dead, then he already has made it through the night, right? Why be so redundant? Conversely, how's he going to know she's received her calling? Exactly! Only if he was awake at the time, in which case I hope someone's ass is dialing 911 forthwith.
- Why does stupid shit like the above torture me? Why?
Monday, August 15, 2005
SPAM
I'd like to thank the various members of the spamming community out there that continue to send me email. It's nice to know that you're thinking of me and that without fail, your messages will be there waiting for me every day.
So thank you Jamal, for your notice on that Jiggy, Jiggy Hotlove viagra special. So thoughtful.
And Sa&^h! How could I forget your offer to retire all my debts in one fell swoop?
Tony H. esq. Your offer of Keep that Erection @#$ Empathy! was somewhat convoluted, but I could feel the love and concern. Thank you. Thank you.
And of course, how could I forget all those sweepstakes offers and mortgage refinancings for no fee? Spammers are such a generous community. Such a goldmine of information.
Why just the other day, Raheed emailed me AGAIN. I know it's no trouble for you to take my banking information and I'd love to hold on to that $1,000,000 US for you Raheed, but it just doesn't feel right somehow. But I do appreciate your trust in me. And if I'm going to take advantage of Larry's offer of free Cheese Whiz for life, it only seems fair that I give your offer due consideration.
Oh well. I'm off to check my email again. I'm sure I've got even more emails and wonderful offers waiting for me.
By the way, anyone interested in bulk buy Vitamin K? I got an email from Sally K. Wi*&^%lcot the other day....
So thank you Jamal, for your notice on that Jiggy, Jiggy Hotlove viagra special. So thoughtful.
And Sa&^h! How could I forget your offer to retire all my debts in one fell swoop?
Tony H. esq. Your offer of Keep that Erection @#$ Empathy! was somewhat convoluted, but I could feel the love and concern. Thank you. Thank you.
And of course, how could I forget all those sweepstakes offers and mortgage refinancings for no fee? Spammers are such a generous community. Such a goldmine of information.
Why just the other day, Raheed emailed me AGAIN. I know it's no trouble for you to take my banking information and I'd love to hold on to that $1,000,000 US for you Raheed, but it just doesn't feel right somehow. But I do appreciate your trust in me. And if I'm going to take advantage of Larry's offer of free Cheese Whiz for life, it only seems fair that I give your offer due consideration.
Oh well. I'm off to check my email again. I'm sure I've got even more emails and wonderful offers waiting for me.
By the way, anyone interested in bulk buy Vitamin K? I got an email from Sally K. Wi*&^%lcot the other day....
Sunday
Today was one of those lovely Sundays where the sky is overcast, the air is warm and the rain is steady, but light. The neighbourhood had a subdued, dreamy feeling most of the day. I was glad of it. I really just needed to cocoon today. So much so that the Marine got me chocolate covered almonds, just because I wanted them. What a guy. That's love y'all.
He even did housework for me today so I could just lounge and read. We'd piled up the cat beds on the couch so he could vacuum and then we forgot to put them back. Later on, Neko ended up lying on top, the feline answer to the Princess and the Pea. It was so ridiculous I couldn't help but laugh. It was one of those unexpected, silly delights that makes you guffaw at its absolute absurdity.
Speaking of cats, Toby is probably the cheekiest one I've ever met. He's getting over his dental surgery well and is starting to put on weight, which is a good thing. He's starting to feel less like a bag of coat hangers when you pet him. It will be interesting to see if his level of cheekiness increases as he recovers.
Last night I went out to feed Jerry. He's a cat my neighbour is adopting and we're taming him slowly but surely. I don't think he was too happy with me. He'd scored a raw sausage, which I proceeded to take away from him. I left a big pile of kibble for him, but I could tell he was debating whether or not to follow me home in trail of the sausage.
Life's like that. Just when you think you're going to score, some bastard comes along and steals your sausage. Oh well. All you can expect is a dreamy, lazy Sunday every once in a while to make up for it.
He even did housework for me today so I could just lounge and read. We'd piled up the cat beds on the couch so he could vacuum and then we forgot to put them back. Later on, Neko ended up lying on top, the feline answer to the Princess and the Pea. It was so ridiculous I couldn't help but laugh. It was one of those unexpected, silly delights that makes you guffaw at its absolute absurdity.
Speaking of cats, Toby is probably the cheekiest one I've ever met. He's getting over his dental surgery well and is starting to put on weight, which is a good thing. He's starting to feel less like a bag of coat hangers when you pet him. It will be interesting to see if his level of cheekiness increases as he recovers.
Last night I went out to feed Jerry. He's a cat my neighbour is adopting and we're taming him slowly but surely. I don't think he was too happy with me. He'd scored a raw sausage, which I proceeded to take away from him. I left a big pile of kibble for him, but I could tell he was debating whether or not to follow me home in trail of the sausage.
Life's like that. Just when you think you're going to score, some bastard comes along and steals your sausage. Oh well. All you can expect is a dreamy, lazy Sunday every once in a while to make up for it.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Happy Birthday Rosy
Today I was at my parents house to celebrate Rosy's fourth birthday. Hard to believe really. It's been such a short, yet long time.
I really like my niece at this age. Her personality is beginning to define itself, lending ever more credence to my theory that Rosy is in fact, the reincarnation of my maternal grandmother.
Rosy is, bar none, the bossiest person I have ever met in my life.
I was persona non grata today I'll have you know. There were too many new and exciting people to play with. I kept trying to get Rosy's attention, waving to her and saying hello, only to be blatantly ignored. On my third wave, I was allowed to join her and Sarah for the construction of a farm game she had gotten from her grandparents. This was all a ruse of course, as five minutes later, I was instructed by Rosy to get her an apple juice. So much for that. I felt like David Hasselhoff trying to get a part in the next Scorcese film, only to have the script for Knight Rider: Tunnel Vision 3 land on his desk. Sigh.
Today's celebration felt somewhat strange initially in that here I was at my parents house, and I knew less than half the people there. My sister's acquaintances are all very nice and really made Rosy's day special, but I didn't feel things tempered socially until the bocce ball tournament.
My father simply cannot help himself. Get a group of people together and inevitably, the fiery embers of competition alight within him. Next thing you know, you're in the midst of a take- no-prisoners Trivial Pursuit competition or in the case of today's gathering, a bocce ball extravaganza.
As usual, the women kicked everyone's asses.
The highlight for me was the Dumbarton Mob's gift to Rosy of a Harry Potter kit, replete with Hogwart's rob, wand and Harry Potteresque glasses. Rosy really looked the part, so much so that I wished there was a real Hogwart's that she could attend.
But you take what you can get in this life. Rosy settled for turning me into a frog. Apparently I'll be turned back into my normal self in time for work Monday. As you can imagine, typing this has been hell.
She was also good enough to wave her wand to start my car. I think she may have also fixed the problem with my transmission. The car ran like a dream the whole way home.
Oh and a note to any triatheletes in my readership: make sure you eat some Care Bears birthday cake before the big event. I myself will be cruising on the sugar high from my piece into the wee hours.
I really like my niece at this age. Her personality is beginning to define itself, lending ever more credence to my theory that Rosy is in fact, the reincarnation of my maternal grandmother.
Rosy is, bar none, the bossiest person I have ever met in my life.
I was persona non grata today I'll have you know. There were too many new and exciting people to play with. I kept trying to get Rosy's attention, waving to her and saying hello, only to be blatantly ignored. On my third wave, I was allowed to join her and Sarah for the construction of a farm game she had gotten from her grandparents. This was all a ruse of course, as five minutes later, I was instructed by Rosy to get her an apple juice. So much for that. I felt like David Hasselhoff trying to get a part in the next Scorcese film, only to have the script for Knight Rider: Tunnel Vision 3 land on his desk. Sigh.
Today's celebration felt somewhat strange initially in that here I was at my parents house, and I knew less than half the people there. My sister's acquaintances are all very nice and really made Rosy's day special, but I didn't feel things tempered socially until the bocce ball tournament.
My father simply cannot help himself. Get a group of people together and inevitably, the fiery embers of competition alight within him. Next thing you know, you're in the midst of a take- no-prisoners Trivial Pursuit competition or in the case of today's gathering, a bocce ball extravaganza.
As usual, the women kicked everyone's asses.
The highlight for me was the Dumbarton Mob's gift to Rosy of a Harry Potter kit, replete with Hogwart's rob, wand and Harry Potteresque glasses. Rosy really looked the part, so much so that I wished there was a real Hogwart's that she could attend.
But you take what you can get in this life. Rosy settled for turning me into a frog. Apparently I'll be turned back into my normal self in time for work Monday. As you can imagine, typing this has been hell.
She was also good enough to wave her wand to start my car. I think she may have also fixed the problem with my transmission. The car ran like a dream the whole way home.
Oh and a note to any triatheletes in my readership: make sure you eat some Care Bears birthday cake before the big event. I myself will be cruising on the sugar high from my piece into the wee hours.
Friday, August 12, 2005
The Crazy Cat Lady
Shortly before I left my last job, I had a conversation with Cocoa. She was asking me how Cookie was getting on. Cookie is a cat I have been fostering since last December. I ended up with him because my neighbour, who wanted to take him in, couldn’t at the time. Her house, to put it bluntly, was a disaster and no place in which to bring a scared, semi-feral cat. But she was moving in April and the plan was that I would keep Cookie until then. Sure enough, April rolled around and my neighbour told me a week before she was moving that she couldn’t take Cookie. I suspect that was the case all along.
It wouldn’t be such a big deal except that Cookie was the sixth cat to join my household. That’s a lot of cats. But as Cocoa pointed out,“If you had that many dogs, no one would call you a ‘crazy dog lady’would they?”
Would they? I don't know. But there seems to be a perception seared into the public psyche that if you’re female and have a lot of cats, you must be a mentally ill, socially inept recluse. I’ve even lied about how many cats I have just to run interference on this perception. I had a job interview a couple of months ago where we got on the subject of pets. I mentioned that I had cats and when asked how many, I said “Two.” Why? Well I think it’s all fine and good not to give a damn about what other people think, but sometimes you just have to be pragmatic.
How did I get here? Well the fact is that my cats, each in their own way, have found me. I can only assume that this has happened for a reason.
Therefore Friends, Romans is proud to present:
A HISTORY OF ZESTY’S CATS
Cat #1 – Mojo
Mojo arrived at my doorstep on Christmas Eve 1997. My boyfriend at the time (“the Maritimer”) was walking back from the convenience store when Mojo jumped out in front of him on the sidewalk, demanding his attention. The Maritimer walked in the door and said, “I just met the nicest cat. I don’t think he has a home.” Charmed by this, I walked downstairs and opened the door. There was Mojo. I said “Hello little honey!” at which point Mojo said “Mep!” and walked on in. It was after this that I discovered that I was no longer allergic to cats. The dye was cast.
Cat #2 – Miss Possil
Possil is my “Bette Davis” cat and takes absolutely no crap from anyone. This is why I named her after Possil Park, one of the toughest areas in Glasgow. It’s also my own miniature tribute to the strength of my maternal Grandmother and Mother, two key women in my life who have both lived in Possil Park, admired Bette Davis and have never taken crap from anyone. Possil was originally a neighbour’s cat. She was left outside constantly, starved and uncared for. My old apartment was on the top level of a house and the summer I was ill, I’d leave the window open so that Mojo could come and go from the kitchen window out on to the roof. Possil decided to avail herself of this opportunity as her guardians had been busted for drugs and arms possession (I swear I’m not making this up). Their house had been abandoned along with Possil – and her kittens.
Cats #3 & 4 – Chudleigh and Lolly
Chudleigh and Lolly were part of Possil’s three kitten litter. One kitten, essentially feral as they were outside all the time and unsocialized, had been given away with disastrous results. Of course my neighbours did what any sane person would do. They abandoned the remaining kittens, coming by once in a blue moon to feed them. Sigh.
At this time I had called Annex Cat Rescue and explained the situation.They said that the kittens would be hard to place, but if I could feed them and start socializing them, they would have a chance. I started leaving out Tupperware dishes of food on my porch. This was May. October was the first month they let me pet them. By November, Chudleigh and Lolly got brave enough to come inside, by which time I could not give them away for adoption.
Because I had named them Chudleigh and Lolly.
Cat # 5 – Neko
I was coming home one day in the summer of 2001 when a gorgeous, albeit emaciated, Siamese tabby ran out from under a car. “Mep!” she declared, taking a page from the School of Mojo, and thus Neko entered our lives. I did try to find to find her a home. My friend “Georgie” was looking for a cat at the time, as her other feline, Tomsk, was on his own. This was due to the all too soon departure of his sister Tasha. It all seemed so perfect. Until Neko started terrorizing Tomsk and depriving him of his food. By then, Neko had my spouse wrapped around her baby forepaw (tramp), essentially circumventing any sway I had in the matter. Neko joined our household shortly thereafter.
Cat # 6 – Shuggy
During the time of Neko’s arrival, there was another cat in the neighbourhood. I remember thinking at the time that he looked rather strange and I wasn’t really sure if he was a stray or not. Some cats just have a look about them. I know now that that this is because Shuggy had been starved for some months, and that the short haired strange looking black cat I was seeing was actually a long haired cat. But at the time, he was solid muscle. It was really hard to tell.
I would also leave him out food. He wouldn’t eat it all at once, a trait otherwise typical in strays. I meant to get him to my vet, but I was pretty sure he had a home and never got round to it. We moved to our new home in the fall of 2001. I left food for the new tenant and asked him to keep an eye on “Blackie” as we called him then. It was a bad call.
In November, dear little Mojo died. We believe it was due to poison that was left out by someone with a vendetta against raccoons. Unfortunately, a number of cats in our neighbourhood have died this way. We just didn’t know it at the time.
After Mojo died, I thought all winter about the little black cat we’d left behind. I’d make a point of going down my old street on the way to work to see if he was there. Finally on Mother’s Day 2002 (of all things) I was getting my sister some flowers at my preferred florist. It’s by my old apartment, and although it was quicker to keep going straight to get to the highway, a little voice told me to turn down my old street. There was "Blackie", being picked on by my old neighbour’s cat.
What I found so heartbreaking about this reunion, was that he remembered me. He meowed and dropped on his back looking for a belly rub. This is a standard show of affection in cats. Even having starved through a bitter winter, with half his ear blown off from a ruptured abscess and close to death, here was this cat trying to ingratiate himself to me, asking for help. I took him to the emergency vet and then transferred him to my own. He was F.I.V. positive and didn't have much hope of being adopted as most people are ill informed about this condition. Shuggy moved in with us about a month later once he had recovered.
Cat #7 – Toby
I already mentioned Cookie. Toby is the name I’ve given to a long haired black cat who showed up in our yard in April of this year. I saw the same signs I had seen in Shuggy; the emaciation, the short fur on his body, but long on the tail, the copper colour developing in his fur as malnutrition set in. It wasn’t until two weeks ago that he trusted us enough to stay in the yard and take food. After that, he couldn’t get enough affection. I got him to the vet last week where he had to have most of his teeth removed. They were all abscessed and diseased. He has been staying upstairs with Cookie and they are the best of friends. Cookie has really come out of his shell and I’m hoping to find them a home together.
People hear about all this and ask “Isn’t it tiring?” It is some days. “Do I wonder why I do this?” Yes, sometimes I really do. But I also acknowledge that my cats have brought very real joy and comfort to my life. They have loved me as much as I’ve loved them, and they have taught me much.
Have I mentioned that my spouse is a saint?
I don’t know why these cats find me. Maybe they pick up some sort of vibe. What I do know, is that it has been such a pleasure to give these lovely creatures a home, to see the stress leave their faces and life return to their eyes. Whenever I see Lolly relish his dinner, or Shuggy stretched out on a warm blanket on a bitter winter’s night or Possil giving Chudleigh kisses, I'm reminded to cherish life’s most simple and basic pleasures; warmth, shelter, food, companionship. My cats are living, breathing reminders of how powerful simple kindness can be.
I don’t expect anyone to do as I have done or to make the choices I have made. But I suppose this is a “Cri du Coeur” of sorts, my way of not justifying what I have done, but of at least explaining it.
Because for me, to see a sick, starving and scared cat, day in and day out and do nothing?
Now that's just crazy.
It wouldn’t be such a big deal except that Cookie was the sixth cat to join my household. That’s a lot of cats. But as Cocoa pointed out,“If you had that many dogs, no one would call you a ‘crazy dog lady’would they?”
Would they? I don't know. But there seems to be a perception seared into the public psyche that if you’re female and have a lot of cats, you must be a mentally ill, socially inept recluse. I’ve even lied about how many cats I have just to run interference on this perception. I had a job interview a couple of months ago where we got on the subject of pets. I mentioned that I had cats and when asked how many, I said “Two.” Why? Well I think it’s all fine and good not to give a damn about what other people think, but sometimes you just have to be pragmatic.
How did I get here? Well the fact is that my cats, each in their own way, have found me. I can only assume that this has happened for a reason.
Therefore Friends, Romans is proud to present:
A HISTORY OF ZESTY’S CATS
Cat #1 – Mojo
Mojo arrived at my doorstep on Christmas Eve 1997. My boyfriend at the time (“the Maritimer”) was walking back from the convenience store when Mojo jumped out in front of him on the sidewalk, demanding his attention. The Maritimer walked in the door and said, “I just met the nicest cat. I don’t think he has a home.” Charmed by this, I walked downstairs and opened the door. There was Mojo. I said “Hello little honey!” at which point Mojo said “Mep!” and walked on in. It was after this that I discovered that I was no longer allergic to cats. The dye was cast.
Cat #2 – Miss Possil
Possil is my “Bette Davis” cat and takes absolutely no crap from anyone. This is why I named her after Possil Park, one of the toughest areas in Glasgow. It’s also my own miniature tribute to the strength of my maternal Grandmother and Mother, two key women in my life who have both lived in Possil Park, admired Bette Davis and have never taken crap from anyone. Possil was originally a neighbour’s cat. She was left outside constantly, starved and uncared for. My old apartment was on the top level of a house and the summer I was ill, I’d leave the window open so that Mojo could come and go from the kitchen window out on to the roof. Possil decided to avail herself of this opportunity as her guardians had been busted for drugs and arms possession (I swear I’m not making this up). Their house had been abandoned along with Possil – and her kittens.
Cats #3 & 4 – Chudleigh and Lolly
Chudleigh and Lolly were part of Possil’s three kitten litter. One kitten, essentially feral as they were outside all the time and unsocialized, had been given away with disastrous results. Of course my neighbours did what any sane person would do. They abandoned the remaining kittens, coming by once in a blue moon to feed them. Sigh.
At this time I had called Annex Cat Rescue and explained the situation.They said that the kittens would be hard to place, but if I could feed them and start socializing them, they would have a chance. I started leaving out Tupperware dishes of food on my porch. This was May. October was the first month they let me pet them. By November, Chudleigh and Lolly got brave enough to come inside, by which time I could not give them away for adoption.
Because I had named them Chudleigh and Lolly.
Cat # 5 – Neko
I was coming home one day in the summer of 2001 when a gorgeous, albeit emaciated, Siamese tabby ran out from under a car. “Mep!” she declared, taking a page from the School of Mojo, and thus Neko entered our lives. I did try to find to find her a home. My friend “Georgie” was looking for a cat at the time, as her other feline, Tomsk, was on his own. This was due to the all too soon departure of his sister Tasha. It all seemed so perfect. Until Neko started terrorizing Tomsk and depriving him of his food. By then, Neko had my spouse wrapped around her baby forepaw (tramp), essentially circumventing any sway I had in the matter. Neko joined our household shortly thereafter.
Cat # 6 – Shuggy
During the time of Neko’s arrival, there was another cat in the neighbourhood. I remember thinking at the time that he looked rather strange and I wasn’t really sure if he was a stray or not. Some cats just have a look about them. I know now that that this is because Shuggy had been starved for some months, and that the short haired strange looking black cat I was seeing was actually a long haired cat. But at the time, he was solid muscle. It was really hard to tell.
I would also leave him out food. He wouldn’t eat it all at once, a trait otherwise typical in strays. I meant to get him to my vet, but I was pretty sure he had a home and never got round to it. We moved to our new home in the fall of 2001. I left food for the new tenant and asked him to keep an eye on “Blackie” as we called him then. It was a bad call.
In November, dear little Mojo died. We believe it was due to poison that was left out by someone with a vendetta against raccoons. Unfortunately, a number of cats in our neighbourhood have died this way. We just didn’t know it at the time.
After Mojo died, I thought all winter about the little black cat we’d left behind. I’d make a point of going down my old street on the way to work to see if he was there. Finally on Mother’s Day 2002 (of all things) I was getting my sister some flowers at my preferred florist. It’s by my old apartment, and although it was quicker to keep going straight to get to the highway, a little voice told me to turn down my old street. There was "Blackie", being picked on by my old neighbour’s cat.
What I found so heartbreaking about this reunion, was that he remembered me. He meowed and dropped on his back looking for a belly rub. This is a standard show of affection in cats. Even having starved through a bitter winter, with half his ear blown off from a ruptured abscess and close to death, here was this cat trying to ingratiate himself to me, asking for help. I took him to the emergency vet and then transferred him to my own. He was F.I.V. positive and didn't have much hope of being adopted as most people are ill informed about this condition. Shuggy moved in with us about a month later once he had recovered.
Cat #7 – Toby
I already mentioned Cookie. Toby is the name I’ve given to a long haired black cat who showed up in our yard in April of this year. I saw the same signs I had seen in Shuggy; the emaciation, the short fur on his body, but long on the tail, the copper colour developing in his fur as malnutrition set in. It wasn’t until two weeks ago that he trusted us enough to stay in the yard and take food. After that, he couldn’t get enough affection. I got him to the vet last week where he had to have most of his teeth removed. They were all abscessed and diseased. He has been staying upstairs with Cookie and they are the best of friends. Cookie has really come out of his shell and I’m hoping to find them a home together.
People hear about all this and ask “Isn’t it tiring?” It is some days. “Do I wonder why I do this?” Yes, sometimes I really do. But I also acknowledge that my cats have brought very real joy and comfort to my life. They have loved me as much as I’ve loved them, and they have taught me much.
Have I mentioned that my spouse is a saint?
I don’t know why these cats find me. Maybe they pick up some sort of vibe. What I do know, is that it has been such a pleasure to give these lovely creatures a home, to see the stress leave their faces and life return to their eyes. Whenever I see Lolly relish his dinner, or Shuggy stretched out on a warm blanket on a bitter winter’s night or Possil giving Chudleigh kisses, I'm reminded to cherish life’s most simple and basic pleasures; warmth, shelter, food, companionship. My cats are living, breathing reminders of how powerful simple kindness can be.
I don’t expect anyone to do as I have done or to make the choices I have made. But I suppose this is a “Cri du Coeur” of sorts, my way of not justifying what I have done, but of at least explaining it.
Because for me, to see a sick, starving and scared cat, day in and day out and do nothing?
Now that's just crazy.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
True Confessions
Throughout my travels in the blogosphere, I’ve noticed that many postings have a thoroughly confessional tone. I don’t exempt my own blog from this, however, the level of intimacy to which some blogs drill down is at once interesting and befuddling to me.
I suppose many bloggers find it cathartic that their turmoil, however major or minor, is not only recorded but witnessed.
I find that I too am now succumbing to this need for confession. For I feel my relationship has reached a point with you, dear reader, that I can lay it all out - the good, the bad, and the completely whacked.
Hence, Friends, Romans presents the first in a series of
ZESTY’S TRUE CONFESSIONS
- My niece Rosy loaned me her Madeline Manners Sing-along DVD. And I watched it.
- I love Def Leppard.
- When I was a kid, I’d nibble on my dog’s Chew-eez treats because I liked the salty taste.
- I have an unhealthy obsession with chocolate covered almonds.
- I have never seen the movie “Dirty Dancing”.
- I feel that chocolate for breakfast is completely acceptable.
- I can’t burp on command.
- I actually thought my hair looked good in the eighties. (C’mon ladies, you know we did! Why deny it?)
And finally, - I hate UGG boots.
There. I feel better already.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Blockbuster
Over lunch, I went to the Blockbuster by my work to return some movies.
Maybe it's just me, but I don't think "Brought to you by the award winning special effects team from Independence Day" is a major selling point for a rental.
Maybe it's just me, but I don't think "Brought to you by the award winning special effects team from Independence Day" is a major selling point for a rental.
Avoiding Corn in Canada
The above title is the name of a web page I bookmarked pertaining to food allergies, specifically (wait for it!) corn.
Almost a year ago I went to see an allergist. My visit to his office was like a living breathing Woody Allen film. The allergist was pin pricking my back and anointing me with various substance oils whilst waxing lyrical about Carl Jung.
After waiting a while, he then declared that I was sensitive to the following foods:
Wheat
Corn
Oats
Nightshade vegetables - peppers, zucchini, eggplant, potatoes, tomatoes
Ragweed, which includes anything from this plant family such as lettuce, safflower, endive and chicory as well as lavendar and chamomile.
He felt that my regular eating of these foods was contributing to my sinus infections (8 in less than a year) as my sinus membranes were constantly swollen and inflamed in revolt.
Then I went out to see the receptionist who started writing me out a cheat sheet about what foods were permissible and what foods were restricted. At one point she started writing out the nightshade vegetables and then sneezed violently.
“Oi my goodness.” She declared. “I just have to SAY peppahs and I’m reactin’.”
She handed me my list and we made a follow up appointment. I couldn’t help but feel despondent.
"Great," I thought. "one more annoying food issue to contend with."
I've always found dealing with food difficult. I've struggled with my weight all my life. And food is particularly troublesome because it's not like booze or workaholism. You can stop drinking or working too much. You HAVE to eat.
I’m now at the point where my eating of the "wrong" foods can cause immediate physical symptoms. They can be as benign as a sneezing fit or headache or as bad as joint pain and dizziness. It's essentially all hangover, no drinkin'.
And oats. OATS? What dulcet angel of the heavens thought that one up? I'm Scottish for Chrissakes. It's like a Hawaiian being allergic to pineapple!
I suppose this is all on my mind because I recently started a new job. With all due respect to my previous employers, I finally have a role where I do not have to check my brain at the door. It's quite the opposite in fact. People are actually expecting me to think and share my ideas.
I feel a happiness creeping into my bones I've not felt in a very long time. For the last few years, I've felt as if I've been in mourning, having to back burner or forget altogether, those early twenty something dreams I had when I was full of piss and vinegar and sure of my place in the world. I suppose naiveté is both a blessing and curse at that age.
What had I planned for myself? Oh fame, riches and a creative way of making a living. Then it all started crumbling away. I went to acting school in New York City and despite a good year I didn't get invited back. No degree for me. By then I'd dropped out of university and it just didn't occur to me to go back. So I went to work. A secretarial job was ok, because I could still audition and it wasn't going to last forever anyway. Why think about "a career"? I knew exactly what I wanted to do.
Then I started getting tired holding down a full time job and trying to get to a 3 p.m. audition call looking like a hippy. Then I just started getting tired. Period. On my 28th birthday I ended up collapsing. It was 16 months later before I got back to work.
Now I know what you're thinking. What the hell has all of this to do with corn?
Stay with me.
Throw in a few good heart breaks. Add a dash of new home, a tranny and engine blow out, and a very sick cat all of which I had no financial capacity to respond to and by New Year 2005, I had baked myself a really good clusterf*ck cake.
I made the decision then that my life needed to change. I wasn't going to wait anymore for the movie deal with Dreamworks to happen before I would allow myself to be happy. I wasn’t going to paddle up Niagara Falls in a canoe trying to be creative when basic aspects of my life weren’t even remotely satisfying. Instead, I decided to focus on what was bothering me at that moment and what was bothering me big time was 12 years and counting of going into work every day constrained by everyone else’s lowered expectations of me.
A major resume rehash, feedback from dear friends, work with a career coach and frankly, a gold plated pair of cahones later, I have in the past month landed a great job.
"But Zesty?" you ask "What about the corn?"
Patience.
I work in a creative district in Toronto called Liberty Village. My first day of work I sat in a local coffee haunt called The Roastery and had lunch. I thought to myself "Please. Nobody pinch me if I'm dreaming." I just couldn't believe I'd made a new career happen for myself.
I've gone to the Roastery a lot since I started. It's a weakness of mine. When I feel overwhelmed I drop good habits like making my lunch everyday and with new my job, I have been feeling a bit overwhelmed.
Since I don't make my lunch, I usually have to get a sandwich made from wheat bread. Or there may be a corn product in their food I don't know about. Of course, my sinuses have been sending warning shots.
"We know you're eating foods you're allergic too. We shall be merciless in our vengeance if you don't stop. BWAH! HA! HA!"
But one day in my second week it was so hot that on my way back from lunch, I got a Hagen Daas popsicle. Ice cream is something I rarely eat. But I got the popsicle, sat under a tree, burned in the heat and enjoyed every moment of icy vanilla and chocolaty goodness. It was probably corn sweetened. I didn't care. I just needed to savour the moment. I just wanted to grab a bit of summer for myself and for the first time in way too long, feel like I had accomplished something. Anything other than just getting by, just keeping my head above water working a crappy job, getting paid crappy money, and having my intelligence insulted for the privilege.
But I also realized then that if I could make a career change happen, why couldn't I make other changes elsewhere? I started thinking seriously about, well, Avoiding Corn in Canada. If I put in the same time and effort, why couldn't I be successful? I could make a meaningful effort to avoid foods I'm sensitive to and my body would heal. And maybe if I started taking better care of myself, I'd fit in my size 10 clothes again.
Maybe there are a few more lucky apples left for me to pick.
Works for me. I'm not allergic to apples
Almost a year ago I went to see an allergist. My visit to his office was like a living breathing Woody Allen film. The allergist was pin pricking my back and anointing me with various substance oils whilst waxing lyrical about Carl Jung.
After waiting a while, he then declared that I was sensitive to the following foods:
Wheat
Corn
Oats
Nightshade vegetables - peppers, zucchini, eggplant, potatoes, tomatoes
Ragweed, which includes anything from this plant family such as lettuce, safflower, endive and chicory as well as lavendar and chamomile.
He felt that my regular eating of these foods was contributing to my sinus infections (8 in less than a year) as my sinus membranes were constantly swollen and inflamed in revolt.
Then I went out to see the receptionist who started writing me out a cheat sheet about what foods were permissible and what foods were restricted. At one point she started writing out the nightshade vegetables and then sneezed violently.
“Oi my goodness.” She declared. “I just have to SAY peppahs and I’m reactin’.”
She handed me my list and we made a follow up appointment. I couldn’t help but feel despondent.
"Great," I thought. "one more annoying food issue to contend with."
I've always found dealing with food difficult. I've struggled with my weight all my life. And food is particularly troublesome because it's not like booze or workaholism. You can stop drinking or working too much. You HAVE to eat.
I’m now at the point where my eating of the "wrong" foods can cause immediate physical symptoms. They can be as benign as a sneezing fit or headache or as bad as joint pain and dizziness. It's essentially all hangover, no drinkin'.
And oats. OATS? What dulcet angel of the heavens thought that one up? I'm Scottish for Chrissakes. It's like a Hawaiian being allergic to pineapple!
I suppose this is all on my mind because I recently started a new job. With all due respect to my previous employers, I finally have a role where I do not have to check my brain at the door. It's quite the opposite in fact. People are actually expecting me to think and share my ideas.
I feel a happiness creeping into my bones I've not felt in a very long time. For the last few years, I've felt as if I've been in mourning, having to back burner or forget altogether, those early twenty something dreams I had when I was full of piss and vinegar and sure of my place in the world. I suppose naiveté is both a blessing and curse at that age.
What had I planned for myself? Oh fame, riches and a creative way of making a living. Then it all started crumbling away. I went to acting school in New York City and despite a good year I didn't get invited back. No degree for me. By then I'd dropped out of university and it just didn't occur to me to go back. So I went to work. A secretarial job was ok, because I could still audition and it wasn't going to last forever anyway. Why think about "a career"? I knew exactly what I wanted to do.
Then I started getting tired holding down a full time job and trying to get to a 3 p.m. audition call looking like a hippy. Then I just started getting tired. Period. On my 28th birthday I ended up collapsing. It was 16 months later before I got back to work.
Now I know what you're thinking. What the hell has all of this to do with corn?
Stay with me.
Throw in a few good heart breaks. Add a dash of new home, a tranny and engine blow out, and a very sick cat all of which I had no financial capacity to respond to and by New Year 2005, I had baked myself a really good clusterf*ck cake.
I made the decision then that my life needed to change. I wasn't going to wait anymore for the movie deal with Dreamworks to happen before I would allow myself to be happy. I wasn’t going to paddle up Niagara Falls in a canoe trying to be creative when basic aspects of my life weren’t even remotely satisfying. Instead, I decided to focus on what was bothering me at that moment and what was bothering me big time was 12 years and counting of going into work every day constrained by everyone else’s lowered expectations of me.
A major resume rehash, feedback from dear friends, work with a career coach and frankly, a gold plated pair of cahones later, I have in the past month landed a great job.
"But Zesty?" you ask "What about the corn?"
Patience.
I work in a creative district in Toronto called Liberty Village. My first day of work I sat in a local coffee haunt called The Roastery and had lunch. I thought to myself "Please. Nobody pinch me if I'm dreaming." I just couldn't believe I'd made a new career happen for myself.
I've gone to the Roastery a lot since I started. It's a weakness of mine. When I feel overwhelmed I drop good habits like making my lunch everyday and with new my job, I have been feeling a bit overwhelmed.
Since I don't make my lunch, I usually have to get a sandwich made from wheat bread. Or there may be a corn product in their food I don't know about. Of course, my sinuses have been sending warning shots.
"We know you're eating foods you're allergic too. We shall be merciless in our vengeance if you don't stop. BWAH! HA! HA!"
But one day in my second week it was so hot that on my way back from lunch, I got a Hagen Daas popsicle. Ice cream is something I rarely eat. But I got the popsicle, sat under a tree, burned in the heat and enjoyed every moment of icy vanilla and chocolaty goodness. It was probably corn sweetened. I didn't care. I just needed to savour the moment. I just wanted to grab a bit of summer for myself and for the first time in way too long, feel like I had accomplished something. Anything other than just getting by, just keeping my head above water working a crappy job, getting paid crappy money, and having my intelligence insulted for the privilege.
But I also realized then that if I could make a career change happen, why couldn't I make other changes elsewhere? I started thinking seriously about, well, Avoiding Corn in Canada. If I put in the same time and effort, why couldn't I be successful? I could make a meaningful effort to avoid foods I'm sensitive to and my body would heal. And maybe if I started taking better care of myself, I'd fit in my size 10 clothes again.
Maybe there are a few more lucky apples left for me to pick.
Works for me. I'm not allergic to apples
Monday, August 08, 2005
In My Life, I’ve Loved Them All
Just being alive, it can really hurt,
These moments given, are a gift from time.
Just let us try, to give these moments back,
To those we love, to those who will survive.
---- Kate Bush, "Moments of Pleasure"
On Saturday I attended Ian’s memorial service. It was as good as these things can get, a true celebration of somebody’s life and what they meant to people, despite the evident heartache.
An unusual thing happened to me, one of those “full circle moments” Oprah talks about. It was the first time in more years than I can count that I was only with my immediate family. My niece, and my sister and mine’s respective spouses couldn’t make the service. So there we were, just the four of us, my mother, father, sister and me. My sister and I were in the back seat, rolling through the countryside just like old times. I remember loving these drives as a child. My sister and I would pretend we were on a roller coaster.
Lately, many things are coming back to me, especially from my childhood. I don’t really understand why. They are things I haven’t carried with me and I haven’t thought about in a very long time. For example, the other day, I smelled a rose that I recently transplanted to the back yard. It has a delicate tea rose scent that I associate with childhood summers. I remembered as a four year old using my Fisher Price cook pots and an obliging rose bush belonging to my neighbour to make my own perfume. I also remember the rose bushes we had in the front walk way of our first house in Canada. I always took in a bunch of hand picked roses to my teacher the last day of school. The scent would hang in steamy air that was just on the verge of a blast of summer’s heat.
All of this came rushing back with one sniff. So strange and amazing.
The meaning of this for me didn’t really sink in until Saturday.
Death has a way of bringing everything to a crashing standstill. In thinking of Ian I’ve had a lot of time to think about my own life and where I want to go. It’s like I’ve been a fog since I heard of his passing, forced to fumble around in the opaqueness of it all. And the only way I’m getting out is to decide on my direction and go. Eventually, things have to clear.
So thinking of where to go has inevitably led to thoughts about where I’ve been, what I’ve been through and who I’ve met along the way. I realized on Saturday, perhaps for the first time in a long time, that I have been through quite a lot and that I need to stop being so hard on myself. By this I don’t mean a “trial by fire” viewpoint, but just that the sheer act of living has taken up so much space inside of me. It has this effect on all of us. I have so much to look back on and think about and I’m not even mid-way through my thirties. How will I be feeling when I am, God willing, twice this age?
Through all the changes, disappointments and heart break, there have also been some wins too and the adding of new and wonderful people to my life, like Rosy, Ragdoll, Georgie, the Marine and the Duke.
What does all this mean? I don’t know. But I do feel like I am excited about what lies ahead and I’m grateful for what’s happened so far, all of it.
From what I’ve heard, some of you are actually reading this thing. I’ll let you know what I discover. In the end, I'm just sorting myself out as I go. Aren't we all?
These moments given, are a gift from time.
Just let us try, to give these moments back,
To those we love, to those who will survive.
---- Kate Bush, "Moments of Pleasure"
On Saturday I attended Ian’s memorial service. It was as good as these things can get, a true celebration of somebody’s life and what they meant to people, despite the evident heartache.
An unusual thing happened to me, one of those “full circle moments” Oprah talks about. It was the first time in more years than I can count that I was only with my immediate family. My niece, and my sister and mine’s respective spouses couldn’t make the service. So there we were, just the four of us, my mother, father, sister and me. My sister and I were in the back seat, rolling through the countryside just like old times. I remember loving these drives as a child. My sister and I would pretend we were on a roller coaster.
Lately, many things are coming back to me, especially from my childhood. I don’t really understand why. They are things I haven’t carried with me and I haven’t thought about in a very long time. For example, the other day, I smelled a rose that I recently transplanted to the back yard. It has a delicate tea rose scent that I associate with childhood summers. I remembered as a four year old using my Fisher Price cook pots and an obliging rose bush belonging to my neighbour to make my own perfume. I also remember the rose bushes we had in the front walk way of our first house in Canada. I always took in a bunch of hand picked roses to my teacher the last day of school. The scent would hang in steamy air that was just on the verge of a blast of summer’s heat.
All of this came rushing back with one sniff. So strange and amazing.
The meaning of this for me didn’t really sink in until Saturday.
Death has a way of bringing everything to a crashing standstill. In thinking of Ian I’ve had a lot of time to think about my own life and where I want to go. It’s like I’ve been a fog since I heard of his passing, forced to fumble around in the opaqueness of it all. And the only way I’m getting out is to decide on my direction and go. Eventually, things have to clear.
So thinking of where to go has inevitably led to thoughts about where I’ve been, what I’ve been through and who I’ve met along the way. I realized on Saturday, perhaps for the first time in a long time, that I have been through quite a lot and that I need to stop being so hard on myself. By this I don’t mean a “trial by fire” viewpoint, but just that the sheer act of living has taken up so much space inside of me. It has this effect on all of us. I have so much to look back on and think about and I’m not even mid-way through my thirties. How will I be feeling when I am, God willing, twice this age?
Through all the changes, disappointments and heart break, there have also been some wins too and the adding of new and wonderful people to my life, like Rosy, Ragdoll, Georgie, the Marine and the Duke.
What does all this mean? I don’t know. But I do feel like I am excited about what lies ahead and I’m grateful for what’s happened so far, all of it.
From what I’ve heard, some of you are actually reading this thing. I’ll let you know what I discover. In the end, I'm just sorting myself out as I go. Aren't we all?
From Our Broadcast Headquarters in New York, Goodnight
There is no one, absolutely essential truth for all people. Every time I look at a coin, I instinctively want to look at the other side. -- Peter Jennings
It’s rare that someone’s own quote so aptly describes their life’s work, but if there was ever a journalist so enthused and fascinated by the human condition and its political fall out, it was Peter Jennings.
I mainly associate Mr. Jennings (I simply can’t call him Peter) with my youth. The ABC nightly news, particularly during the late eighties and early nineties was to me the pinnacle of American news casting at its best: incisive, informative and unafraid to ask difficult questions. In short, it was the antithesis of the American media landscape today, one that is cloying, sensationalistic and downright scared of the current Administration.
I remember vividly my stay in New York City in 1993. I was attending the American Academy of Dramatic Arts and I was truly alone for the first time in my life. I was another person in NYC’s endless line of dreamers, rebuilding my life from the most basic levels. Locate nearest grocery stores? Check. Find a doctor? Check. Get a phone? Check. Get a bank account? Check. Find out where Madonna lives? Check.
I arrived in late January, the very dead of winter, in a city almost dazzling in its capacity for loneliness. Sparkling skyscrapers were monoliths of anonymity; Central Park a gross white tundra ironically surrounded by the warmly lit abodes of the comfortable and wealthy.
I’ve never been as poor or as afraid as I was in New York City.
The one thing I held on to during those cold first months was World News Tonight with Peter Jennings. Along with my clothes, books – and yes I admit it – my stuffed toys, it was the one bit of home that I was able to take with me. I was able to imagine my parents and sister sitting down to the same broadcast as me, hearing Mr. Jennings deliver the news with his usual eloquence, always getting a Canadian angle in where relevant.
And what a delivery. Honestly, Jennings could have made the phone book interesting to listen to. His style was so in contrast to the stiff jaw, talking through cotton batten manner of Brokaw and the maudlin pandering of Rather. It was a part of a personal style that was so essentially his, a style bespeaking capability and competence, that made World News Tonight an experience above that of a mere news cast.
So what happened? Well like most other shows, WNT lost its way, subscribing to the “rock ‘n’ roll” format approach that panders to the lowest common denominator. “News as entertainment” was something even Jennings couldn’t conquer for me, and like a lot of other people, I just stopped watching.
But I never stopped caring about Peter Jennings. As I hear his colleagues talk today about what a loss his death is to them, I have no trouble believing it. He was a bastion of class in an increasingly classless profession. Imagine working in today's journalistic arena with someone who cared about the point, the bigger picture, the story. How refreshing that must of been. How sad he’s gone.
It’s rare that someone’s own quote so aptly describes their life’s work, but if there was ever a journalist so enthused and fascinated by the human condition and its political fall out, it was Peter Jennings.
I mainly associate Mr. Jennings (I simply can’t call him Peter) with my youth. The ABC nightly news, particularly during the late eighties and early nineties was to me the pinnacle of American news casting at its best: incisive, informative and unafraid to ask difficult questions. In short, it was the antithesis of the American media landscape today, one that is cloying, sensationalistic and downright scared of the current Administration.
I remember vividly my stay in New York City in 1993. I was attending the American Academy of Dramatic Arts and I was truly alone for the first time in my life. I was another person in NYC’s endless line of dreamers, rebuilding my life from the most basic levels. Locate nearest grocery stores? Check. Find a doctor? Check. Get a phone? Check. Get a bank account? Check. Find out where Madonna lives? Check.
I arrived in late January, the very dead of winter, in a city almost dazzling in its capacity for loneliness. Sparkling skyscrapers were monoliths of anonymity; Central Park a gross white tundra ironically surrounded by the warmly lit abodes of the comfortable and wealthy.
I’ve never been as poor or as afraid as I was in New York City.
The one thing I held on to during those cold first months was World News Tonight with Peter Jennings. Along with my clothes, books – and yes I admit it – my stuffed toys, it was the one bit of home that I was able to take with me. I was able to imagine my parents and sister sitting down to the same broadcast as me, hearing Mr. Jennings deliver the news with his usual eloquence, always getting a Canadian angle in where relevant.
And what a delivery. Honestly, Jennings could have made the phone book interesting to listen to. His style was so in contrast to the stiff jaw, talking through cotton batten manner of Brokaw and the maudlin pandering of Rather. It was a part of a personal style that was so essentially his, a style bespeaking capability and competence, that made World News Tonight an experience above that of a mere news cast.
So what happened? Well like most other shows, WNT lost its way, subscribing to the “rock ‘n’ roll” format approach that panders to the lowest common denominator. “News as entertainment” was something even Jennings couldn’t conquer for me, and like a lot of other people, I just stopped watching.
But I never stopped caring about Peter Jennings. As I hear his colleagues talk today about what a loss his death is to them, I have no trouble believing it. He was a bastion of class in an increasingly classless profession. Imagine working in today's journalistic arena with someone who cared about the point, the bigger picture, the story. How refreshing that must of been. How sad he’s gone.
Friday, August 05, 2005
Lines to a Gentleman
The wide world is all before us
But a world without a friend
– Robert Burns
I would be remiss in getting this blog back up and running, without first mentioning an event that transpired this week, specifically the sudden passing of a dear friend of the family.
The death of someone you know, even peripherally, is always a shock. The death of someone who was for me, so palpably alive, is still somewhat unbelievable to me.
Ian was not someone I knew very well or saw often, but when I did, it was always a pleasure. He had an incredible, almost insatiable energy about him. An engaged and engaging man, he was always on to the next great adventure, be it a new hobby or craft, the latest war tale from the political trenches, a great book or film he wanted to tell you about, or the most recent raccoon happening in the sanctuary he and his wife M. had at their home.
One of my most visceral and wonderful memories is the Thanksgiving Day I spent with Ian, his wife and their family along with our other good friends The Dumbarton Mob. We went up north to take in the fall colours, visit the antique shops in town and had a good long hike in the crisp autumn air before sitting down to dinner. It was the pinnacle of what a Thanksgiving should be: a good time, with good food and great friends, a chance to see your blessings all around you as you counted them. That day is a little glimmer of joy that I have carried around inside me ever since.
I think ultimately that is what life is about. How many little joys can you give to others to take with them? How many are you wise enough to accept? Ian was someone who I sense understood this on an intuitive level. He also understood the importance of living a life that was authentic for him and on his own terms, that resonated in his heart. In short, by cherishing his own unique humanity, he also cherished it in others.
As I get older, the death of those I care about becomes more relevant, an event running and rushing ever faster into the realm of possibility. The child in me wants all the “Thanksgivings” to go on forever. My spirit knows this is not the point. Instead, we learn to see these moments clearly and value them as they happen. Our lives turn into a constant ebbing of darkness and light, unbearable loss and miraculous second chances, always flowing, always a giving and a taking.
Life comes and goes on this planet. Some of our fellow travelers, like Ian, try in their own way to make it a better place. Others, as John Prine so aptly put it, “live and breathe to turn the ol’ screw.” There are “great” lives, but ultimately isn’t that a relative term? What’s important-- what counts when we all meet our ends, is that somebody somewhere pauses a moment, perhaps raises a drink and thinks “I’m glad I encountered that person. My life was enriched for having known them.”
So on that note Ian, here’s to you.
But a world without a friend
– Robert Burns
I would be remiss in getting this blog back up and running, without first mentioning an event that transpired this week, specifically the sudden passing of a dear friend of the family.
The death of someone you know, even peripherally, is always a shock. The death of someone who was for me, so palpably alive, is still somewhat unbelievable to me.
Ian was not someone I knew very well or saw often, but when I did, it was always a pleasure. He had an incredible, almost insatiable energy about him. An engaged and engaging man, he was always on to the next great adventure, be it a new hobby or craft, the latest war tale from the political trenches, a great book or film he wanted to tell you about, or the most recent raccoon happening in the sanctuary he and his wife M. had at their home.
One of my most visceral and wonderful memories is the Thanksgiving Day I spent with Ian, his wife and their family along with our other good friends The Dumbarton Mob. We went up north to take in the fall colours, visit the antique shops in town and had a good long hike in the crisp autumn air before sitting down to dinner. It was the pinnacle of what a Thanksgiving should be: a good time, with good food and great friends, a chance to see your blessings all around you as you counted them. That day is a little glimmer of joy that I have carried around inside me ever since.
I think ultimately that is what life is about. How many little joys can you give to others to take with them? How many are you wise enough to accept? Ian was someone who I sense understood this on an intuitive level. He also understood the importance of living a life that was authentic for him and on his own terms, that resonated in his heart. In short, by cherishing his own unique humanity, he also cherished it in others.
As I get older, the death of those I care about becomes more relevant, an event running and rushing ever faster into the realm of possibility. The child in me wants all the “Thanksgivings” to go on forever. My spirit knows this is not the point. Instead, we learn to see these moments clearly and value them as they happen. Our lives turn into a constant ebbing of darkness and light, unbearable loss and miraculous second chances, always flowing, always a giving and a taking.
Life comes and goes on this planet. Some of our fellow travelers, like Ian, try in their own way to make it a better place. Others, as John Prine so aptly put it, “live and breathe to turn the ol’ screw.” There are “great” lives, but ultimately isn’t that a relative term? What’s important-- what counts when we all meet our ends, is that somebody somewhere pauses a moment, perhaps raises a drink and thinks “I’m glad I encountered that person. My life was enriched for having known them.”
So on that note Ian, here’s to you.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
The B*tch is Back
Well. For various technical reasons I won't go into here, this blog has been out of commission for nearly two weeks.
BUT I SHALL NOT BE SILENCED!
As the phoenix doth rise from its ashes, so too does Friends, Romans.
There's lots of catch up, but in the mean time, you can read my latest horoscopes here.
BUT I SHALL NOT BE SILENCED!
As the phoenix doth rise from its ashes, so too does Friends, Romans.
There's lots of catch up, but in the mean time, you can read my latest horoscopes here.
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