To My Readers and Fellow Bloggers

Love and joy, come to you
And to you your wassail too
And God Bless You and send you a Happy New Year
And God send you a Happy New Year!

I Get Knocked Down, But I Get Up Again - Eventually

Well I've spent the better part of the weekend in bed and won't be at work tomorrow. I'm still trying to get on top of this sinus infection so I'll post when I'm feeling better.

I Get Knocked Down, But I Get Up Again

Five Things You Don't [or may not] Know About Me

My apologies to Ragdoll as I am somewhat late in responding. I hardly ever get tagged. Cool!

1. I was born at Hardgate Hospital in Clydebank, Scotland. [and as my father is fond of reminding me, I've been hardgate ever since.]
   
   
2. I lived in New York City for a year to study acting.
   
   
3. I love Def Leppard.
   
   
4. I have also been to Russia, Finland, Egypt and Italy and if you count airports I can technically include France, Jordan and Belgium.
   
   
5. Some things I'd like to do before I die include writing a novel, singing with Elton John, climbing Mt. Kilamanjaro, living in Hawaii for six months to study surfing and studying cooking in Paris, which I'm sure will amuse Ragdoll no end. When we were room mates I reheated Chinese food with the plastic lids STILL ON. I'm also known for my "down home smokey" ribs.
   

You Don't Bring Me Flowers Anymore

Last week, when I was feeling far worse than I am now, the Marine picked me up a beautiful bouquet of yellow roses. He's always doing nice things like this, and needless to say, it cheered me up no end.

Needing a vase, I went downstairs to our basement [or as I like to call it "Mordor-lite"] and came across one of my favourites. During my late teens, I was somewhat antiques obsessed, and I found this yellow vase with a simplistic pink and green motif drawn on it. [I also nurtured an obsession for the colour combination of pink and green, which I have fortunately outgrown.] The dealer who sold it to me mentioned that the vase was probably Italian, and circa 1930ish. It's an acquired taste to be sure, but I have great memories attached to this vase.

I was so chuffed at coming across it that I had one of those lovely "I haven't seen this in ages" moments, when all the original joy of an object comes rushing back to you. So I decided to use it for the roses.

Saturday arrived and still recovering from the week that was, I slept in until approximately 12:30 p.m. and arrived downstairs to see that the roses were not on top of the CD stand. The worse had happened. One of my feline charges decided a visit to the salad bar was in order and the result was this:



[You will notice Dear Reader, that I have exercised some artistic license with the inclusion of a rose. I feel that this most adequately imparts the pathos of the moment.]

It's certainly a more elegant depiction than what really happened, which essentially consisted of my having a miniature nervous breakdown. After such a brutal week, this was truly the cherry on the bullsh*t sundae.

Here is the suspected culprit, although I have no definitive evidence other than Neko's incessant need to eat grass.



Determined to find a ceramic restorer, I decided not to dwell on the matter. I cut the roses down and placed them in a glass.

This morning I came down and found this:



and this:



As these pictures clearly demonstrate [aside from the the fact that even when clean our floors look like total ass] Neko's debauchery knows no bounds.

Although she has excellent taste in flowers. I'll give her that.

True Enough

"Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society." - Mark Twain

Bronte and Button Hook Blouses

"How are you doing?"

Bronte was in my office today, inquiring about the state of my sinus infection. It was a rather ironic question coming from someone whose ankle was in a cast. Ended up she had chipped a bone instead of breaking the ankle, which is something anyway. At least her swims up to the pool bar will be unimpeded when she goes on vacation week after next.

I ordered the Body Ecology diet book today along with a supplement for my liver. I really need to get back on my hypoallergenic regime and I think alkalizing my system will go a long way towards helping with that. I'm going to give it a shot anyway as I really can't continue the way I'm going. I'm not getting any younger and the only way I'm going is downhill if I don't start protecting my health.

We had another resignation at work yesterday. Bronte and I were talking about it and I said that I had just decided to go with the flow. There wasn't anything I could do about it, the sitch is tough, but it could be tougher, and at the end of the day management not only knows about the issues but they are working on a plan to move us forward. Really what else is there? What is the point in worrying?

I saw our new website in action today. It's amazing to see it all start to come together. All the work, the sweat, the toil. It was a great feeling.

I also downloaded "Im Nin'Alu" by Ofra Haza today. This song popped into my head for some reason and I remember how I absolutely LOVED this song when I was a kid. I don't even know half the words because they are sung in Hebrew [I believe]. Well whatever language it is, I don't know it. It's still a kickass song.

I ended up sending Bronte "Freakazoid". Remember that? I know y'all do! She asked me if I had "Word Up" or "Wild Wild West". Oh the oooyee cheesey goodness of it all. To my shame I didn't have these two, but I think I redeemed myself by sending "Bass, How Low Can You Go?"

"I DON'T CARE! CALL THE COPS!"

Heh.

What else?

Oh yes, I went to H&M today to look for office shirts/tops whatever. I tried on a size 16 of a blouse I REALLY wanted and it was just a little to snug, not "sassy check my curves" snug, more like "every which way but loose" snug. I knew pretty much right away that the other colour wouldn't work and you know what I did? I just stood there in the dressing room for a few seconds, then I took the time and trouble to do up all the hooks on the blouse I had tried on, then I just looked at the walls and stuff. Why? Cause I didn't want to have that speedy "clothes don't fit do they?" departure from the dressing room. I wanted it to be more of a "I'm sorry, but having carefully perused myself from every angle possible, I have made the determination that this clothing is simply not suitable for me" departure.

Somewhat disheartened I went to Chapters/Indigo to see if I could get my Body Ecology book there. I ended up needing some assistance and the dude that helps me looks me up and down and says "Wow! Great outfit! You look sharp."

Whaaaaaaaaa????

I just said "Oh. Thank you." My gaydar was a little off. I couldn't tell if he was an effusive sister, or if he was hitting on me. Seriously. I had no idea. Still, I was grateful for it. It cheered me up.

Things That Go FAWUMP!! In The Night

Last Saturday was extremely windy. Our whole house was shaking. I was downstairs reading when I heard what could accurately be described as a cafuffle.

There was a whistling wind, an "EEEEESH!" sound, followed by a decided "FAWUMP!".

Then nothing.

I decided to go out and investigate as we have a very large tree in our front yard.


This tree is probably 150 years old, probably 200, and it was one of the things that sold the house when we looked at it. There's just something so nice about having a tree. I like the fact that this tree has been here a long time, in fact, probably before the neighbourhood itself even got established

It makes me wonder what this place looked like before the city began its stealthy creep west. Was this tree here? If so, why was it kept? Was it planted when the house was built? Maybe it's not so old after all. But one thing's for sure: it's pretty damn tall.


So it stood to reason that the sounds I'd heard had something to do with the tree.

Oh.Hell.Yeah.

Here is the hole in my porch roof.


I have no idea if it was ripped back by the wind or if it was hit by the branch the wind took off the tree.


This is a BIG branch, easily four feet in length and the bark that was sheered off was about a foot wide, maybe a foot and a half. The FAWUMP! I heard was the branch embedding itself in my neighbour's front yard. It was standing upright and I had to use all my newfound pilates strength to yank it out of the ground.

This was only about 4 feet away from my house's front windows and the porch. It could have been a lot worse, that's for sure.

Sigh

I thought I was being rather clever this morning as I drove into work, snapping pictures at opportune moments. It's for a new exclusive series here on Friends, Romans entitled "Zesty Life", which will include visual snippets and thoughts from my existence. Why? Because I delude myself with the notion Dear Reader that you're actually interested in this.

Of course, my enthusiasm was soon dampened by the fact that I did not bring my hook up to work in order to download aforementioned pictures. In addition, I ended up back at the walk in clinic this afternoon, on yet another round of stronger antibiotics to treat the sinus infection that just WON'T GO AWAY.

I'm just focusing on keeping a positive attitude as I know feeling like this will not last forever. At some point I will feel better, and my brain will decide to join me at work instead of staying at home to eat Cheetohs and watch bad television.

Me Tired.

Here. Look at nice picture. You like.

The Assness Continues....

I awoke this morning with cramps.

Quelle joie.

I just couldn't take anymore. There was abso-fa-lutely NO WAY I could go into the office. Between that and the pounding in my head, I just said "enough". I dispatched some emails and promptly went back to sleep for another 4 hours. I felt somewhat human when I tumbled out of bed by early afternoon.

I think tomorrow I'll be a lot better. Lord how I prayed last night. Please. Please don't let my cramps be too bad. I don't think I've prayed harder for anything in the last six months. Sad isn't it?

But it worked. Well worked in the sense that I was not-doubled-over-on-the-verge-of- vomiting, taking 3 hot baths to try and get the pain under control. Having reviewed my emails from the day, I'm really glad I didn't go in because the only words I would have wanted coming out of anybody's mouth were "Here's your drink. " Talk about an attitude problem.

Magic, In A Weekend Like Ass

This weekend was a bit of a loss. It has a resigned feeling to it, kind of like a balloon slowly losing air.

I've been on antibiotics since Monday for my sinus infection. My head still feels like it's going to explode. Slowly but surely the discomfort is travelling down my face so I know I'm getting better, but I really, and I mean REALLY expected to feel a lot better by now. Instead my progress has been marginal to say the least.

I have a number of elements working against me at the moment. Workload continues unabated. I'm just trying to keep going at this point and I don't have much energy for anything else.

Those of us in the Greater Toronto Area are now in, oh I dunno help me out here Ragdoll, about our 156th straight day of cloud cover. Honestly, now I know why some people hate Vancouver. Apparently their whole winter is like this. I'm at the point where I'd take a -10 temperature if it means getting some farkin sunshine. I'm that demented by it. You'd think my Celtic genetic inheritance would shore me up against this sort of thing, but no such luck.

And basically I just need a vacation. I have two weeks coming up at Christmas. Needless to say, it can't come soon enough. Many of us are in the same boat at this time of year.

Despite everything I am really proud of my ability to keep going. I think one of the best lessons I've gotten out of this year is not to be so hard on myself. Sure I could be doing better. The house could be cleaner. I could be doing more things at work more thoroughly. My Christmas cards could be sent by now. But in the end, I have kept going, haven't lost any extreme amount of time to illness and at the end of the day, things are getting done. Sometimes, it's ok to just do what you can.

I still couldn't help but be a little dispondent yesterday though. I woke up at 6 a.m. and stayed up. I had that too tired to sleep feeling and didn't want to go back to bed. I mulled over the idea of pilates but in the end my pounding head declared "oh hell no" and I cancelled. I got a little more sleep, and then decided to go out for some groceries to try and blow the cobwebs away. It was worth it for my budgetary triumph alone [see below Dear Reader], but I felt as if I was walking through gauze. The grey clouds were pushing down on my head like an ill fitting touque.

I hate this, I thought. I hate slaving my guts out all week, only to have the highlight of my weekend be a trip to the grocery store. And with the lack of sleep kicking in, I lose even more perspective, hating the fact that deciding what to have for dinner is quickly becoming an impossible decision, that I'm not hungry and haven't been for days, that I feel as if I've failed myself in so many key respects, that I'm mad at myself for thinking all this and being so negative before I've even made it as far as the Jams and Condiments aisle. I think that I'm just being ridiculous and I shouldn't be letting my fatigue rob me of so much perspective.

Ok. Here's where it gets weird. As mentioned, before the grocery store was my budgetary triumph. I truly felt like something or somebody sent me there, maybe because I was feeling down and just needed a little break to come my way. In addition, I'm still missing my Granny terribly, thinking of her a lot and having memories of her pop into my head at the most unusual times. I miss her, and I feel lonely in that particularly childlike way you do when you have lost a grandparent. I feel her, but I can't see, be with or talk to her.

And then in the middle of Loblaws, where I haven't been really paying attention to the soundtrack because it's been all I can do to decide between ravioli or lasagna for dinner, "Magic" by Olivia Newton John comes on.

Ok. I know we're in major fromage territory here, but stay with me.

My most vivid memories of my Granny are from my pre-teens, when she and my Granda would come over in the summers and look after us. At that time, Olivia Newton John had just released a Greatest Hits collection, and I played that tape until it was worn out, revelling in all its girly-girl glory.

I loved "Magic". It was my favourite song on the whole record. The opening lyrics are:

Come take my hand,
You should know me
I've always been in your mind,
You know I will be kind, I'll be guiding you.

Living your dream has to start now
There's no other road to take
You won't make a mistake
I'll be guiding you.

I don't know what's going on, but out of pure curiosity I've made an appointment with the clairvoyant that Ragdoll went to see. I'd like to think my Granny's trying to get my attention, that's somehow, in some way she is still alive and accessible to me, but realistically I'm buttressing myself for disappointment and expecting it to be a bust.

In the meantime, I am seriously mulling the possiblity of a couple of gin and tonics.

Great Moments In Bargain History

Friends, Romans is proud to present yet another installment of its exclusive series, Great Moments in Bargain History.
Yesterday I dragged [and I do mean dragged] my ass out to get some groceries. I decided to go the Loblaws just up from my house. Next to it is a Zellers [the Canadian equivalent to Walmart for the information of my stateside visitors.]

I had stayed late at work Friday night to get some Christmas shopping done online and mulled over the idea of ordering my niece's Easy Bake Oven from Toys R Us. But I was tired, wanted to get home and decided to order it on Monday.

Now I never go in to this particular Zellers, but my thought at the time was that they more than likely had the Easy Bake Oven, it was right there, so was I, and ultimately it would be a quick and expedient way to knock one more item off my holiday shopping list. If they didn't have it, cool. It only meant spending five extra minutes having a look.

I walk in the door, only to be presented with a sign hanging over box after box of Easy Bakes saying "DOOR CRASHER SPECIAL: EASY BAKE OVENS 60% OFF!!!

I'm sorry.

I really need to relive that moment again.

I walk in the door, only to be presented with a sign hanging over box after box of Easy Bakes saying "DOOR CRASHER SPECIAL: EASY BAKE OVENS 60% OFF!!!

Yes. 60%.

That's

I said

Can I get a







Unbelievable! Even comin' down the homestretch of '06, Zesty's bargain finding prowess remains undiminished and in full effect Romanship!

Now say it with me y'all:

HUZAH!

First Snow of the Season Today

What Are You Doing It For?

The other day I made a decision to take site meter off my blog.

True it had been fun seeing some of the search items and referrals that had brought people to this blog.

For example, "Log riders waltz" was believe it or not, the top thing that brought people here. And of course there were the referrals from the other great blogs I read that link to me and to those bloggers, a big THANK YUH. THANKYUHVUREEMUCH.

But truth be told, I found myself falling into a trap. It was the "how many people are reading my blog?" trap. And I had to pause and ask myself if I really cared about that. The truth was, I didn't.

I understand why other bloggers do care about this. Everybody's motivation for having a blog is different. Maybe you're trying to make a business out of your blogging, or have a career in writing, or want to sell ads on your blog. In some cases, fact is the numbers count.

But ultimately the reason I started this blog was that I needed to start writing again. Period. A blog really only thrives when it's updated regularly, and because of that, I knew I'd be less likely to slack off. And if I didn't slack off, then it stood to reason that I'd get writing again in a real way.

And sure enough, that's what's happened to a degree. All those ideas that I thought were going nowhere actually do have some exciting prospects. The ice of my creative inertia has begun to melt.

So with this in mind, I had to get really honest with myself. If a self-rehabilitation of sorts was the objective of the blog, then why would I care how many people were reading it? It's nice to be read. But 6 vs 60 isn't really what it's about to me. This blog is in many respects, a completely and utterly selfish endeavour on my part, a realm that is entirely mine to do with as I please.

Frankly that's enough. I knew for certain that was the case when I went to my blog the next day. I didn't see the site meter icon and could really only feel one thing.

Relief.

RATS

I've got another sinus infection, so updates here may be infrequent until I'm 100%.

It's Monday

So raise a little hell...

This is TRULY Disturbing

This site takes Tha Hoff to a whole new level.

Goin' To The Chapel

Well I'm off to my course at church tonight. It's been surprisingly devoid of fruit loops. Seriously. I thought I'd have some prime content to share but everyone is extremely nice and reasonable and the discussions are very interesting. Damn them.

In addition, one of the senior ministers asked me to talk in front of THE WHOLE CONGREGATION this Sunday. TWICE, at both the 9:15 and 11 am services. I'm getting interviewed about my first course and what I thought about it. They're apparently interviewing folks who have done various courses so that they can PR them a little better. I'm kind of flattered, yet bummed I can't sleep in on Sunday. Does that make me a bad Christian? Probably.

Anyway, thanks to Ragdoll who sent me this pic of a cat who has already found Jesus.

Heh!

This site made me laugh.

To Tha Bone

Yesterday morning started out like this:

I get to a light. Dude in front signals he's turning left at the last minute. I angle my car to the right, getting ready to pull out behind him when the light is green. Light goes green. He goes straight. I yell "A**HOLE!" We get to the next set of lights. I turn right into the crescent in front of the apartment building, go around the lights and keep on going. I notice he's turning left at this light instead, with a police car cordoning off the street and about 5 fire trucks dealing with some calamity, except he won't see it until he's turned down the street and it's too late to turn back. I laugh uproariously, feeling justice has been served.

I get to the next light and feel bad, feel like I am not myself. Maybe he just changed his mind, didn't realize I was trying to accommodate him. I've done this too. Maybe he was in his own purple world. Perhaps, just perhaps there was no agenda to tick me off.

Just over a year ago, I was over the moon about my new job. Today, I find myself in the position I always find myself in: Exhausted and lit like a Christmas tree at the least perceived offense.

I got up early this morning. I have a cold working on me and couldn't breathe well, hence I didn't sleep well. But I did watch a good show that talked about the power of our words. There was also a real nice riff about "frustrated angels" who are waiting for us to stop complaining and to start enpowering them to help us in our lives. I've been mulling over one of my books lately, the one about an angel and all of a sudden, all this angel stuff is popping up in my life. It's cool.

But last night I did a long entry about my frustrations with work at the moment. I certainly didn't say anything bad about anyone, but just gave voice to my fatigue. I've just got too much on my plate but instead of venting about it, I need to take some action and try to remedy the situation as best I can.

So angels, if you're reading this blog consider it a call to arms, cause I need all the help I can get right now.

T.T.C. [Toronto Transit Commission aka Take The Car]

I get so tired of the debate currently raging in Toronto about what to do with the TTC. The voices are never ending.

The TTC needs more money!

No – its workers need to be paid less!

We need an expansion to York University!

We should have a computerized system and do away with drivers altogether!

Allow me to indentify the elephant in the room shall I?

You can’t take the “public” out of public transit. Being around a lot of people you don't know generally sucks, so any transportation system that can minimize this factor will excel.

I took the TTC up to The Shoe Company today at lunch. It was absolute bliss; a quick, efficient run up Yonge Street, with a manageable amount of people on board the subway car. Any solution proposed for the TTC must aim as much as possible, to make this scenario the norm on transit.

What do we have instead? Subway stations that leak and creak and that are generally falling to pieces. Cars, on both subway and streetcars in which passengers are packed like sardines for at least two hours during prime commute times. Or the streetcars are so infrequent on some routes that “rush hour” is a moot point. It’s going to be hell no matter what time you board. This crowding is particularly fun during the winter when the collective coughing and spluttering turns the TTC into a petri dish on wheels.

I like the idea of public transit, just not the idea of the public. I admit it. Satre was right. Hell truly is other people. I loathe it when others infringe on my personal space. I think most people feel this way.

Then compound this with the fact that manners are at a premium in today’s society. Enroute, you are more than likely have to listen to cellphone yammerers, loud conversations, or cranked ipods. People cough on, shove or elbow you. And the chronic crowding means your forced exposure to these outrages is made all the longer.

Elsewhere, I’ve encountered the transit system Toronto is meant to have. In places like New York or London, you’d be crazy NOT to take public transit. Even the rush hour pile on is endurable due to each respective system’s speed and reach, both of which Toronto’s system lacks.

It currently takes me just as long to commute to work in my car as it does on transit. What tips the balance in my car’s favour is that I don’t have to contend with other people other than in their capacity as drivers. And with the hours I have to work right now, I simply don’t want to contend with the endurance test the TTC would put me through on a daily basis. The waits, the smells, the unrelenting noise; I could put up with any and all of them if the system was fast and efficient, but it’s not.

Things could be worse, some might say. “Crowding? Try Japan’s public transit!” they’ll holler. But you know what? Twas ever thus. Things can ALWAYS be worse and I don’t see failures elsewhere as our excuse to be lacklustre. But that seems to be the new way of life here in Toronto. Our reputation as a world class city is quickly being overshadowed by the perception that our city is a place where innovation and bold ideas go to die.

Why? Money.

Government, taxpayers, oh everyone has the will as long as their wallet isn’t involved. But whether the system remains public or goes private, someone’s going to have to pony up the cash.

This reluctance to pay is a ridiculous notion for two reasons: One – everything costs. Everything. Two – everybody pays. Everybody. If it’s not in tax dollars, it’s in time, quality of life, safety or the day-to-day grind of living in a city light years from where it could be.

I’m just thankful that I have the ability to afford to take my car to work right now. I don’t feel good about it. But here’s the thing. In its current state, I know for sure that taking the TTC would make me feel worse.

And that’s a shame.

Back In The Saddle

Well, arthritis [or a reasonable facsimilie thereof] went by the wayside this week to be replaced by an impending sinus infection. Think I've dodged it, and all being well I should be back to regular blogging this week.

Romans. Friends, Romans

My Daniel, what a big...ahem....pistol you have.

Yes! It's true! I admit it! I've been spying for the Russians! Now I suppose you'll have to subject me to merciless interrogation and a good spanking.

Wait! Where are you going? Come back!

Heh!

Hassan realizes all too late that there were some contingencies his army training simply didn't prepare him for.

The Winner of the 2006 "Not My Job" Award

Heh!

I've decided to post some images and any other stuff I find this week. My wrists are just barely holding up with work and I don't want to push my luck with more typing. But I'm better, and that's what counts.

Getting Much Better

My bones have been snap, cracklin' and poppin' more than a bowl of rice crispies.

You know, what's really ticking me off is I have a lot on my mind right now, but I can't push my luck. I'm back at work tomorrow and God knows there will be enough typing there. So I plan to be back up and running 100% later in the week. Just wanted to say hello and thanks for all the good vibes. It's working!

can't blog. have arthritis

in my left wrist so i'llbe back as soon as i can.

wuv,
zesty

The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of

I dream of an old, rambling cottage nestled in the countryside, its stone walls soaked with age. I dream of sitting in my office, staring at the sun in the garden as I mull a paragraph in my latest book, or the chorus of my latest song. I dream of enough sleep and healthy home cooked meals and time to think.

Actually an ice cold beer wouldn't go far wrong either.

"Well, that puts the cup on the bunny."

Yes, I've developed a new expression that essentially denotes the very essence of a fait accompli. My inspiration is above. Feel free to use liberally.

Heh!

I.F.O.A. – Day the Third

In which our heroines, Zesty, Ragdoll and Ms. Stone [who was formerly referred to as Atwood in a previous blog however, that is no longer viable as I speak upon the subject of the real Atwood here and wish to avoid confusion] wrap up this year’s IFOA adventure by going to see the Queen of Canadian Literatti, the aforementioned Margaret Atwood.

“You know,” Esther had remarked earlier in the day, “you sound Irish when you swear.”

“It’s Scottish actually.” I replied.

Dear Esther. I had unwittingly placed her in the path of my roiling, Celtic wrath. Truly Dear Reader it was a day that could not end soon enough. No I take that back. It was a week that could not end soon enough.

Last Friday I found myself eagerly anticipating my evening with Margaret Atwood. Since the rain was absolutely lashing, I interpreted it as a good omen and set about departing for the restaurant at which I had booked a reservation.

The restaurant was Petit Dejeuner, which I had recommended as I had partaken of a fabulous brunch there about six weeks ago. Unfortunately, our waiter appeared to have left his brain on his home planet, as it never quite got through to him that we had to be somewhere at eight. We ordered our dinners promptly at 6:30. By the time 7:15 pm arrived, we were still waiting while everyone else around us was busy nibbling away. Finally Ms. Stone had had enough and spoke to him.

Our dinner was out in another five minutes, minus the frites we had ordered – as a starter. Seriously, how long do fries take? Seriously? We ended up getting the charge removed from our bill and as we left we got an apology from the proprieter, or manager or whomever. It was too little too late really. If there were “problems in the kitchen” why was everyone else eating? Still I gave the waiter the benefit of the doubt and tipped a solid 15%, a notch down for me because I typically tip 20%. Somehow I feel my disappointment will be lost on him.

Then upon heading out to Harbourfront in monsoon like conditions, I had to contend with trying to make a left turn but not being able to because a taxi was essentially parked in the middle of an intersection deciding where he wanted to go, not being able to make another left for two full light sequences because of a cab that stopped to pick people up instead of going around a corner, getting trapped behind someone else who signalled they were turning left at the last minute, and then [and this was the final infamy] waiting at the entrance to the Harbourfront parking lot while a car stopped in front of the entrance and let out four people and then PULLED INTO the parking lot.

Needless to say, by the time I arrived at the theatre I was fit to be tied. I won’t even go into some of the other crap I encountered before the reading started.

As for the reading, what can I say? Well, that I was surprised frankly.

I’ll be honest. I’ve tended to avoid interviews with Margaret Atwood like the plague. For some reason, in all of the ones I’ve encountered I’ve found her to be rather pendantic, with the interview more akin to the tone of a university lecture. Earlier in the day, however, I had listened to a podcast of Bill Moyers interviewing Margaret Atwood at the PEN convention in New York City. It was absolutely fascinating and I really enjoyed it, That being said, Moyers is a consumately talented interviewer so I wasn’t surprised. Still, it raised my hopes.

So there I was, about to see Margaret Atwood in the flesh. Before the evening kicked off, she was presented with an award for helping to save ancient forests. That’s great, I’d just expected my first encounter to be a bit more dramatic. Instead it was a bit awkward. Atwood came out, accepted the award, went backstage, then got introduced by the host and then came out again to read. Weird.

The host was Catherine Belyea from the previous night. Atwood noted that when she had first encountered Catherine she had asked her what she wanted to do and Catherine had replied that she wanted to host a classical music show on the radio, and that Ms. Belyea was now doing that so good for her!

The audience applauded and then Atwood said “And I remember thinking at the time, dream on kid.”

It was the first of many zingers of the evening.

Margaret Atwood read from her current book, Moral Disorder. It’s essentially a novel composed of about a dozen short stories that centre on a female protagonist during various stages in her life. Atwood chose to read part of a story that takes place when her central character is in highschool. At one point she had to stop reading because she was cracking herself up. I can understand why. In highschool, every smart girl has a conversation with a cute dumb boy. That’s just the way it is.

After the reading there was an at times painful interview with Eleanor Wachtel, who hosts Writers and Company on the CBC. It wasn’t painful because Ms. Wachtel was a bad interviewer per se. In fact her questions were interesting and well thought out. However, she wasn’t good at picking up Atwood’s cues and going with them. She tended to stick to the script at all costs, which meant that Atwood essentially took the interview over. Sometimes it was hilarious. Sometimes it was plodding. But it was all essentially interesting.

All in all, after the disaster that was dinner, the evening recovered itself nicely and it was a wonderful way to wrap up another season at the IFOA.

Here’s to next year.

I.F.O.A. Day the Second

In which Zesty and Ragdoll enjoy an evening of delightful estrogenic readings.

Thursday Ragdoll attended a night of reading by four authors, namely Madeleine Thein, Claire Messud, Jane Hamilton and Janet Fitch. The evening was hosted by one of my favourite radio personalities, Catherine Belyea.

I have to admit that out of all the I.F.O.A. activities, the readings are the ones that I enjoy the most. I’m always interested in the excerpts the authors choose and their rationale for doing so. Many times, I haven’t read the books being read so I essentially glean their essence from the author’s excerpt choice.

Madeleine Thein was the first reader, choosing an excerpt from her book Certainty. The excerpt introduced the character of Matthew Lim and his reminiscence of being a child in Japanese occupied Malaysia towards the end of WWII. Thein’s novel was one of three in the evening’s readings that had war as a major thematic element. I have to admit that as much as I enjoyed this reading, there was a very structured, almost clinical quality to the writing that left me apathetic. Thein is talented, no doubt, but I didn’t really feel any compunction to care about her characters despite what was happening to them. That being said, I think I will still read this book. It is not usually the type of work I’m attracted to, and I will be interested to see if my initial impression of the novel is maintained.

Claire Messud was up next and read from her book The Emperor’s Children. It takes place in New York City and has “The War on Terror” as a backdrop as it explores the challenges of three main thirty something characters prior to and shortly after September 11, 2001. The first excerpt Ms. Messud read focused on a character by the name of Murray Thwaite. The author described him as “a prominent liberal journalist who if he was real, would be someone you would most certainly have heard of.” It was a brilliant and extremely humourous excerpt in which Murray is preparing to work on his intellectual masterpiece, the secrecy of which he guards with the ferocity of a Rottweiler in a junk yard, only to be interrupted by his daughter Marina who is currently staying with Murray and his wife. Rife with the internal explorations and motivations of the characters, it was a marvelous juxtaposition of what people are really thinking versus what they actually say. The second excerpt was similar in tone and the reading of both was complemented by Ms. Messud’s natural gifts as a performer. A modern day Dickens, another author known for the dramatic quality of his readings, she vividly brought her characters alive to hilarious affect.

The third novel to be featured was When Madeline Was Young by Jane Hamilton. Again employing “The War on Terror” theme, Ms. Hamilton chose an excerpt in which the East coast family of Mac Maciver goes to the down home Christian conservative funeral of his cousin Buddy’s 21 year old son, a soldier recently killed in Iraq. Having not seen his cousin in 30 years, the excerpt was balanced between Mac’s internal observations of the situation and the machinations of his uptight wife and neurotic daughters as they try to navigate their way through the funeral without offending anyone. There was one particularly funny "fish out of water" moment when the family are at the wake contemplating the potential consequences of choosing a cupcake with a cross on it versus one with the American flag. Based on this excerpt alone, I wouldn’t be surprised if the movie rights to this novel have already been snapped up.

The last reader of the night was Janet Fitch, who is most widely known for her debut novel White Oleander. It was chosen by Oprah for her book club and catapulted Fitch to instant star author status. I didn’t read the book, but I did enjoy the movie and I looked forward to this reading. Ms. Fitch read through several excerpts from the beginning of her new novel, Paint It Black, which takes place during the early 1980’s when the punk scene of Los Angeles was in full force. She introduced her central character, Josie Tyrell and the main event that kicks off the book, namely the suicide of Josie's boyfriend Michael and the shadow cast by his larger than life mother. I have to admit that initially I wasn’t drawn in, but by the end of Fitch’s reading I couldn’t wait to read this book. Based on what I know about Fitch’s work, this book focuses on several themes she likes to visit, namely southern California, powerful mother figures and disenfranchised female protagonists. For some reason, I felt very strongly about this novel, so much so that I bought it at the festival and had Ms. Fitch sign it. I noted that my name is spelled with “two l’s” and she laughed, saying that her daughter shares my name and says the same thing about the spelling. She seemed like a really nice down-to-earth person and I’m keeping her book as a talisman of sorts, a lucky charm to keep close by as I pursue my own writing.

Up next: A night with the Grand Dame of Canadian letters, Ms. Margaret Attwood. Don’t you dare call her Madge.

All The Leaves Are Brown

Well I've had a busy weekend Dear Reader and still two more great nights at the IFOA to tell you about.

For some reason, I woke up this blustery fall morning thinking about my maternal grandmother, and I really missed her. I've been trying not to cry all day. Nothing seemed to bring this on [except maybe PMS] but I'm just going to take some time and try to chill.

I'll bring you up date early this week.

Peace out and Be Well.

Readings and Warblings

Well it was another grand night at the IFOA. Will be back with a review shortly, but in the meantime, check out this video offering.

For what is better than singing a duet? Why singing a duet with someone who is totally hammered of course!

I dont' know who Amy Winehouse is, but just when you think she can't get any worse, she does. Major props to Charlotte Church for keeping it together. This kind of infamy is priceless y'all.

I.F.O.A. Day the First - Part Three

In which our heroines Zesty and Ragdoll have their day finished by good chatter.

Ragdoll and I ate our French fries and mulled, over books, life, work and dreams.

Then we were off to our last session of the day, an interview with Sarah Waters, author of The Night Watch [I discussed this book in Part One].

The interview was in the Brigantine Room at York Quay and it was rather nice. It was set up with tables and candles with rows of chairs in the back. My only complaint is that these chairs are made of hard plastic and are one of the most uncomfortable things I've ever had to sit on. We also had to endure these same chairs for the roundtable.

Surely Harbourfront Centre can do better than this crap? Surely.

Her Cuteness, [Ms. Waters] arrived. She and her interviewer, the awesome Susan G. Cole, were introduced by Ibi Kaslik, author of Skinny.

Note to moderators and interviewers everywhere. If you want to do a great job, take a cue from Ms. Cole. She had obviously done her homework and asked some pointed and thought provoking questions. She touched on topics such as the overt sexuality [lesbian and otherwise] in Waters' books, the creative process. Ms. Waters' own "out" status as a lesbian and her fixation with the Victorian period to name just a few. Ms. Water's answers were very interesting and despite the all too tall man who sat in front of me and made rumbling coughing sounds throughout the talk, the session was over before we knew it.

[And by the way, I'm just observing the coughing. I know the poor fellow couldn't help it and I hope he's getting over something as opposed to coming down.]

It was a fabulous end to what was overall, an excellent first outing at the I.F.O.A. The rain had even stopped by the time we were leaving. Go figure.

I.F.O.A. Day the First – Part Two

In which our fearless heroines Ragdoll and Zesty fight the wily and malevolent forces of interminable discussion.

With eight minutes to spare, Ragdoll and I made a frantic dash across the Harbourfront parking lot [in lashing rain of course] from Queen’s Quay to York Quay for our next session, a Roundtable Discussion.

Ragdoll was somewhat disappointed in this state of affairs as she was hankering for some French fries and was starting to come to the uncomfortable conclusion that the decaf latte she had ordered at breakfast was in fact nothing of the kind. Oy. Da jittahs. Da fever Romanship!

If it were not bad enough that she was somewhat unwell and denied the small, albeit sacred pleasure of a good frite, we had to endure a roundtable discussion that has probably succeeded in discouraging me from ever attending another one at the I.F.O.A.

I attended a roundtable last year and having checked realize that I didn’t even bother to blog about it. Nor can I remember the subject matter. Having thought on the subject of roundtables a bit more, I’ve determined that my problems with them are essentially as follows:

If you don’t have a good moderator, i.e. one interested in guiding the structure of a discussion instead of just hearing everyone including themselves talk, it’s essentially the kiss of death.

It’s my personal preference, but I’ve realized that to a great degree I'm not that concerned about what writers think in the sense that listening to a group of them warble on, as opposed to an interview with one of them, just isn't that interesting. I care about what writers write, not necessarily their discussions and opinions on how best to write, or the war in Iraq or the validity of blue paint versus green paint for the walls of a writing room.

The topic(s) for discussion will inevitably be far too broad to be discussed in any real manner within an hour. Nuff said.

Case in point, the roundtable Ragdoll and I attended was with Nicole Krauss [A History of Love], Colson Whitehead [The Collosus of New York], Deborah Eisenberg [Twilight of Superheroes] and was moderated by David Eddie [Housebroken: Confessions of a Stay At Home Dad].

The topic? Fiction versus Non-Fiction.

Sigh.

First of all as Ragdoll points out, didn’t we all cover this issue ad naseum earlier in the year with the whole James Frey debacle? Enough already.

Secondly, I don’t want to hear a bunch of fiction writers’ talk about non-fiction and what defines it. Semantics are interesting to mentally churn, but not an especially interesting topic for an observed discussion.

I felt for the moderator in that he was obviously a bit nervous, but there was no guidance provided for the discussion at all. It was a plodding mess that covered such general topics as 9/11, the nature of inspiration, and “does writing make a difference in the world?” And that was before we got into the questions [some of them ridiculous] from the audience.

At one point a woman asked if the writers ever worried about hurting their readers' feelings. It was all I could do not to stand up, unleash my inner Yazmar and declare that woman "a damn fool" to one and all.

I would say that overall, Nicole Krauss and Colson Whitehead were my favourite panelists. I admired Ms. Krauss because she was asked about how it is to live with another writer, her husband Jonathan Safran Foer and she refused to answer. It’s redundant. Do the male spouses of female writers get asked the same question? I doubt it. Zadie Smith probably has to endure the same nonsense.

I also really liked Colson Whitehead because he was not only very humourous throughout the discussion but when he was asked about the “vast freedom” writers enjoy in this part of the world, he said it was a question he wasn’t sure he could or should address because “As a black writer, would I have even been here 20 years ago?” Right freakin’ on Colson.

I love it when people just call the numbers on the crap metre, know what I mean jellybeans?

The discussion was mercifully over in about an hour at which time Ragdoll and I were able to finally obtain sustenance after discovering that that French fries were not in Queen’s Quay, but were in fact in York Quay where we had just been. We got large orders since we’d burned off so many calories with our double parking lot mambos.

Up Next: Bridge over Untroubled Waters. Susan G. Coles executes a skillful interview with the author of The Night Watch, redeeming my faith somewhat in the concept of hearing writers talk instead of read.

I.F.O.A. Day the First - Part One

Yesterday, Ragdoll and I engaged in the annual delirium that is Toronto's International Festival of Authors. Now in its 27th year, I was introduced to it last year by the aforementioned Ragdoll and it is now an event I eagerly anticipate.

What I do not eagerly anticipate is the rain, which seems without fail to accompany Ragdoll and I to every reading we attend. Shall we break our soggy curse this coming Thursday evening? It remains to be seen Dear Reader.

Yesterday's festivities were started off with a delightful brunch with girlfriends. We've recently reunited with some women of old, handmaidens if you will of Zesty and Ragdoll lore. "Attwood" couldn't make it as she had a cold, but "Alcott" and "Pavlova" were in attendance. We brunched and kevetched whiling away our 2 hours with Remembrances of Meadowvale Past and well brewed coffee.

It was one of those meetings where I had a singular moment. I mentioned in passing that I'd had a nervous breakdown when I turned 35. Granted, it only lasted about 5 minutes but that's besides the point. Alcott asked me why and I warbled on about how I felt I'd had plans, they hadn't worked out, I'm not doing what I'm meant to do, yadda yadda yadda.

Then Alcott said that she thought age was just a state of mind. That she'd gotten through a divorce that at the time seemed overwhelming and that in the end, there is always the possibility of renewal, of a new beginning for everyone.

I'm a total dweeb. Thank you for inspiring me Alcott and giving my mental keister the kick it needed.

At any rate, off to our readings...

I should mention that Ragdoll sported a rather fetching black pea coat and a gorgeous Roots bag. It was fierce y'all. I had green sneakers on and wore ill advised blue eye shadow. But everything essentially matched, and Ragdoll told me that she thought my pilates was doing wonders. My ass is disappearing. That is truly a wonder.

The first author was Bernice Eisenstein who read from her book I Was a Child of Holocaust Survivors. It is both a prosiac and visual novel, and she showed the visuals in the book that accompanied her sections as she read. Ms. Eisenstein delivered two fascinating excerpts that to me were metaphorically brilliant. The first examined the Holocaust as drug like, something she needed continuing hits of in order to define herself. "H" as she called it. The second was envisioning her father as a cowboy liberating Auschwitz. He had loved American Westerns, and she reimagines him, not as a human being who can barely recount his tale, but as an avenging angel of sorts that paces into the camp to defeat his Nazi enemies in one fell swoop, or as she brilliantly put it "It was time to Arbeit and Macht some Frie." It was her laser like wit in relating such horrifying events that I found incredibly moving. The applause for her reading was sustained, and I doubt there was a dry eye in the house.

The next author Ami McKay was honest, and indicated she needed a moment to compose herself as Ms. Eisenstein's reading had been so moving. Ms. McKay's novel The Birth House centers around a female midwife protagonist contending with amongst other things, the explosion in Halifax Harbour in 1917. The explosion occurred when a WWI munitions ship collided with another, and it is the most devasting non-nuclear explosion ever recorded in terms of the carnage that occurred. She read two excerpts, one with her protagonist contending with the spontaneous labour of the city's women that was brought on by the explosion. She then read another excerpt about vibrators.

No I'm not telling you. BUY THE DAMN BOOK.

After a brief break where I picked up my requisite amount of informational brochures with which I shall do nothing, we returned for the two remaining readings.

The third reading was by Rosemary Sullivan who read from her most recent non-fiction work Villa Air-Bel: World War II, Escape and a House in Marseille. It is the true story of a collective of artists who fled Paris as the Nazis advanced. The house was their haven as they awaited rescue. My impression of Ms. Sullivan [and it is just that - I don't know her from a hole in the ground] is that she personifies to a great degree that somewhat sanguine, "aren't we clever" quality that you pick up at events such the festival. But if I'm honest, I'm really just jealous of her more than anything. She is obviously brilliant, a fierce intellectual and the sense of drama and emotion she brings to her non-fiction work is simply exceptional. I would say that despite Ms. Eisenstein's beautiful reading, it was Ms. Sullivan's book I was most interested in reading later. If I am ever any kind of writer, I would want to be one like Rosemary Sullivan, one that has complete command of my work's subject. She interjected her excerpts with observations from instances in her life, compellingly making the point that the approach of all dictatorships seem obvious in retrospect.

The fourth author, and one I keenly anticipated as Ragdoll raved about her book The Night Watch, was Sarah Waters. What can I say? She is British and utterly adorable. You just want to pinch her cheeks and put her on your mantle piece because she's so cute. I know in writing this that I am being absolutely ridiculous, insulting even, but folks the woman is damn cute. Like I'm talkin' Bambi cute here.

Ok now that that's out of the way, on to Ms. Waters' book. It's about several characters in London during the blitz. The compelling aspect of this book is that it starts in 1947 and then goes back in time to 1941 as the book progresses. It is only at the end that the characters' eventual states make sense. She read one excerpt of two lesbians wandering through London's ruins in the black of night, on the cusp of declaring their mutual affection for each other. It was brilliant. The second dealt with another main character, a female ambulance worker named Kay who is called to a bomb site to rescue survivors.

After that, it was off to our next session with eight minutes to spare.

Tune in tomorrow for Part Two: Ragdoll and Zesty enter Redundant Roundtable Hell. Abandon all hope, ye who enter this discussion.

Poetic Interludes

Friends, Romans is proud to present another installment of its continuing series, Poetic Interludes.

Ode to A Wet Sweater in Autumn

Oh wet comely sweater
lying there on the ground,
thou cursed thing,
lost and never found.

Once you were fuzzy,
Once you were warm
Now you lie on the sidewalk
As pedestrians swarm.

You lowly state hurts me,
So much I feel ill.
Would it have been all that much
to drop you off at Goodwill?

But no here you are
amongst those walking and bicycling
I hope that the city,
picks you up for recycling.

Great Moments In Bargain History

Friends, Romans is proud to present another installment of its exclusive series, Great Moments In Bargain History.

It's a double dizzle fer shizzle y'all.

First, I required a replacement Oral B electric toothbrush. I've had one for, oh I dunno, about 15 years that didn't charge up anymore because the battery went HOOYAH! Erring on the more frugal side, I thought that surely I could get a replacement battery and not have to get a whole new toothbrush package.

I was close. No new battery, but a new brush unit. Cost me $30.00 instead of the package cost of $114.00.

Advantage: Zesty.

We have also been in need of a toaster oven. The Marine McGyvered some wires so our old one could keep going. Yah, I know. Not the safest but we've religiously unplugged it when not being used.

Today I saw beautiful Oster Toaster ovens at Sears, and not only that, they were six slice capacity, enough to send the Marine to grilled cheese heaven. I've been researching them extensively and decided to go after work as even with Costco's omnipotence, they could only offer a 4 slice Oster for $69.99.

Said six slice was $89.99 with 15% off.

But wait. There's more.

As I entered Sears, a friendly voice said to ignore the rain outside and start our Christmas shopping. And to help out, the first hundred people would get a certificate worth $10 dollars in Sears Superbucks!

I like saying that. "Sears Superbucks." "Sears Suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuupaahbucks."










Grand total for the toaster oven, taxes in: $77.06.

HUZAH!

Like Livin In A Powder Keg and Givin Off Sparks

"McGyver", one of the developers I work with has Itunes, so I regularly send him songs. This Messenger conversation all began innnocently enough when I sent him a copy of "Drop It Like It's Hot" by Snoop and Pharrell.

Zesty says:

do you have this already?

McGyver says:

lol yeah i think so

Zesty says:

k

Zesty says:

do you have Total Eclipse of the Heart?

Zesty says:

KIDDING

McGyver says:

lol whats that?

Zesty says:

OMG!

Zesty says:

That classic, CLASSIC video by Bonnie Tyler

Zesty says:

you know, blonde chick

Zesty says:

boy's school

Zesty says:

their eyes are glowing

Zesty says:

I sound like a moron

McGyver says:

lol

McGyver says:

have no idea who that is

Zesty says:

OH> MAH >GUH

Zesty says:

please hold

Zesty says:

rats

Zesty says:

I can't find the video

Zesty says:

you know the song

Zesty says:

"turn around"

Zesty says:

"every now and then I get a little bit lonely and you're never comin' round"

Zesty says:

"turn around"

Zesty says:

oh forget it

McGyver says:

ohhhh

McGyver says:

yes

McGyver says:

yes

McGyver says:

i know now

Zesty says:

THANK THE LAWD

Zesty says:

lol

Zesty says:

I feel so freakin' old

Zesty says:

thank you

McGyver says:

i can hear her in my head now

McGyver says:

turn around

Zesty says:

oh I'll turn around ok

McGyver says:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tNcPbjw6ZhI

Zesty says:

oh fer chrissakes

McGyver says:

i guess no one really knows the real title for this song

Zesty says:

you're telling me!

Zesty says:

you make me WAIL

McGyver says:

lol

Zesty says:

this is a freakin' classic

McGyver says:

i've never actually seen the video

Zesty says:

oh you should watch

Zesty says:

not to be missed

Zesty says:

a classic of the 80's cheese pantheon

Zesty says:

the glowing eyes will send you over the edge

Zesty says:

but I remember at the time everyone was all like "wow. this is SO amazing."

Zesty says:

brutal

McGyver says:

lol im trying to find it

Zesty says:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tNcPbjw6ZhI

Zesty says:

dude you just sent me it

McGyver says:

oh

McGyver says:

lol

Zesty says:

and the gothic mansion at the beginning, hilarious

McGyver says:

i thought you were talking about another song for some reason

Zesty says:

they just titled it wrong

Zesty says:

this is getting painful

McGyver says:

the words "not to be missed" stood out to me as the title of a song

McGyver says:

lol

McGyver says:

k i must be drinking too much coffee or something

McGyver says:

lol

This Probably Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time

Proof positive that sometimes, it's just better to go with the original. Now is truly the time, for you and I to huddle close together.

Speaking of Ralphy

Check this out. Proof postive that there is in fact a God.

Operation Pudge Nudge: Meet Ralph

It's official!

All my Ralph Lauren casual pants and cords, the ones that haven't fit for five years, now fit in spades.

Oh Ralphy. It's good to be back.

Apertures

"If I had a photograph of you or something to remind me,
I wouldn't spend my life just wishing." - A Flock of Seagulls

On Saturday my father and I went to my Granny's apartment to go through family pictures. My Dad's mother is in her early 80's, sharp as a whip and can take more punishment than a Timex. Currently she's contending with a herniated disc. She recently had her eyes operated on, has an ongoing heart condition [post bypass] and recently defeated breast cancer.

Bette Davis was right. Growing old isn't for sissies.

A few weeks ago I went to my Granny's for a lunch. We had a great day, and my Dad and I agreed to come back to go through some family pictures. Apparently, my Granny had been wanting to do this for a couple of years as she's on a merciless clutter busting campaign.

I suppose I also wanted to go because at 35, my Granny is my last surviving grandparent. It's quite something to still have a grandparent at age 35 and I know that the time we have left is short.

After a lunch of delicious sandwiches, [Thank you Starbucks. I'd highly recommend the Turkey Stuffing sandwich by the way.] we started going through boxes of photographs.

I'm one of these people that can look at pictures of anything and anybody. I suppose in what I anticipate will be a well funded retirement, I will take up photography as a hobby. I was fascinated by it in grade school. I loved taking pictures, going in the red lit room and watching an image appear like magic on the photo paper.

I particularly love pictures of people. I wonder what their thoughts, hopes and dreams were when the picture was taken. I wonder if they couldn't wait to leave. I wonder if they thought anything at all. I wonder if the photographer loved their subject.

I don't know much about any of my grandparents and I probably know the least about my paternal grandfather. But there he was, a young twenty something man galavanting around Clydebank with his brothers and mates, a newlywed, a young father, a new middle-aged Canadian immigrant, a grandfather, a very sick man living out his last months.

I find as I get older that I've begun to relate to everyone completely differently. People who came before me are particularly ripe for mental rejigging. The past has been this other worldly realm, inaccessible and distant. Then I look at a picture of my grandfather taken when he was younger than I am now and his humanity becomes more relevant and tangible to me. He was a kid once too, with hopes and dreams and fears. His time here doesn't seem so distant. And it seemed to all go by in a flash.

I see my own life starting to take the same photographic shape. I see a baby rejoicing in being held by her Daddy, I see a cute blonde toddler grumpy with a black eye and waiting for a plane [I'd walked into a shopping cart. Yes. Even then I was setting the standard by which all others would be measured.] I see an elementary kid with glasses, an awkward pre-teen who thought she was gigantic and was nothing of the kind, a teenager who just didn't appreciate how pretty she was.

I saw pictures of my Aunt Jean who died far too young, who I talked to far too little and who on some days, I miss too much.

And then as I looked through more pictures, I imagined my grandmother as a singularly bright young woman who was denied the chance to go to school, who was a young mother during the Nazi blitz of the shipyards, who raised a family, who still marks the birthday of the four month old baby girl she lost to crib death, who is now a great grandmother.

Can photographs ever really impart the joy and pain of a life?

I saw my Grandmother, sitting in her chair, reliving all these photographic memories as they had actually happened and their subsequent emotional residue. At one point, my Granny was looking at a picture and said "God. I'm the only one still alive."

And I decided in that moment, that when I look back on that picture, the one where only I can remember the people in it as they were when they lived and breathed, that I want the memories to be as happy and thoroughly lived through as possible.

Life is truly too short.

Hello

A busy weekend Dear Reader. More to come shortly.

New Ventures

I've started a new blog, and you can check it out here.

Operation Pudge Nudge: Shoppin'

I felt so bad this morning. I slept in and didn't get to work until 9:40 a.m. My boss was all "whatevs" about it. I apologized for being late but he said "Well, you put in a lot of extra hours. It all works out in the end."

I so heart my boss.

With my exploits in sleep slutdom on Monday, I've been a little out of synch. I woke up at 4 a.m. yesterday and just stayed up, worked all day and then went to my friend Dallas' place for a great dinner. She made this amazing shrimp and tortellini dish with sundried tomato pesto. What I love about Dallas is that we don't see each other for months, but when we get together it's like we just spoke on the phone yesterday. Our conversations are always epic, ranging in topics both mundane and monolithic and after we're done, I feel like I've had a day at the spa.

I toddled home at 11:00 p.m. The Marine's now calling me "24 Hour Girl." Heh!

Today I had a minor triumph. Desperate for some new clothes I went out at lunch. It's now official. I'm a full fledge size 16 [down from a 20] and I can now fit into size 14 tops [formerly 1X]. So obviously my pilates is paying off bigtime. It was a really great feeling and well honestly, it was just great to get some new clothes. I still got my standard issue black pants, but I did throw in a nice mandarin cut blouse [black with red/white embroidery] new jeans and new pin stripe pants that are primarily brown.

Then I went to H&M and bought my niece Rosy this to-die-for pink cardigan with flowers on it. It reminded me of a light violet one I had at her age. Oh how I loved that sweater. It had flowers along the collar and I thought it was the pinnacle of style. I really thought I was something else in that sweater. I also got her a teal coloured cordouroy skirt.

God I just realized that my size 16 Ralph Lauren cords may truly fit once again. Will advise Dear Reader. Will advise.

At Last

I have found the website of my dreams.

Crack out some insulin y'all!

Words of Wisdom

Here are some quotes I've come across recently. I like them.

"Happiness often sneaks in through a door you didn't know you left open." - John Barrymore

"Luck? I don't know anything about luck. I've never banked on it and I'm afriad of people who do. Luck to me is something else: hard work - and realizing what is opportunity and what isn't." - Lucille Ball

"If people only knew how hard I work to gain my mastery, it wouldn't seem so wonderful at all." - Michalangelo

"Failure is the condiment that gives success its flavor." - Truman Capote

"When patterns are broken, new worlds emerge." - Tuli Kupferberg

"Since no one is perfect, it follows that all great deeds have been accomplished out of imperfection. Yet they were accomplished somehow, all the same." - Lois McMaster Bujold

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.......

This morning I woke up feeling really and truly like death. I was absolutely hollowed out, save the congestion that gurgled threateningly in my chest. Last Monday I had gone in at 10 feeling exactly the same way. The result? I essentially kept a chair warm and got a minimum amount of things accomplished.

I think "it's" all catching up with me. Don't you wish your life had an "OFF" switch sometimes?

I emailed in to work that I would not be in, battened down some hatches and went to back to bed at 8 a.m. I woke up at 12:30 p.m. I had this strange dream involving my pilates teacher. We were driving in her car, which was really my Dad's car, to go and get cat food. She said to me that all the stuff I had been eating was like glue in my body, and I had to stop having muffins in the morning, that they weren't doing me any good at all and that I needed to be prepared for my body going through some changes.

Sheesh.

I eventually crawled downstairs, got some toast and tea, watched a Life and Times show on Moses Znaimer, talked to the Duke a little and then went back to bed for another 2 hours because it was all too much.

An extra eight hours sleep should surely be enough to get me back up and running. Surely.

Tomorrow is another day.

Operation Pudge Nudge: Cracklates

Well another four pounds are gone Dear Reader. My progress may be slow, but it is progress all the same.

This week something unusual happened. Despite a week that was very tiring for a myriad of reasons, I couldn't wait to get to my Pilates session this weekend. I'm not dreading exercise anymore and I honestly never thought that would happen.

In fact, I know I'm going to have to do some more sessions on my own this week too, just so I don't lose my marbles.

All this from a once a week pilates class. I've hit session five and now there's no turning back. It's' amazing how powerful baby steps combined with persistence can be.

Well, seeing my ass shrink is a good motivator too.

Honk If You Love Jesus

"Sitting in church every Sunday doesn't make you a Christian anymore than sitting in a garage makes you a car." - Joyce Meyer

Well I'll get right to it. My Christianity 101 class surpassed all my expectations. I really thought it might be quite dogmatic and glum. It was anything but, and one of the nicest and most interesting evenings out I'd had since Ragdoll's birthday dinner.

I arrived at St. Paul's just at 7:30 p.m. and I must admit I was somewhat puzzled. The minister with whom I had exchanged emails told me to go to the Peaker Room downstairs in the church. Now when I sang in the choir, we had to walk underneath the church and go up the stairs that brought us to the back so that we could sing our first hymn as we walked to the altar. The basement was quite cavernous and dark, with the original foundation stone showing and rusty pipes lining the ceiling.

It's now been completely transformed into administrative offices and meeting rooms. There is also a glass atrium being built that connects the main church to the side buildings. It's really something. In fact, St. Paul's is just majestic. There's simply no other word to describe it. I gasped a little when I first came in and saw the congregation area with all its stained glass, stone columns and ornately carved wood. I admit it. I'm shallow and vain and I expect nothing less in my place of worship. My church is duh-ressed y'all.

So off I trundled through the basement, the Peaker Room nowhere to be found. Just as I was about to turn around I heard someone laugh, went in that direction and ta da! The Peaker Room. Problem was my meeting had been moved and I had walked right by the room my meeting was in.

So I arrived, sat down and got my name tag. The minister, Jennifer, was talking about the purpose of the course, which was to give a basic introduction to Christianity's concepts. It doesn't focus on why Catholics do this and Anglicans do that and Baptists do something else. And she also said that no questions were off limits.

I really liked the structure of the course. Jennifer would speak for about 10 minutes on a given topic, and then we would discuss our thoughts about it in two separate groups. I thought the group would be full of newbies like myself, but it was the opposite. There were three senior citizens in the group, David and Christine, a lovely couple from Ajax and Frank, another fellow who lived close by. Funnily enough, they were all from England originally and had decided to take the course as a way of reconnecting with their faith. Then there were about four middle aged folks, Fred, Lisa, Monica and another lady whose name I can't remember. I think it was Stacy.

Monica had been introduced to the church early at Sunday school as a child and Stacy had worked for years on St. Paul's Out of the Cold program. Monica wanted to "go back to basics" as she put it and Stacy was really honest and admitted that her work on the Out of the Cold program had given her a case of compassion fatigue and she was trying to shake that.

Fred and Lisa were trying to get their heads around the concept of proof of God's existence and how they could see God in their everyday life. They are both very intellectual and analytical people who admitted they struggled with this, Lisa in particular.

Then there was Mark our group leader, who is studying at Wycliffe College to be a minister. We were the youngest people there, and I was certainly the only newbie. We got round the table introducing ourselves with nine minutes to spare. When Fred our timekeeper noted this, I said "Yah! Dream Team!" and everybody laughed. It broke the ice.

Our discussions through the evening covered such topics as: What is God? Are we here by chance or is there a purpose to our existence? Why would some people not be in a relationship with God? What is sin?

Actually this last question was my favourite part of the evening. I learned something very interesting, which was that in the Biblical context the concept of sin is not really about sinful acts per se. The Biblical concept of sin is primarily the idea of being away or apart from God. Acts of sin, lying, stealing etc. are indicative of a broken relationship with God. So it's like there's big S "Sin" which is a virus, and then there's small s "sin" or sinful acts, which are the symptoms.

Now those services I was in as a choir member make so much more sense. All that talk about, "we're sinners", "we're in sin". I remember thinking "Uh. Can we just lighten up a little here folks?" In this new context, it doesn't seem so morose frankly.

Another interesting topic for discussion was how people feel about God or the concept of God. Some of the reactions discussed were, hostility, indifference, fear and confusion. Mark asked if anyone would be brave enough to talk about if they had had any of these feelings. So I, who of course know no shame, said "Dude. I'm confused."

So Mark asked me why and I said "Because I feel as if God is with me and around me all the time but I don't have a way of really connecting. I've felt this same feeling in the middle of the forest or in a church and yet I feel as if I have no way of talking to God even though I know God, or at least some kind of larger, benovelent presence is there."

The group looked stunned and said nothing for a moment. Mark looked like he was contemplating asking me to marry him.

Then Lisa said something very interesting. She said that she was a social pyschologist and that in her world all feeling is pathologized. Bad feelings are problems to be fixed. She also said that her first introductions to religion were very negative so she has the opposite problem; how does she get the feeling of God? And then after that, how does she get to a point where she can trust her feelings even if there is nothing tangible for her to interact with? How can she trust that what she feels is enough?

"I really envy you." She said.

Monica noted that being with God can be like a road trip and sometimes you get lost. "Maybe" she said "you just need to enjoy the journey more and not worry so much about having the map right now."

Good point.

Then Frank said that he had struggled with a feeling of hostility towards God since his wife had died. You could see the lonliness in his eyes, and my heart just went out to him. It occurred to me that maybe he was trying to reconnect with the church to gain some fellowship and not feel so alone. Some people have some awful burdens to bear yet you wouldn't know to look at them. I always get a good reminder of this every once in awhile. Thursday night it was Frank.

Then we broke for tea, coffee and brownies. Brownies y'all.

Praise Jesus. Is this my church or what?

The evening was a smorgasbord of philosophy, history and debate. I really found it very interesting and stimulating. Jennifer then wrapped the evening up with a recounting of the Prodigal Son story and then we had a prayer to finish up. She asked God to give us all to have a safe trip home and a good night's sleep.

I got home in record time and slept like a rock.