Out of the Inkwell

In the Land of Oz (Part 4 - Bondi, here we come!)

2007-01-13T13:36:00.000-05:00

Finally, on Wednesday, we took a trip out to the famous Bondi Beach - by bus! - to see the Sculpture by the Sea exhibition. It was well worth the trip! Bondi is very impressive all on its own ...

... and the series of 110+ sculptures laid out all along the coast just added to the experience.

Some of the sculptures were downright whimsical,

while others were equally appealling, but took a bit more thought,

and a few were just … odd.

Luckily we bought the exhibition guide which provided some explanation of what we were looking at. Even so, it was still a bit tricky at times.

After stopping for a late lunch at this beachside cafe ...

... we hopped a bus back to the apartment so we'd have enough time to pack before our flight the following day. I ended up with a bit of a sun/windburn, but I can say we really enjoyed our day at the beach.

The following morning, we checked out of our hotel and checked in to our flight up to Cairns, Queensland. But that’s a tale for another day …

In the Land of Oz (Part 3 - Am I blue? Maybe, maybe not!)

2007-01-13T13:04:00.000-05:00

On Monday, we decided to get some real Aussie culture, so we headed off to a really interesting – and free! – exhibition at the State Library on convicts who escaped (sometimes successfully, more often not) from the penal colonies. The stories were like something out of a "boys own" adventure - ranging from crossing the Pacific in an open rowboat to cannibalism and adoption into aboriginal tribes. Fascinating tales, each and every one, and they really gave you a sense of the character of the place at that time. Which was, in a word, NASTY!

Tuesday we took a very educational and entertaining day-trip to the Blue Mountains – this huge mountain range about an hour and a half west of Sydney. [The Blue Mountains are, by the way, neither blue nor mountains, as it turns out. Who knew?]

Our small tour - about 20 people or so – was led by a really great guide, who also happened to be a proper Aussie bloke. Among the highlights were the sheer cliff-faces of Table-something-or-other Mountain,

a bush hike with a rather sad-looking waterfall at the end of it (caused by very low water levels due to a severe drought),

a rather-too-exiting ride on an incline railway (which seemed almost perpendicular to me!)

followed by a really interesting and informative walk through a temperate rainforest.

Oddly, it reminded me a lot of the west coast of Canada (except for the giant fern trees and the lyre bird we spied among the undergrowth). The walk finished up with a cable-car ride back to the summit of the mountain.

We also got to view a 400+ year-old aboriginal rock carving of a kangaroo - I was amazed to find it was just off a little side street in a residential area. No barriers or anything!

Then we visited a National Park where we got to view the real thing – wild kangaroos! – up close and personal. Because they’re protected as long as they’re in the park, the kangaroos didn't have any fear of humans and just ignored us as long as we didn't get too close. One of the kangaroos had this enormous joey in her pouch, but all we could see were these huge feet hanging out almost to the ground. I could understand the long-suffering look on her face. (Sometimes it's just impossible to get the kids to leave home!)

On the way back down the mountain we got another taste of true Aussie culture. It was Melbourne Cup day (the premiere horse race Down Unda – its something like Ascot Day in Britain: hats, alcohol and horses), and our guide turned on the radio so we could hear the race. To our delight, the race ended with a nose-to-nose finish with two relative unknowns taking the prizes. The Olympic Stadium (our next stop) was a bit of a bust after all that excitement, but we did enjoy the ferry ride back to Sydney down the Paramatta River.

In the Land of Oz (Part 2 - Sydney ... sharks, jellyfish and a sneaky platypus or two)

2007-01-03T17:23:00.000-05:00

[Now that I've FINALLY got the pictures working, I'm going to break up the travelogue a bit to make things easier to post. Please bear with me as I try and sort things out ....]

The next day – Sunday, I think – we ended up at the Sydney Aquarium. Expensive, but well worth a visit. Among other things, they had about a gazillion different kinds of tropical fish (small, pretty, and very quick)...

a crocodile (big, lazy, lots of teeth)...

a variety of sharks (big, lazy, lots of teeth),

and some electric-blue jellyfish (big, lazy, no teeth at all).

And that's not all. There was also live coral (not so big, very lazy, teeth TBD), a few impressive eels (big, NOT lazy, too scared to look at the teeth), some Fairy Penguins (little, cute, VERY not lazy, and no teeth but some pretty sharp-looking beaks), and, finally, a couple very adorable platypuses -- or do I mean platypi? (not as big as I thought they'd be, surprisingly lively, and EXTREMELY hard to photograph - as you can tell!).

There were even two underwater tunnels where you could watch the seals (in one pool)...

and sharks and other dangerous-looking critters (in another pool) swim right over top of the crowd.

[All of the seals, BTW, were ones who had been injured or who had formerly worked in shows and wouldn't have been able to survive in the wild. They lived in a fairly large saltwater pool that mimicked their natural environment, at least according to the posters …] Apparently, the sharks really enjoyed the way the water current flowed over the tunnels – it was like a Jacuzzi, I suppose – so you’d often see them plastered on top of them just hanging out - like this ...

TO BE CONTINUED …

In the Land of Oz (Part 1 - Sydney ... It begins!)

2007-01-02T18:03:00.000-05:00

Hi folks. No, I haven’t run away to join the aborigines or been killed by a giant man-eating koala bear (thanks for your kind concern). For some reason, the computer has decided the world-wide-web is simply too much for one small piece of electronic equipment to cope with and has a sobbing tantrum in the corner every time we ask (ever so nicely) whether it might possibly consider hooking up to the Internet – even just for a little while. So, as a result, I’ve had to wait for a slight lull at work … an occurrence on par with speaking with a real live person when you call a Customer Support line … to catch up with you.

So, with my sincere apologies for the delay and no further ado, here’s the rundown on the first week of Ink’s Aussie Adventure …SYDNEY. [And, yes, I finally got the photos to work ... YEAH!]

The flight to Australia was pretty much what you’d expect – long, boring, and EXTREMELY cramped. All I can say is thank goodness I had the sense to invest in a 6 GB MP3 player (a Sansa, if you’re interested) and a pair of Senheiser earbuds before I left.

After doing a rather decent impersonation of a sardine for 24+ hours, it was heavenly to finally get into Sydney, stretch, walk and pick up the bags … in my case literally – I think I’m the only person in the world who still doesn’t own one of those wheely-suitcases with the handles! The weather was relatively cool almost the whole time we were there – around 17-20 degrees Celsius (no, I don’t know what that is in Fahrenheit) – and cloudy with the occasional shower. Not unpleasant really, but also not precisely suited to the light summer gear I’d brought with me. I practically lived in jeans and my leather jacket the whole time we were in Sydney.

Our hotel – actually a very nice serviced apartment – was right downtown, so we* could walk to most things we wanted to see or catch a bus or taxi with relative ease. [*Eds. Note – “We” refers to Ink and her travelling companions, a.k.a. “Mum” and Mum’s friend “R.” Ink informs us that Himself was unable to get four weeks off this time round, but is a sure bet for the next trip Down Unda.]

After dropping off our bags, the first thing we did was seek out the closest (decent-looking) coffee shop and collapse there in a jet-lag stupor until the caffeine kicked in. Then we strolled down to The Rocks - one of the main ferry terminals, with a great view of Sydney's Harbour Bridge ...

... and the Opera House -

and had a ride on the monorail that serves the downtown core. The first thing I bought was an umbrella (collapsible, in a charming floral pattern), since I naturally forgot to pack one.

We spent most of the following day at the National Maritime Museum. The one in Greenwich is better, I think, but Sydney’s version did sport some really interesting exhibitions on underwater life, aboriginal canoe building, the Australian navy, and the ways Aussies have used the sea for both recreation and commerce. They had a truly stunning/shocking presentation on the disastrous 1998 Sydney to Hobart race in which at least 7 or 8 people died and literally dozens of boats were sunk when a huge, unexpected storm caught many of them at sea.

After the museum, we hopped a ferry ride (literally – it was just pulling out as we got there) to the main terminal (i.e. The Rocks, where we'd walked the day before), and took a short stroll around the outside of the Opera House (didn't have time to do the inside tour just then). We couldn’t help but laugh at this big group of teenagers or early-twenty-somethings all dressed up as pirates, who were dashing about the Opera House "plaza" ambushing unsuspecting Asian tourists who were getting their photos taken. First they'd shout "Photo! Photo!" and then surround the astonished victim in suitably piratical poses. TOO funny - and once the tourists got over the surprise, they really seemed to get a kick out of it as well.

That evening, Big Brother “S” flew in from Melbourne (where he lives, works and occasionally plays) to spend the weekend with us, and we ended up going to Chinatown for supper. There were coloured lights and Asian pop everywhere, and hoards of people strolling about just enjoying the show. Most of the restaurants (and there were literally dozens, one after the other) had fetching young things accosting passers-by with a smile, a menu and a pressing invitation to step inside. We chose one (or rather it chose us) and enjoyed both the meal and the atmosphere.

TO BE CONTINUED ...

This time next week ...

2006-10-26T15:23:00.000-04:00

I will be on an airplane ...

Somewhere over the Pacific ...

On my way to ... (wait for it) ...

AUSTRALIA!

For FOUR WEEKS!!!! Of VACATION!!!!

... Ok. Maybe my life doesn't so much suck after all. :)

I'm not sure how much time (or Internet access) I'll have while Down Under, so I might be out of touch with everyone for a few weeks. I'll post my adventures (such as they are) when/if I can ... otherwise expect some EPIC blogging from me the first couple of weeks of December.

In the meantime, I'll be thinking about you.

Be well. Be happy. Take care of yourselves.

«hugs»

Ink ... the World-Traveller.

Waste Not Want Not

2006-10-16T19:12:00.000-04:00

When all is said and done, I lead a thin, sterile little life. It hurts to write these words, and it hurts to know they’re true. But they are.

My life – this precious thing – is wasting away by moments. I work, I eat, I sleep, I read newspapers and novels and I watch t.v. I shop for groceries and do housework. I play the piano – alone – and I knit. I don’t go out, because I don’t have anyone to go out with (Himself is very content with a quiet, solitary life) and I wouldn’t know where to go if I did.

I didn’t mean it to be this way – my plans were quite different, really. I was going to be … wonderful. I was going to be generous. wise. passionate. fun. loving. beloved. strong. I was going to make a difference – to someone, somewhere. I was going to be happy.

So what happened?

In a nutshell, I happened. I have known (in my heart of hearts I have known) that I am simply Not Good Enough. Not smart enough. Not friendly enough. Not wise or strong or fun enough. Not decisive enough. Not competent to be in charge. Not loving enough. Not worthy.

So instead I play it safe. I’m cautious about what I do, whom I let in to my life, what I choose to experience … and what I choose to avoid. I indulge my self-doubt with a rich diet of “I-couldn’t-do-THAT-s,” and ignore the fact that I am starving myself of life. And I AM starving – for richness, for passion, for depth and meaning and purpose. For, ultimately, some kind of connection with the world.

[Does this sound self-pitying? Yup. Al-right-y then, let’s add another loop in the “not good enough” chain. Hmmm, I think I’ll call this one “Too whiny.”]

Over the past year or so, though, I have finally started to understand what is meant by the saying “What you fear, you create.” I am angry that I have spent so much of my life feeding this gluttonous child of fear and doubt – this spiritual cannibal – who is both myself and not myself. But I also know it is time to let go, since my anger simply sustains the beast.

While I’m nowhere close to fear-free yet, I can at least now see my enemy/myself for who – and what – she is. And, you know what? She’s just not good enough. NOT. EVEN. CLOSE.

Instead, I am turning my attention to my thin, neglected waif of a life. She doesn’t deserve to be hungry and afraid. She hasn’t done anything wrong. Nothing at all, except that she doesn’t stand up for herself very well. And, what’s more, she has waited patiently for me to discover a simple, startling truth. When I am not afraid, I feel beautiful. I become beautiful. And we blossom.

Blub ... blub ...

2006-10-04T12:00:00.000-04:00

I am almost literally drowning in paper this week.

A little while ago I was assigned the role of "chief editor" for our division. In real terms, what this means is that virtually every document, presentation and "formal" e-mail to be shared outside our group gets run by me first.

While I am usually quite happy to use my (considerable) powers of pedantry for the greater good, I have been suffering a deluge of documents - electronic and paper - over the past few days as a big deadline looms. I am juggling, at current count - two documents that need to be finalised before tomorrow morning, one presentation and one document that need to be reviewed by the end of day tomorrow, and another document that needs input by Friday. One more item should arrive on my desk(top) sometime on Tuesday ... and I don't dare think any further ahead than that.

At the same time, I'm trying to keep up with my own (full-time!) job - which involves a fair amount of "quick-and-dirty" research, a lot of writing, much bugging of people for information, and many, many, MANY meetings.

Actually, I think I might just about be able to cope if one-or-another of my colleagues didn't keep popping into my office every half-hour to let me know about THIS, or make sure I was aware of THAT, or reassure themselves that I haven't forgotten about THIS THING OVER HERE.

Don't get me wrong ... I really like my job. I work with smart, funny and supportive people, the work itself is pretty interesting, and I'm intrigued by the process and tactics involved in achieving consensus, support and, ultimately, approval. Overall, I am the proverbial happy camper.

I'm to the point now, though, of being strongly tempted to put a sticky-note on my computer saying "Gone for tea. Back in 2010. Until my return, just write the damn thing yourself."

Well, at least the tea is a possibility ....

Can you find the faces?

2006-09-27T14:50:00.000-04:00

Sorry to be posting so little these days. Work is extremely busy right now - back-to-back meetings for days on end! - and the home computer has, wouldn't you know it, gone all wonky (I believe that's the technical term).

So, until I get my life running a little more smoothly here's something to keep you amused. I used to love solving these kinds of puzzles when I was little.

How many faces can you see in the picture below? [There are supposed to be 9]

The wind and the rain

2006-09-19T09:30:00.000-04:00

Do you believe in always,the wind
said to the rain
I am too busy with
my flowers to believe,the rain answered

(e.e. cummings)

... I'm with the rain on this one.

Style…ish?

2006-09-08T17:19:00.000-04:00

A co-worker has just told me she really likes the outfit I’m wearing today.* Given that I seem to receive a similar comment at least once every time I wear this particular ensemble, it would seem that this style and colour suit me very well. Which is nice, right? I have external, objective confirmation that I look good and can feel confident about my appearance – at least on this particular occasion.

There’s just one thing. I don’t really care for this outfit or like how I look in it. I tend to wear it when I’m out of other ideas or clothes, and I always go through the day feeling a bit … well … schlumphf-y. Which makes the positive reactions I’ve received from quite a few people around the office all the more confusing.

You have to understand that my own approach to clothes is … quirky. I have never been able to keep track of what’s in or out in any given year, and I loathe buying something for a season and tossing it. I also grew up on a steady diet of movies from the 1930s and 40s, so what looks good to me tends to reflect the styles of a (much!) earlier era.

As a result, I gravitate to classic, tailored garments that can be worn without too much effort until they actually wear out. (For the record, my oldest item is a full black calf-length skirt with white pin-dots that my Mum bought me when I was fourteen or fifteen. After 20+ years, it still looks like new – I swear, the fabric must be made of Teflon! – and I still get compliments when I wear it.)

At the same time, this approach has left me disconnected from – and, consequently, a bit disoriented about – what looks good to other people. When I encounter a situation like today, I wonder whether my fashion sense (such as it is) is hopelessly out of whack. Do I need to be taken gently (or not so gently) by the hand, like those poor souls on those makeover shows, and shown what “really” looks good on me?

[Note – I’ve only watched a few of these shows, but my favourite so far is one in which the two British hosts try and make over a flamboyant hairdresser with long, curly brass-red hair who, having been given her “style rules,” promptly goes out and blows the entire bundle on the colourful (and, yes, trashy) clothes she wants to wear. I hated one I saw in which the two American hosts ambushed a rather bewildered 40+ year-old mother of two and promptly threw out every one of her much-loved “theme sweaters” (you know – the ones with pumpkins and black cats, or reindeer, or happy flowers and bumblebees on them). Ok, they were not the most stylish of garments, but they made her happy and reflected her rather sweet, gentle nature. By the end of the show she was tweaked and teased into a hip mamma, but the poor woman looked so uncomfortable in her new personality I wanted to knit her a nice new pumpkin sweater myself.]

Part of me – the remnants of that gawky, sweatshirt-and-unfashionable-jeans-wearing teen that was – is convinced I am, and will always be, a fashion illiterate and need all the help I can get. The other part – the cool, collected Katherine Hepburn wannabe – says that I know exactly what looks good on me and the real problem is that it’s nearly impossible to find clothes that are truly stylish rather than just “trendy.” The reality, like most things, is probably a bit of both.

Under the circumstances, I will be seriously considering the compliments I’ve received about this unloved (by me) outfit. Who knows, I may choose to broaden my internal style guide. Or maybe I’ll just decide that some of my co-workers are the ones who are really in need of a makeover ….

[* Editors Note – For those of you who are wondering, Ink’s outfit consists of a pair of loose-fitting grey/beige trousers and oversized shirt-jacket in a soft “brushed-cotton” type fabric, and a sleeveless butter-coloured rib-knit mock turtleneck. The ensemble is completed by a pair of beige pumps, large gold leaf-shaped earrings and a gold rope necklace.]

Bbbbrrring …Bbbbrrring ….

2006-08-28T15:22:00.000-04:00

Hi there … yeah, it’s me … well clearly I AM still breathing or we wouldn’t be having this conversation … uh huh … uh huh … *glances at watch* …. uhhh huhhhh ….. Yes, I’m still really, really busy at work ... Actually, it's going pretty well, but there’s still a lot to be done … Well, of COURSE I miss you! Look, don’t I still drop by whenever I have a few minutes? …. I know it’s not like a proper visit, but it’s the best I can do right now … When will things be back to normal? Well, I’m not sure exactly. It depends on what the boss thinks … No, I can’t say when that’ll be … No, I really don’t know … Really …. No, REALLY! … Alright. Maybe by the end of this week – maybe next – I’ll have some free time … right … yeah … No, I’ll let you know … Yes I WILL! ...‘K then. I’ll be back in touch soon. Bye for now!

Swamped

2006-08-09T17:14:00.000-04:00

I've just had a "surprise" project dumped into my lap - again! - so I'll won't have much time to post for the next little while. I'll keep up to date with your lives as much as possible, though ... Promise!

In the meantime, think kindly of me and my incipient tendonitis!

Essentials?

2006-08-04T09:41:00.000-04:00

Today, in my purse, I am carrying:
- 1 wallet
- 1 chequebook
- 1 chequebook holder containing additional cards (membership, business, etc.), stamps, taxi chits, and a paper tape-measure
- 1 cellphone
- 1 cellphone recharger
- 1 tampon
- 2 pill boxes containing ibuprophen (a.k.a. Advil)
- 1 pill box containing Tylenol 2
- 1 “Power Bar” sport energy bar (chocolate – peanut butter flavour)
- 1 glasses case (navy blue) containing 1 pair of clip-on sunglasses and a cleaning cloth
- 1 glasses repair kit
- 1 half-empty bottle of clear nail polish (for repairing runs in stockings)
- 1 small bottle of hand sanitizer, two-thirds full
- 1 squeeze-bottle of moisturiser
- 1 hard-backed, spiral-bound notebook (red, 5 ½” x 3 ½”) containing to-do lists, references, addresses and phone numbers, and other miscellaneous scribbles
- 1 paperback novel – A Letter of Mary (Laurie R. King) – with bookmark
- A map of downtown Kingston
- Ticket stubs for a concert by Measha Bruggergosman that took place last March
- A wallet-sized 2006 calendar
- A Victorinox “SwissCard” (like a swiss army knife in a credit card)
- A solar-powered calculator
- A pair of ear-plugs
- A copy of my weight-training programme
- 1 silver hoop earring (I have no idea where its mate is)
- A small blue velvet jewellery box – for putting my earrings in when I go to the gym
- 4 bus tickets
- 2 bookmarks
- A 1910 postcard of a woman in pyjamas posed by a turned-down brass bed (I am planning to have it framed)
- A small sewing kit
- One of those up-market “shoelace” things used to hang your id-card around your neck
- A pair of folding scissors
- My business card
- Himself’s business card
- A broken watch I’m planning to have repaired (it used to belong to my mother)
- Kleenex
- No fewer than seven hair elastics (various styles and colours)
- 13 bobby pins
- A pair of tweezers
- Two eyeliner pencils (both brown)
- Lipstick
- Face powder
- An emery board
- 1 peppermint candy stick
- 3 spearmint hard candies
- 1 ½ rolls of Breathsavers (wintergreen flavour)
and
- A bunch of keys

My co-worker carries:
- His wallet
- His glasses in a case
- 2 keys

Hmmmm.

Doldrums

2006-07-31T13:39:00.000-04:00

the doldrums

a. A condition of dullness or drowsiness; dumps, low spirits, depression.
b. The condition of a ship in which, either from calms, or from baffling winds, she makes no headway; a becalmed state.
c. An intellectually non-plussed condition.

Sigh.

Currently becalmed in an intellectually non-plussed condition.
Please send inspiration ... or Skittles. I like Skittles.

Sucker-Punched

2006-07-21T16:36:00.000-04:00

We found out last night that my brother-in-law and his partner are going to have a baby – the first in this generation of our families. For the record, they are both great people who will make marvellous parents and I am filled with profound gladness that, all being well, I will soon get to be an auntie to a very special little person.

I am thrilled by the thought of being Auntie Ink, and am already making plans about what I will knit for the baby (or babies, I suppose). Even though BIL & Co live across the country and I probably won’t even see the ankle-biter terribly often, just the thought of having a niece or nephew to brag about makes me puff up with excitement and pleasure.

But that isn’t all there is – even though it should be.

This is why.

I have dreamed for a very, very long time now of holding my own baby in my arms, of feeling a tiny creature announce itself with a kick from deep inside, of snuggling a warm, sleeping, trusting body on my lap, of clapping madly when the second sheep on the right remembers her (or his) line in the school play, of decorating birthday cakes and knitting mittens and shopping for the perfect back-to-school outfit. I have imagined what it would be like to see my mother’s eyes, my grandfather’s frown or my own pointed chin settled in a soft round face, or how I would giggle about how my child and my husband both play with their hair when they’re concentrating. I have wondered what it would be like to be there every day as an extraordinary little being grows and learns and becomes both more wise and more foolish. And I have been afraid I wouldn’t be good enough to do the job right.

In short … I have dreamed of being called Mummy or Mom or Mama. But it’s never going to happen. Not for me. Not ever for me.

The doctors have never worked out what is wrong, have never determined why my body will not – cannot – nurture a new life. And so, for four too-long, too-short years of infertility treatments (running the full gamut, including some experimental stuff) every month brought new hope and then it brought new pain. Finally, the toll – emotional even more than financial – grew too high to bear and we agreed it was enough.

That was five years ago. And I still grieve. I grieve for my lost child who never was.

Most of the time, I don’t think about it. There are twinges of course, every once in a while, but I am not jealous of other women’s good fortune. In fact, I get a great deal of pleasure watching a mother carrying her sleeping child out to the car, hearing children laugh as they play in the park, or even cuddling a co-worker’s new infant. I am tremendously, and unreservedly, happy for those woman who can do what I cannot … and I wish them all – each and every one – safe and well.

My grief is a thing apart from the world. It belongs to me and is mine alone. It is in some ways the child of my heart, created and sustained by – and for – me. It is, I suppose, a memorial to my little one that I have never seen.

I thought, after five years and more, that I had grief contained. I took the joy that I feel for other women, other mothers, and believed that I’d put my life in perspective and was moving on. I really thought my grief had become a gentle thing, settled and rounded by long acquaintance, no longer capable of anything more than a gentle ache of nostalgia and “what if.”

Until last night. My brother-in-law’s wonderful, exciting, unexpected news has made me realise I have not finished grieving. Not by a long shot.

And so today I have cried. And I have cried. And I have cried. And I know now that part of me will always be crying.

And the rest will dance.

Sister and Ink’s Excellent Adventure, or A Tale of Two Big Girls in One Small City (The 2006 Edition)

2006-07-17T17:39:00.000-04:00

[WARNING: This is an epic post – a real roller-coaster of a ride crammed with sizzling gypsies!… Well, not really. But it is long. And things occasionally jingle.]

Some of you may remember that around this time last year, Sister StaceyPatrick and I got together for a girls’ weekend in Kingston, Ontario.* Well, we had such a great time that I jumped at Sister’s offer to arrange a repeat performance this year.

[*See "The Sister and GovGirl do Kingston" (Aug 15). I used the name “GovGirl” in my pre-blog days.]

On Friday afternoon, the good Sister took the train up from Toronto (approx 2 hours) while I drove in from Ottawa (approx 2 hours) and picked her up. Once again, we chose to stay in the Linden Room at the Green Woods Inn, a lovely B&B just outside of town run by the sweetest British couple – Nigel and Tessa. They remembered us from last year – including my dietary restrictions (no melon or pork, thanks!) – and were just as charming and gracious as we remembered.

After checking in and unpacking our bags, we took a taxi into town – Yeah! For once, I was NOT the designated driver! – and met up with Sister StaceyPatrick’s very own sister-in-law at Chez Piggy, the most famous restaurant in the area. The restaurant itself was packed, but, oddly, we didn’t have to wait very long for a table on the patio (which they run on a first-come-first-serve basis) and so I got to enjoy my first-ever Mojito – and the Sister got to sip her Cosmopolitan – while lounging in the warmth of a very pleasant summer evening.

[Chez Piggy’s patio, BTW, is one of the most pleasant I’ve ever been in. It’s situated in the spacious inner courtyard that was formed by the meeting of four or five limestone buildings. Access is through a couple of different pedestrian walkways, or through the restaurants or shops themselves. Chez Piggy’s has grown a whole variety of flowering summer plants on the patio… including a large grapevine sporting real, if still unripe, grapes. The whole place has a thoroughly European feeling to it, and is perfect for truly “getting away from it all.” What’s more, the food is as luscious as the location.]

We spent a good three hours or so at the restaurant, drinking, eating and gossiping, followed by a long stroll around the downtown core to work off some of the food and drink. Our progress was leisurely , if not completely aimless, since the Sister and I were really out to “case the joint” for the following day.

You see, Kingston is simply stuffed with bookshops – second-hand, specialty and discount, not to mention a store specializing in belly-dance gear (it had just closed for the day when we found it last year…grrr!) and a certain jewellery store that the Sister … well, I … patronised last year, much to the delight of the sales-girls. Getting through them all in one day required, shall we say, a certain degree of planning. So, plan we did.

Saturday turned out to be perfect in virtually every possible way – although it started off with some very ominous looking clouds and what my Mum calls a “good soaking rain.” Doing our best to ignore the weather … and the fact we’d only had about 3 hours of sleep after staying up gabbing most of the night … we enjoyed a delicious breakfast – fresh OJ; fresh fruit, nuts and natural yogurt; thick french toast made with real challah (a type of egg bread) with raisins, seasonal berries and maple syrup; croissants, butter and jam; and, of course, lashings of coffee (Tea for me, actually. What can I say? I’m a rebel.).

Our inn-mates (inmates?) were two lovely Italian couples – who spoke limited English – and a pleasant German family – who spoke limited English. Despite the language barriers … or perhaps because of them … we managed to solve most of the world’s major crises by the time the third round of coffee rolled through. We also discovered that the daughter of one of the Italian couples and Nigel and Tessa’s son were (1) married, and (2) due to have a baby that very day. Excitement and good wishes ensued all round.

We arrived in town (I drove this time, since we would definitely want someplace to dump our packages) just after 10 a.m., with lowering grey skies and threatening sprinkles the whole way but no proper rain. I thought about looking for a jacket and/or an umbrella but – fortunately, as it turned out – decided to wait and see what the day brought. So we began at the belly-dance store.

The proprietor of The Sacred Circle was a friendly, relaxed woman who chatted happily with the good Sister about their mutual acquaintances and experiences in the Ontario belly-dance community as we browsed through hip scarves, canes, beaded headpieces and other and sundry bits and pieces of belly-dance gear. While we were there the heavens, as the saying goes, opened. Real Noah’s ark stuff. So we stayed a little longer – which turned out to be a good thing.

In addition to a snazzy new triangular hip-scarf (very colourful and jingly in all the right places), the Sister spied an unusual pendant. She’d been looking for a new pentagram to replace one she’d lost, but when she picked up the pendant, it turned out to be, in fact, a Star of David set in an intricately chased “wreath” of leaves and flowers. The odd thing is that it “reads” as a pentagram, even when you know that it’s not. The pendant could have been made especially for the Sister – who is, as many of you know, both Jewish and Pagan. And who knows, perhaps it was.

By the time we left, the rain had stopped, and the clouds were thinning. It was turning into a beautiful, if hot, day.

Now, I’m not going to give you a play by play of our bookstore adventures. [you can stop applauding now, thanks!] Suffice it to say that we visited 7 bookstores during the day, and Sister StaceyPatrick went home with 15 books while I came back to Ottawa with 16. [That means I win!]

Although the book-binge took up most of our day, we did manage to stop long enough for a small feast at a Thai restaurant, and then, later in the day, an iced chai tea at The Snoozy Goat … or was it The Sleepless Goat? … The Dopy Goat, perhaps? … Some cud-chewer with problematic rest cycles, anyhow.

We also, surprise surprise, managed to spend (and I use that word advisedly!) some time at the same jewellery store we dropped into last year. Sterling is small, but it carries some really beautiful and unusual silver jewellery (they’ve got a little gold as well, but silver’s definitely their thing), and has the friendliest staff I’ve ever met. They actually remembered us from last year – right down to the pieces we bought. [See Sister StaceyPatrick’s blog for the details of THAT story.] Needless to say, they were more than a little pleased to see us back again, and we were pleased to find just as much gorgeous stuff there as ever. I walked out with two pairs of gold earrings (which I was looking for) and two silver necklaces (which I wasn’t) ... oh, and I don't need to worry about the Sister's birthday present again this year. The good Sister was just as successful, coming out with two(?) necklaces and a bracelet. The girls didn’t squeal this time, but then, we didn’t have the advantage of surprise either.

We finished up the day by wandering along the waterfront and watching some of the buskers performing as part of Kingston’s annual Buskers Festival. Some acts were definitely better than others, but on the whole it was a very pleasant way to spend an evening. I decided to get a henna tattoo on my lower left leg – just where I’d broken it in March. As it turns out, the very pregnant girl who inked on my design was also a belly dance performer and instructor. She and Sister StaceyPatrick had a great time talking about the belly-dance scene, and we all walked away happy.

[Unfortunately, the tattoo didn’t ultimately “take”… I’m not sure whether I was too sweaty, or the henna wasn’t very good quality … anyhow, it was fun while it lasted, and I made up for it the next day by buying – and wearing – a very pretty silver anklet with silver bars and an onyx bead. I feel quite flirty with it on. Sometimes it jingles.]

Another lovely courtyard patio, another dinner by candlelight – this time at Le Chien Noir, another excellent French restaurant. We decided to order a few substantial appetizers instead of a “proper” meal since neither one of us were particularly hungry. The food was again delicious, the service good, the weather co-operative and the company … well, you can guess. I really don’t know why both sets of couples at the table beside us left so quickly.

Sunday morning dawned bright and hot, with another delicious breakfast – fruit salad in honey, poached eggs and bacon (except for me) on mesclun greens, fresh baked country bread with all the trimmings, plus the usual coffee, tea and juice. Our Italian companions were still there – the baby was born the day before … a boy, just over 7 lbs, and everyone came through with flying colours … so there was much congratulating and discussion about the best way to get to Toronto from Kingston.

After packing and saying our long goodbyes and thank-yous to Nigel and Tessa, we toddled back into town and browed the local antique market. I bought a 1910 postcard of a young woman in her camisole and “pedal-pusher” underwear posed coyly by a brass bed, and, as I mentioned earlier, the silver anklet. We also spent a pleasant hour or so trying on wonderfully fun colourful Indian clothes and jewellery. The Sister walked away with a marvellous purple skirt, and I got a pair of funky wrap pants in a cool sea-water blue, a white flowy halter top thing (more flattering than it sounds), and a tangerine coloured shawl in thin cotton woven with silver thread. Altogether yummy!

Afterwards, we wandered down to the waterfront, where we caught the last few minutes of a drum & bagpipe / rock & roll / performance art group called “Squid.” Something quite out of the ordinary, and well worth seeing if you ever get the chance. Or watch their promo video to get a small taste of Squid.

Lunch was ice-cream from White Mountain Homemade Ice Cream, and, in a peculiar twist of fate, we ended up right back where we started at the belly-dance store. Sister StaceyPatrick picked up a very pretty openwork pentagram ring, and I indulged in another book (a scholarly examination of fairy tales) and a deck of tarot cards & instruction manual. I think the lady liked us – a lot.

After all this, the drive back to the train station seemed altogether too short. The wait for the train was long enough though, with much rushing about when the WRONG train to Toronto arrived at almost exactly the RIGHT time. Anyhow, it all worked out in the end and the good Sister and I went home tired, happy, and laden with enough goodies to keep us amused until we meet there again next year for our annual “excellent adventure.”

Kant Stop

2006-07-10T14:40:00.000-04:00

The journal article I just finished reading included a reference to Immanuel Kant, the great 18th century philosopher. The reference cited Kant's observation that the only way to make a rational and moral world is to behave as though it were one, no matter what the evidence to the contrary.

While this statement is no doubt worthy of serious and prolonged consideration -- and, as you know, I adore inflicting serious and prolonged consideration on innocent and unsuspecting bloggers -- this was the first thing I thought of ....

Almost Clear

2006-07-06T13:57:00.000-04:00

I am breathing again. At last.

Thanks so much to everyone who took the time to reply to my last post. Your advice was kind, sensible and, needless to say, more than a little timely.

It has also been very useful.

My battle against the Strangling Vine is (forgive the pun) perennial – as it is for most people, I think – and each attack seems to require a slightly different combination of weapons: physical; psychological; emotional; social; and, spiritual.

So, how did I beat back the vine in this exciting episode, you ask?

First, I took a big step forward (psychologically speaking) and GOT HELP with some of the things on my plate. Although I didn’t actually ask for the support (one step at a time, folks), I did accept it – gratefully! – when it was offered. And I do NOT feel guilty, either. [Break-though! Yeah for me!]

Second, I bought four new novels – fun, adventure/mystery-type paperbacks with intelligent, attractive heroines, amusing heroes and slightly over-the-top villains. And I put my feet up on the sofa and read them – one after the other.

Third, I went back to the basics. Made sure I was eating well, SLEEPING regularly, and poking my nose outside every once in a while to breathe fresh air and get some exercise.

Fourth, I took the time to make sure the house is, if not clean, then at least tidy. Chaos distresses me.

Fifth, I played with the cats. A lot.

Sixth, I put on music that moves me – in body, mind and/or spirit – and let it … well … move me.

Seventh, I’ve given myself permission to daydream again.

Eighth, Himself and I went to the local farmer’s market on a sunny Saturday morning and bought a huge basket of ripe strawberries, some garlic scapes, leaf lettuce, and some fresh herbs (basil, oregano, rosemary and mint). We ate strawberries until we could eat no more, planted the herbs in some lovely terracotta pots, and chopped the scapes into a green salad.

Ninth, I’ve avoided the news, insofar as possible. The world will just have to get along without me worrying about it for the moment.

Tenth, I’ve spent a little time every day simply being conscious of what’s going on in my own head. Sometimes I write things down, sometimes I just think things through.

And,

Eleventh, I took a few days off work this week to paint the bedroom – three walls in “Belvedere Cream” and one in “Green Tea.” The trim is “Snowball.” It looks gorgeous.

The Strangling Vine

2006-06-28T07:59:00.000-04:00

The strangling vine has trapped me once again. Like one of those mutant plants found in B-rated sci-fi movies or popular comics, thick living tendrils of stress are wrapping themselves around my arms and legs, twisting their way through my innards, and choking my breath. I'm bound and blind and suffocating and I can't see my way clear.

It's happened before, of course. It happens to almost everyone from time to time. Life sometimes conspires to overwhelm us - not with crises (I can deal with crises), but with the unrelenting, pounding demands of everyday life.

It will pass. I know it will pass. It always does. But until then, I need to deal with the world ... I need to get through the day ... and through the next day ... and the next day ... without becoming completely paralysed.

Rest assured I'm still managing. I'm still moving - and I have no intention of stopping - but dragging around the strangling vine is exhausting. Every breath, every decision saps what little energy I have. Each small step is a little victory, until it turns out I was going in the wrong direction. And then it's back to the beginning again.

I know I've created the monster, fed it and nurtured it and made it strong. Intellectually, I know it's a choice I'm making about how to be in the world. But it sure as hell doesn't feel that way.

Sometimes the strangling vine dies on its own. Sometimes I've been able to cut it down piece by piece. All I can say is that the tools I have at my disposal don't seem to be working very well this time.

So I'm asking for your help and advice. What do you do to to kill the strangling vine? What do you do when stress takes over your life? How do you get through the day?

Start celebrating! You don't have much time left ...

2006-06-23T17:12:00.000-04:00

Hey there, blog-people. This is W.ink. I'm ink's long-lost alter-ego. The ink-ster's been kinda busy lately (you might have noticed) so I'm going to fill in for her every now and again. Hope that's ok.

I was just surfing the net this afternoon and found out a few interesting things. For instance, did you know June is:
- Adopt a Shelter Cat Month
- Cancer from the Sun Month
- Celibacy Awareness Month
- Children's Awareness Month
- Dairy Month
- Dairy Alternative Month
- Effective Communications Month
- Entrepeneurs "Do It Yourself" Marketing Month
- Fireworks Safety Month
- National GLBT Month
- International Accordian Awareness Month
- International Men's Month
- Lane Courtesy Month
- Perennial Gardening Month
- Turkey Lovers Month
- National Aphasia Awareness Month
- National Candy Month
- National Ice Tea Month
- National Rivers Month
- National Rose Month
- National Safety Month
- National Soul Food Month
- National Steak House Month
- Pharamists Declare War on Alcoholism Month
- Potty Training Awareness Month
- Professional Wellness Month
- Rebuild Your Life Month
- Sports America Kids Month
- Student Safety Month
- Vision Research Month
- World Infertility Month
(courtesy of www.brownielocks.com/)

To celebrate, I think I’ll plan a trip to one of North America’s beautiful rivers. After all, it will be a relaxing getaway from my hectic professional life and give me the opportunity to do some serious thinking about my future. It might not be easy to go, of course. The garden always needs tending (the deer have, once again, eaten every one of my roses!) and someone keeps releasing live turkeys in the neighbourhood with little notes around their necks saying “Fly, Be Free!” A bit odd, that.

I could let the cats out to deal with the turkeys, I suppose, but I suspect they’re far too attached to the indoor life to be of much use. Perhaps I should just pick up a big brawny tomcat from the Humane Society instead. On the other hand, it might be just as easy to scare them off with a few well-placed roman candles or bottle rockets. Then again … maybe not.

Now that school’s almost over, it would certainly be nice to get away from the neighbourhood for a little while. Not that I have anything against children, mind, but, well, you know what kids are like. Impossible not to notice they’re around. Actually, it’s not so much the ones who run around all over the place, or even the ones launching rubber balls of various shapes and sizes into my barren rose-bushes (although, if they start breaking windows, I refuse to answer for their safety!). No. It’s the little ones who keep banging on the door and demanding to use the washroom … excuse me, Manja, I meant to say the TOILET … at the top of their lungs. And even they’re preferable to the youthful shysters who keep leaving leaflets stuffed in the mailbox inviting me to visit their “I can’t believe it’s not ice-cream” stand or announcing their upcoming IPO. Honestly, sometimes I think the human race shouldn’t be allowed to reproduce!

Bluntly, it’s all a bit much to take. I’ll be spouting gibberish soon if I’m not careful! I’d take up drinking, but the accordion-playing Slovakian pharmacist next door keeps sneaking around and emptying all the bottles when I’m not looking. Could be worse, I suppose. At least he’s stopped leaving little notes in the bottles remarking on the soothing effects of music on the troubled soul. While I’m philosophically in agreement with his position, I somehow don’t think polkas are exactly what William Congreve (15th century playwright) had in mind!

Now, what I REALLY need is something that lifts the spirits, something that takes me away from it all. Like sitting out on the porch on one of those hot summer evenings with a pitcher of ice tea (home-made of course!) at one elbow, and a dish of jelly beans at the other. Now that’s what I call living! I mean, who needs sex anyway, right? Just give me a few scoops of Ben & Jerry’s and I’m a happy woman. Really!

I mean, it’s not like I was really interested in that biker chick anyway. Or the stockbroker she went home with, for that matter. When I finally got around to cleaning my glasses, I could see that they weren’t that good-looking anyway.

No. Think I’ll pack my bags and rent a bright red convertible something-or-other. You know, head out onto the open road, see where the highway takes me … What? Yes, Mom. I’ll wear sunscreen! *sigh!* … Now, where was I? Oh yeah … New experiences to taste, new tastes to experience. If I get far enough west, maybe I’ll stop off in one of those road houses called “The Big Ox” or “Meat R’ Us.” Or I might do a run down to Chicago and see if I can find that diner that Aretha Franklin owned in “The Blues Brothers.” Anyhow, I just hope I don’t run into any of those idiots who go 100K in the fast lane. In my current state, I might run into them a little more literally than I’d like.

Hmmm. On second thought, maybe I’ll just stay home – safe and sound.

Do you hear what I’m saying?

Yesterday, looking up …

2006-06-16T09:14:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, looking up, I saw:
- A periwinkle sky rimmed in robin’s egg blue
- A heron flying slowly but certainly northward
- Five airplane contrails: one a sharp white slash across the sky; two elegant arching ribbons; and two soft, thick strands of unspun wool
- A large flock of small birds silhouetted in acrobatic glory against the sun
- Two men on a giant elevated dolly, doing something useful on the fourth story of an unfinished red-brick building
- A thin plume of grey smoke arrowing straight into the sky from an unknown location
- Two hot-air balloons
- An enormous white shark made entirely of clouds
- A crow being chased by two red-winged blackbirds
- A patchwork collection of sunshowers spreading out across the city
- Three bright rainbows
- One glowing sunset (orange and purple variety)

Tomorrow, I think I shall look down.

Vulgar Curiosity

2006-06-05T11:56:00.000-04:00

Vulgar (adj.): 1a. coarse; indecent; tasteless. 1b. of or characteristic of the common people. 2. common; prevalent. [from Lat. vulgus = common people] The Oxford Dictionary of Current English

Does vulgarity still exist? Or is it, like whalebone corsets and buggy-whips, a relict of an earlier age? In the modern world, is vulgarity anything more than a museum curiosity, an archaic oddity to be preserved under glass for the amusement of onlookers?

This question occurred to me as I was reading The Friendly Jane Austen by Nathalie Tyler. The book, sent to me by my dear friend D.B. last Christmas, is a very entertaining compilation of short essays, observations, comments, pictures, quotes, quizzes and humour about Jane Austen and her works. [FYI: It would be a welcome bedroom or bathroom book for any “Janeite” (as Ms. Tyler characterises us), since none of the individual pieces are longer than a couple of pages.]

Recently, I ran across a section on the characteristics and implications of vulgarity in Jane Austen’s novels. Since Austen is often credited with being one of the greatest authors of “comedies of manners” who ever lived, vulgarity – the display of coarse and/or tasteless behaviour [for the record, Austen is very rarely, if ever, indecent!] – is a key plot device in all of her novels. Indeed, one could argue that the ability to recognise and avoid vulgarity (of mind as well as of action) is one of the defining characteristics of all Austen heroines.

According to the good Ms. Tyler, “Ten Surefire Ways to be Vulgar” are:
1. If you are a woman, refer to a man by his last name only.
2. Make sure that you gossip plentifully so that people will know how much you know.
3. Be bossy. Very, very bossy.
4. Don’t be coy about the number of beaux you have!
5. A little learning is a dangerous thing and a sure path to vulgarity.
6. Don’t keep your knowledge and opinions to yourself. Make sure you disseminate them widely. You know enough to advise anyone about anything.
7. Have a prominent relative or at the very least a connection with a person of prominence. Make sure the world knows the fortune and influence of your family connections.
8. Have the best coach around equipped with the fastest horses. Make certain that everyone knows about it; do not trust to people’s powers of observation.
9. Be cutting edge avant-garde. Be the first person to adorn your bonnet with apricots or strawberries (in season).
10. Laugh too much, even if you don’t understand why you are laughing.

From this list it seems clear that, for Austen at least, vulgarity is the social manifestation of two things: sloppiness of mind (i.e. wilful ignorance, slavish devotion to fashion and trends, lack of wit, lack of self-discipline); and self-importance (i.e. boasting, over-familiarity, immodesty). Austen never makes these characteristics seem laudable – even when the character has other redeeming qualities (e.g., Both Emma Woodhouse in “Emma” or Marianne Dashwood in “Sense and Sensibility” are both flawed heroines who do significant damage before they learn to moderate their behaviour). The vulgar cause real harm in each of Austen’s novels – everything from hurt feelings and embarrassing social encounters to the very real risk of financial, social and emotional ruin. Vulgarity, it appears, is intrinsically harmful in Jane Austen’s world.

Is this still the case? Are things like boasting (about fame, fortune, connections, talent, etc.) or ignorance (about the world, about other people) still problematic? Are immodesty and a lack of self-discipline (emotional and/or physical) still things we should avoid – both in ourselves and others? Do we need to worry about being overly-familiar with others, and should we be concerned about the need to have the latest and greatest? Are these behaviours, and the thought patterns that give rise to them, still intrinsically harmful?

I ask because I am frequently a little shocked by how people behave (of course, I have led a rather sheltered life). To me, at least, it seems as though vulgarity – as defined above, at least – is not only permissible but celebrated in our society. Things like trash-talking in sports, the rise of “bling” culture, the worship of figures such as Paris Hilton, junk mail that uses your (or my) first name, the popularity of so-called “shock jocks,” the overall decline of public courtesy, and so on, all suggest that excess and self-involvement – key characteristics of vulgarity – are driving forces in this society.

Of course, these same things could also be viewed as evidence of increased honesty and openness in society. Perhaps modern society is simply more willing to recognise and accept that individuals are unique, and that uniqueness should not only be accepted but celebrated. Perhaps it means that people have more options for how to interact with their world, and that we are less judgemental about others’ choices. Perhaps, in the end, vulgarity is simply “of or characteristic of the common people,” as opposed to the more familiar meaning of “coarse; indecent; tasteless.”

So, I wonder … Is it meaningful to speak of “vulgarity” (in the traditional “negative” sense) in the modern world, or have changing manners and a changing societal context made this term obsolete? And, if so, does it matter?

Just for fun

2006-06-01T10:42:00.000-04:00

This made me laugh.

http://www.planetdan.net/pics/misc/georgie.htm

(Note: If he gets stuck, just move him with your cursor.)

Bereft of life, [it] rests in peace

2006-05-26T09:37:00.000-04:00

All good things must come to an end. Some sooner than later, it appears. I am sorry to report that my MP3 player, which Himself gave me last Christmas, has gone to that place where consumer electronics are eternally blessed. The creature was always a bit temperamental, it must be said, so I’m not entirely surprised that it’s finally decided to ignore any and all attempts to recharge its battery.

(For the record, we have tried: (i) charging it at three different computers for up to 24 hours at a time; (ii) pressing the recessed “reset” button with pins, paper clips and other small pointy things; (iii) begging, pleading and cursing – in that order; (iv) ignoring it so it gets lonely and starts to play nicely; (v) sneaking up on it and pressing the play button at unexpected moments in the hopes of surprising it into working; and, finally, (vi) shaking it violently and (vii) whacking it – gently! – a couple of times on the table. No luck. To quote from a famous British comedy skit which shall remain nameless, “Bereft of life, he rests in peace. If he weren’t nailed to a perch he’d be pushing up the daisies.”)

Of course, the problem might simply be that I can’t figure out how to make it work. This failure is not entirely my fault, since the instructions are … creative … to say the least. Take this brief extract from the instruction manual, for example: “’Low Battery’ is displayed after remaining quantity of the battery icon increasingly reduces and the battery must be charged. Charging starts while the USB & Charging figure flickers on the LCD screen if connecting the USB terminal of the PC after connecting the USB cable to the earphone terminal of the product. Bumping figure is displayed on the LCD screen if charging is completed.”

Hmmm. Perhaps I should have paid more attention to that last “if.”

Unfortunately, now that my MP3 player is “ex,” my morning workouts are now enlivened by the appalling techno-pop and drill-sergeant-meets-Katie-Couric voice from the High-Low aerobics class next to the weight room. I should perhaps mention that I am NOT a morning person.

So, to avoid further damage to my sensitive soul – or to Evil Bouncy Aerobics Lady in the next room – I need a new MP3 player … soon! As you can imagine, I’m not too keen to repeat my current experience, so I’d like to get your advice. What brand of player do you own (if own one you do)? How long have you had it? Are you happy with it? Are there things you don’t like about it? What are its best features? Its worst? How long does it play before the battery runs down? What would YOU look for if you were buying a new MP3 player?

I’m all ears … since I don’t have anything to plug into them any longer!

Just call me "Bumblebee"

2006-05-15T17:37:00.000-04:00

Bzzzzzzz .....

This will be, perforce, a short post (Gawd, I love using archaic words!) to let everyone know that I probably won't have much time to write for a little while. Work has heated up significantly over the past few days, and I am, in a word, swamped. I will keep reading - and commenting on - as many of your blogs as I can, and will be back to posting before you can say "floccinaucinihilipilification!" (Yes it's a real word. Look it up!)

Bzzzzzz ..... Bzzzzzzz ......

Spinning

2006-05-10T18:10:00.000-04:00

Back when I was in school I wondered (less often than I should have, no doubt) whether there was, in fact, any point at all to the assignments we were given. During those times, it seemed like we were all – teachers, students, parents – caught up in this huge machine that required nothing of us except that we produce: students produced assignments, teachers produced marks and lectures, and parents produced anxiety (and snacks, of course). The objective of all this effort was simply activity itself – keeping the wheels moving – and any residual skill or knowledge was an inadvertent by-product (for instance, did you know the Ruby-Throated Hummingbird is the only hummingbird species that migrates as far north as Ontario?). Ultimately, the products themselves didn’t matter except insofar as they were evidence that we were, in fact, “working.” Well, except for the snacks. Snacks always matter!

I still get that feeling sometimes, despite the fact that I generally like my job as a public servant and sincerely believe the work I’m doing will ultimately benefit Canada and Canadians. Just like when I was in school, I know in the grand scheme of things there’s a point to these activities that fill my days – but I can’t always make the connection between the big picture and all the piddly day-to-day stuff. Why am I reviewing this workplan when I know it will be trashed within two weeks at the outside? Why am I providing feedback that no-one has time to read, much less incorporate? Why am I summarising this 130-page report? Why am I spending two hours at this meeting? Why do I spend time filing my e-mails? (ok – that’s actually satisfying … I know, I’m weird!)

It feels funny to look back on my day knowing a good chunk of it was spent not really getting anywhere, but simply making the wheels go round. And sometimes it scares me how good I am at keeping things turning and how little time I really spend making the connection to where we’re supposed to be going. The truth is much of the time I love the process as much as the product; and yet, I strongly suspect that this is not necessarily – or at least, not always – a good thing. (Unlike snacks, of course!).

I’m honestly not sure where I’m heading with this post … like most things, I began without a good sense of where I wanted to get to … I suppose I’m just wondering if other people experience this same sense of disorientation and disjunction – or is it just the product of my own slightly off-kilter mind?

***********************
Additional Note - I'll be out of computer range for the next couple of days. Don't worry, I should be back by Monday!

Our lines are open

2006-05-05T17:58:00.000-04:00

O.k., so it may take a while but eventually I clue in. Apparently, I turned on the "comment moderation" feature when I was playing around with my settings a couple of weeks ago, and THAT's why there haven't been any comments on my last few posts.

Thanks to Snooze and Susan as Herself for taking the time to let me know something was wrong, and reassure me that you still like me. Good thing too ... I was beginning to feel like that poor little lamp from the Ikea commercial!

A few of my favourite things

2006-05-05T09:38:00.000-04:00

In honour of its 100th anniversary, the Ottawa Public Library is running a contest to determine “Ottawa’s 100 favourite books.” Anyone with an Ottawa library card can add books to the “eligibility list” and gets three votes. For the record, the current top five books are:
1. Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen)
2. Anne of Green Gables (Lucy Maude Montgomery)
3. Lord of the Rings (J.R.R. Tolkien)
4. A Fine Balance (Rohinton Mistry)
5. The Outsider, a.k.a. The Stranger (Albert Camus)
(I’ve read three of them, own one but haven’t read it, and never heard of the other before today. Not a difficult puzzle, but I’ll let you work out which is which anyway.)

I haven’t participated in the contest yet – though I intend to do so – partly because I’ve been more than a little busy lately but also because I simply can’t decide how to vote.

First of all, choosing three-and-only-three favourite books is a virtually impossible task for any book lover. I’m sure most of you know exactly what I mean, so nuff-said about that.

Second, how do you define “favourite?” Is it the best-written books you’ve ever read? The books that you’ve found the most moving? The books that have changed the way you think about – or engage with – the world … or yourself? The books that have had the most impact on the world at large? The most beautiful books? The most appealing books? The books you’ve had the most fun reading? The books you’ve found the most useful? The books you rely on to get you through hard times? The books that give you the most pleasure?

For each of these interpretations, I’d come up with a different list – and so, most likely, would you. So, in the absence of further information, I’ve decided that “favourite” means “the books you go back to year after year because you want to experience them again.” These are the books that – for whatever reason – comfort and entertain, that satisfy, that resonate. They are the books we love to pieces (literally, at times), and the ones we feel the need to re-read once or twice a year “just because.” They are our beloved friends, and we are protective of them.

[Aside] Sometimes, I even decide whether someone is worth getting to know based on their opinion of a treasured book or author. After all, how could I be truly compatible with someone who just doesn’t “get” Jane Austen. Or, conversely, someone who adores Ernest Hemmingway. I could respect and admire such a person (just as I respect and admire Hemmingway’s skill) – and we could even become quite friendly – but I doubt we would ever be “kindred spirits,” to borrow a phrase from one of Ottawa’s top five favourite books. (Of course, I’m perfectly prepared to revise this opinion should evidence suggest otherwise ….) [Back on track]

So … what, then, are my top three favourite books of all time? I still can’t decide, but this one would definitely make my top 100, anyhow:

The Milly-Molly-Mandy Stories (Joyce Lankester Brisley)

Some of my earliest, and fondest, memories of reading are attached to a skinny boxed set of the four Milly-Molly-Mandy books – originally published in the late 1920s / early 1930s. The box and books, for those who are interested in this kind of thing, were kelly green, with coloured line drawings of Milly-Molly-Mandy in her pink and white striped dress and red lettering.

I was entranced – there’s really no other word to describe it – by these short stories describing the activities of a little English girl with a great big name. Milly-Molly-Mandy lived with Grandpa and Grandma and Father and Mother and Uncle and Aunty in the little white house in The Village (no … NOT the same one as in The Prisoner). Her most frequent companions wre Billy Blunt, Little Friend Susan and Toby the Dog.

Now, I must admit Milly-Molly-Mandy didn’t lead a very exciting life – some of the story titles are “Milly-Molly-Mandy Goes Errands,” “Milly-Molly-Mandy Sees a Film” “Milly-Molly-Mandy Has Her Photo Taken” and so on. So, why did these books appeal to me so much that I can still remember the plot of almost every story?

I think the first reason is that she looked quite a lot like me … or I looked like her, one of the two. In Joyce Lankester Brisley’s drawings, I could literally see myself doing all the things Milly-Molly-Mandy did.

Second, the end-pages of each book had a map of The Village, so I had a proper mental picture of where every story took place. That just made the stories more “real” to me, somehow, than books that didn’t have a map. It was as though Milly-Molly-Mandy, her family, her friends and the little village were actually out there somewhere.

Third, her life was just far-enough removed from my own world to seem … well … both foreign and cozily familiar at the same time. I was always learning something new and mysterious from these stories (such as, what is a “mustard and cress” sandwich, or how to make a tea-cosy). And I remember demanding my mother make me “potato lids” for supper after reading about Milly-Molly-Mandy and Little Friend Susan eating them by the fire in “Milly-Molly-Mandy Enjoys a Visit.” [FYI - To make a “potato lid” simply cut the top off a well-baked potato, scoop out the middle, mash with plenty of salt, pepper and butter, return to the potato, put the “lid” back on and serve. I still eat them now and again. Yummm!]

Fourth, she didn’t scare me. I really LIKED Milly-Molly-Mandy. I could imagine myself playing with her – going blackberrying or learning to make paper dolls or going on a picnic. I loved the fact she worked so hard to win first prize at the village party because she desperately wanted to take home the stuffed white rabbit with one lopsided eye. When it turns out that the rabbit is really the “booby prize” and the real first prize is a beautiful blonde doll with curly hair and eyes that open and close she is stunned. (Teacher graciously agrees to let the two winners exchange their prizes, so Milly-Molly-Mandy gets her rabbit after all.)

And finally, most of the stories had a gentle humour that still appeals to me today. In “Milly-Molly-Mandy Gets a Surprise,” she becomes quite cross when the family begins decorating the attic “so the apples have somewhere cheerful to stay over the winter.” Of course the attic is being turned into a room for Milly-Molly-Mandy herself. Or when she imagines her “Great Aunt” as being some kind of giant because she’s … well … not just a regular Aunty.

…. You know, I haven’t read these stories since I was a kid, and they still make me smile. Maybe when I go home tonight I’ll start digging through the boxes of kids books in the basement. It feels like its time to look up an old friend.

“If I should die before I wake”

2006-04-27T19:14:00.000-04:00

“What would it take for you to die happy?” someone asked me earlier this week. Here is my answer:

I would die happy if I left the world a little better than it started … even just a tiny bit.

I would die happy if I left something behind worth remembering.

I would die happy if I didn’t die alone.

I would die happy if someone loved me.

I would die happy if I treated everyone in my life with respect – including me.

I would die happy if I lived with integrity.

I would die happy if I learned to live.

Swallows and Lightning

2006-04-24T18:43:00.000-04:00

Possibility is flickering through the air today, like swallows and lightning.

Today, the trees have broken out into green the colour of summer meadows and deep forests, of sunsets and misty mornings. The grass is new-washed and on its best behaviour. The sky is infinite colours of grey – soft and flat and clumsily patched – but its comfortable shabbiness is a welcome counterpoint to the sharp colours and clean lines of terra firma.

Today, I rode the bus downtown and watched fifty or more people – most alone, a few in pairs – as their day began. Most carried umbrellas and bags, some read books, others listened to music or tapped away on Blackberries or cellphones. As I stood there, I thought about how each of these strangers had their own unique story, their own reality apart from this brief collective space. And I thought about how each person brought their lives with them onto this bus and that, however ephemerally, we were now all connected.

Today, I began a class that showed me how to think about, and interact with, my world differently.

Today, I began a new book that opened a door to another world.

I drank green tea and ate freshly-made french fries with salt and vinegar.

It’s been a good day.

Spring has sprung

2006-04-20T11:59:00.000-04:00

… How I would like to feel …

in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little lame baloonman

whistles far and wee

and eddyandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer
old baloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's
spring
and
the
goat-footed

baloonMan whistles
far
and
wee
(e.e. cummings)

… How I’ve been feeling lately …

April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
(T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land)

… How I feel today …

I am sitting in the middle
Of a very muddy puddle
With my rubbers full of muddle
And my leggings full of mud.

As my jacket and my sweater
Go on slowly getting wetter
As I very slowly settle
To the bottom the mud.

I find that a person with
A puddle in his middle
Thinks of mostly in the muddle
Is the muddiness of mud.
(Author Unknown)

Footloose and fancy free

2006-04-12T13:54:00.000-04:00

Well, I have been officially cast-free for a full week now, and am pleased to report my foot goes up, my foot goes down, and it even goes from side to side a little bit. I am walking – slowly (and with approximately the same grace as a sea-lion on land) but steadily for the most part – and am very relieved not to have to depend on crutches any longer.

The bone itself is 90% healed, although the soft tissue around my ankle and foot remains quite swollen. According to my doctor, while bones typically heal in 5-8 weeks, ligaments and muscles can take up to 3 months to recover. With any luck, physiotherapy should speed up the process somewhat.

I began treatment yesterday afternoon, seeing the same therapist I’d said goodbye to in late February after she successfully treated my tendonitis. It was a little embarrassing to be back so soon, to be honest, but everyone at the clinic was quite sympathetic and said they’d been seeing a lot of similar injuries this year as a result of all the freeze-and-thaw cycles we’ve been having. (Ok, I know they’re professionally sympathetic, but it’s still nice to hear I’m not alone in my klutzdom!)

Since this was a brand new injury, I naturally had to fill out a set of brand new forms (ones which just happened to look exactly the same as the ones I’d filled out last time). The last form, though, was an assessment sheet for the injury – one of those “Rate from 0-5 your level of difficulty in doing the following ….”

Now, I didn’t have any issue with most of the questions (e.g., going up and down stairs, performing light housework, standing for 1 hour, walking for 30 min., and so on). But when I got to the items “Running rapidly,” “Making sharp turns while running rapidly,” and “Hopping,” I wasn’t entirely sure what to answer – since I hadn’t been stupid enough to attempt to do any of those things in the first place! I mean, I suppose I could run, jump and make sharp turns if I was, say, being chased by a rogue elephant or one of those people who want you to donate to Greenpeace. Otherwise … I think not.

On the bright side, my therapist says she thinks I should see significant improvement in mobility and comfort over the next couple of weeks as the swelling in the ankle goes down. To achieve this laudable goal, MY job is to: (1) keep my leg raised as much as possible; (2) put ice on the ankle every hour or two when practical – or, alternatively, use contrasting baths of warm & cold water; and (3) do a series of exercises several times a day, among which is my favourite – the classic “drawing the alphabet with your foot!” (A … B … C … Draw with me now. C’mon, you know you want to!)

HER job is to stick a half-dozen large (2”) suction cups on my ankle and foot, turn on a machine the size of a barbeque – that does NOT go “ping” even! – and leave for 15 minutes. The suction cups not only suck – literally – on the affected limb (they’re designed to create a vacuum), but send electric currents through the affected area. In other words, yup – I’m undergoing shock treatment! (There’s a few of you out there who may not be entirely surprised at this occurrence.)

Still, despite looking like my leg has been attacked by a giant squid, it’s not really so bad. And my therapist says she should have me up and running again within a few weeks. So, beware all you rogue elephants and Greenpeace activists. Ink is on the march! Almost!

To think that I saw it on ... the Queensway

2006-04-07T10:25:00.000-04:00

It was raining this morning as I drove in to work. A good soaking rain, my Mum would call it.

It's still a bit early around here for the grass to have greened up or the trees to be showing leaves - so between the lead-grey skies, grey-brown trees, brown-grey grass, grey road and stream of dark rain-soaked vehicles, I suppose it's not terribly surprising my attention was caught by the flash of bubble-gum pink about 6 or 7 cars ahead of me in the other lane. Pink cars are not all that common around fusty old Ottawa at the best of times, and this morning the colour contrasted beautifully with all the blah-ness of the morning commute.

Nice, I thought to myself. There's someone who's choosing to be a bit different. Not a colour I could personally live with ... but still, good for her, I thought.

At least until I passed her.

The car was a little two-seater hatchback convertible (I'm not sure what kind - maybe a VW Golf or something like it). It was indeed a bright bubble-gum pink ... so far so good. But what really caught my eye was the fuchsia-pink, SEQUINED licence plate cover and the name "Jessica" air-brushed in a circle of little stars and ribbons just above the back bumper. Yup - this vehicle was a life-sized Barbie car.

With Barbie herself driving it, to boot. Platinum blonde hair, carefully styled, make-up perfect (from what I could see), and a pair of enormous sunglasses - remember, it's pouring rain! - with thick, white plastic rims.

It was all just too much. What had first appeared to be a rather fun nudge-nudge, wink-wink at the general stodginess of Ottawa society had become something else entirely. The very completeness of Jessica's packaging disturbed me. To all appearances, she was the embodiment of the brainless, blonde, good-time girl. It may not have accurately reflected the person inside, but it was clearly the image she had deliberately chosen for herself. This was the way she wanted to be seen by the world.

Admittedly, for all I know, Jessica was a pre-med student with a genius IQ who worked with inner-city youth and volunteered her time a homeless shelter. And perhaps I am being overly censorious about other people's lifestyle decisions.

But, at that moment, I wanted to pull Jessica out of her car, give her a good shake, and say "Think about this for a minute, child. Is this really who you are? Is this really who you want to be? Show me a sign that there's more to you than candy-colours and a slavish imitation of Paris Hilton." I wanted to explain that she could be more than a stereotype without losing her sense of fun ... that she didn't need sparkles and big white sunglasses to be noticed ... that if she was old enough to have her own car, she was old enough to leave behind the fashion and lifestyle preferences of an 8-year-old.

I didn't, of course. And I doubt I would ever be that presumptuous, even given the opportunity. People need to find their own way after all. But still, is it just me, or isn't it a bit bizarre that while (some) little girls are dressing - and sometimes acting - like hookers, (some) adult women are dressing - and sometimes acting - like characters from a Saturday morning cartoon?

In Memorium

2006-04-04T18:10:00.000-04:00

Over the weekend, I learned that someone very special to me had died. Mrs. C---- was coming up on her 99th birthday, so I shouldn’t have been shocked I suppose … but I was. I am. Perhaps in part because of her age, Mrs. C---- always seemed eternal to me. A distant but constant presence, as steady and immutable as the North Star. It still seems incredible to me that a person with her vivacity and strength, her wit and wisdom, could simply, suddenly, just not be here any more.

I first met Mrs. C---- in the early 1980s, when she came to visit her son, our next-door-neighbour, from her home in Scotland. Funny to think she would have already been in her mid-70s. I was just heading into those oh-so-entertaining teen years. For some reason, we hit it off. I adored her Scottish lilt, her stories, her common sense, and (not least) the way she always treated me with unfailing courtesy and respect. I have no clue what she saw in me.

The first thing you’d notice about Mrs. C---- was how tiny she was – barely five feet tall and rail-thin. She was always elegantly (if not formally) dressed, even when she was doing housework or puttering in the garden. But this apparent fragility was deceptive … to say the least. She was amazingly strong and quick on her feet. (Mrs. C---- always attributed her good health to all the walking she did as part of her job guiding tourists at the local castle.) I remember she used to run – literally run – down the short, but steep, hill between our two houses to ask Mum a question, bring us some tomatoes from the garden, or simply to invite us over for a cup of tea and a chat. She could never be bothered going the long way round – and that was true of pretty much every aspect of her life.

During those summers, at least until I moved away to British Columbia to do my graduate work, Mum and I used to head next door for tea at least a couple of times a week. Her son N---- used to work quite long hours some days, and we didn’t want her to be lonely. On these occasions, Mrs. C---- always used a proper Royal Doulton china tea service. Finger sandwiches (no crusts of course) and a plate of Peak Freans cookies (usually shortbread, or those little round ones with the cream filling and jam on top) rounded out the menu. We typically sat in the formal living room or, if the weather wasn’t too hot, outside on the back patio. It was impossible, under the circumstances, not to mind your manners, and I remember being terribly worried about dropping the delicate little teacup and saucer with its pattern of roses and gold accents, and working out step-by-step how to handle both a teacup (with saucer) and my little plate of “nibbles” without embarrassing myself or my hostess. Despite these challenges, it would take quite a bit to lure me away from the prospect of having tea with Mrs. C----.

I suppose I was partially flattered by her interest in me, and her willingness to treat me with exactly the same respect she showed my mother. But mostly I just loved to hear her talk. I would tell all about school (if it was early enough in the year), what I was reading, how my friends (all two of them!) were, and how my various projects (knitting, quilting, drawing, etc.) were coming along. In turn, she’d regale us with stories about her job as a guide in the local castle, the kindness of the laird and lady, her friends, her travels with N----, her memories of her husband, her experiences during both(!) world wars, and her little house (which had its very own name, not just a street number!) in the village.

It was such a foreign world – removed in both time and space – for this kid from a modern Canadian suburb … and yet, at the same time, it was all very familiar to me. In her stories I heard echoes of books I had read and movies I had seen. The world she spoke about was one I had experienced – vicariously, true, but nonetheless – and one in which I felt at home. More at home, truth be told, than in most places in the “modern” world.

And so, in this way, Mrs. C---- became a kind of refuge for me, as well as an unwitting mentor and model. Over the many years I knew her, Mrs. C---- taught me how to be a real lady: a person who thought of others’ comfort before her own; who was strong and smart without being smug or priggish; who was generous without being naïve; who held her head high no matter what life threw at her; who cared about her appearance but never let appearance stand in the way of a good adventure. She taught me that age has nothing to do with spirit, and that it is truly possible to grow old gracefully. I only wish I’d learned some of these lessons a little more thoroughly.

It’s been four years since I last saw Mrs. C----. The last time she was here – in the summer of 2004 – I wasn’t able to get to see her for reasons I’m not going to go into right now. I’d always regretted that lapse, and hoped to make it up to her this year, when she was scheduled to come back. Now, I guess I will never get the chance.

Oddly, on the day Mrs. C---- died, five days before her 99th birthday, I bought her a birthday card, wrote her a long letter about what I’d been up to for the past few months, and posted it off. At least I was thinking about her, even if she didn’t know it. That fact gives me both a strange kind of comfort and makes me physically ache with sorrow.

Still, by and large, the first wave of grief has passed – there are a few tears still left to shed, but I’ve cried most of them now, I think. Mostly, I am thankful for her life and for having the opportunity to know such a true and special lady. But it still hurts to know there is now one less person in the world to care about me, and one less person in the world for me to love.

So, even though you will never hear me say it … Mrs. C----, thank you for everything. I will remember you always. I will miss you – always.

It all started when ...

2006-03-24T16:25:00.000-05:00

As I mentioned in my last post, I'll be away on training all next week so I probably won't have much opportunity to keep in touch with all my blogging friends out there. So, to keep you amused in my absence - and me amused upon my return - I'm going to leave you with a few questions that occurred to me while reading the responses to Snooze 's recent post on Perception vs. Reality [besides, I'm sick & tired of writing about my blasted leg!]:

1. Do you know (in person) any of the people you blog with? If so, how did you meet? Was it before or after you started blogging?

2. If you've never met any of your cyber-friends in the flesh (or even if you have), how did you come to have your current blog "gang?"

3. Why did you start a blog in the first place?

And just to show I can take it as well as dish it out, here are my answers:

1. I met Sister StaceyPatrick the first day of Grade 9. We were, if I'm remembering correctly, paired up in science class. I was tall, shy, and extremely geeky while the Sister was vivacious and funny and had this whole artsy-cool thing going on. I found out her evil step-mother had been my evil teacher in Grade 7/8. She discovered my rather warped sense of humour, and a bond was born. My parents (and I) loved her because she encouraged me to do things a normal teen would do - shop (the Sister bullied me into buying my very first pair of tight jeans), go to parties (including my one and only pool party), concerts (Gowan at Canada's Wonderland), and dances. Oh yeah, she taught me to ski, too. Somehow we kept in touch through the university years, and by then ... well ... the habit was hard to break.

I haven't met in person anyone I've chatted with in blogdom ... yet!

2. I met virtually all my cyber-friends through Sister StaceyPatrick's blog.

3. The good Sister hounded me until I gave in (personally, I think she was just tired of me hogging all the space on her comment page!). Well, that is PART of the reason anyhow. I also began blogging because I wanted to remember what it was like to write for fun rather than work, to explore some of the thoughts flickering about in my mind, and simply to see if I could create some new connections with the world. ... But that's a story for another time.

So, there we are. A little more about me is floating through cyberspace. Your turn!

Balancing act

2006-03-19T10:49:00.000-05:00

Well, it looks like my life will continue to be a bit of a balancing act for the next few weeks. I saw the orthopedic surgeon late last week, and although he's not concerned about the bone mending cleanly, I'll be on cast and crutches for the next 21 sleeps(at least). The doctor seemed competent and nice, if overworked, and I'm not entirely sure that saying he was "really happy about what [he] was seeing" on my x-rays was appropriate given that it was a picture of my demonstrably broken fibula!

However, the point is that the surgeon isn't particularly concerned about my prognosis as long as I don't do anything mind-bogglingly stupid. No guarantees that will happen, of course, but I'm doing my best to be careful. In fact, I'm actually getting quite good at manoeuvering on crutches - even up and down stairs! - although I'm constantly trying to find somplace to put my "sticks" so they'll be handy but won't actually kill someone (me included).

I am also continuing to work - partly from home and partly from the office - on a special project that needs to be completed (surprise, surprise) by the end of the month. I suppose I could have just bowed out under the circumstances, but it's a proper writing gig (which comes around all too rarely) and they really don't have anyone else who could do the work on such short notice. It's interesting work at least, but, as ever, I wish I had more time to do things properly.

Oh yeah, I've also just been sent notification that I've made it off the waiting list for a week-long Project Management course that takes place ... wait for it ... the last week of March.

Under the circumstances, I'm honestly not sure how much time I'll have to blog for the next couple of weeks. I'll be doing my level best to keep up with your posts at least ... just so you don't forget about me entirely! :)

Just call me "Gimpy"

2006-03-13T17:15:00.000-05:00

Hello to all you able-bodied folks out there. How's the weather? (I ask since I haven't been outside for more than 2 minutes in the last five days).

This will be, unusually for me, a post that is short and sweet ... well, short at least ... since I'm finding it pretty uncomfortable to sit at the computer for long stretches of time.

I made another trip to Emergency last night after becoming concerned about the fact the pain in my leg was noticably increasing , and that everything from the ankle to my toes felt hot. I'm normally pretty cold-blooded at the extermities as a result of Raynaud's Disease (a fairly common circulatory disorder) so having one hot foot all the time was a bit disconcerting to say the least. I did at least call first to find out whether I was being a hypchondriac, and was mildly grateful that I wasn't just being a wuss.

The emergency doctor decided my Raynaud's was making my leg a bit sensitive to the regular fibreglass cast, and recommended I be switched to a walking cast (think oversized ski boot) instead. Unfortunately, the X-rays showed that the fracture had worsened a bit over the past few days, so I'm not actually allowed to walk on my walking cast. Instead I'm learning the fine art of getting around on crutches -- a DECIDED challenge -- at minimum until I see the orthopedic surgeon next week for a check up.

The actual walking part of crutches isn't too hard to master, but I haven't quite figured out how I'm supposed to move things around (e.g., drinks, cereal, books, etc.) with me. If anyone out there has experience using crutches and has any tips for making the next couple (or few ... or more) weeks a bit less of a pain in the a...nkle, I'd love to hear 'em.

Sorry for the rough and ready prose. I'm not feeling quite my usual elegant(yeah, right!) self these days!

Home safe and sound (sort of)

2006-03-08T14:14:00.000-05:00

Well, I’m back. Very sorry for the delay in posting and all that, but I think you’ll agree my excuse is pretty reasonable. I spent most of yesterday in the hospital emergency ward waiting to have a cast put on my left leg – which appears not to have listened to any of my lectures about stepping carefully on icy surfaces (my driveway, in this particular case), and so deserves everything it gets.

What it got … I’m sure you’re curious to know … is a fractured fibula – just above the ankle. Thankfully, there was virtually no displacement of the bone so no pins or other metallic accessories were required (or requested!). I walked – well, limped … pathetically, I might add! – out of there with just a snazzy white fibreglass cast, a burnt-orange and sunny yellow knitted “toe warmer,” and a big brown vinyl bootie with a rubber sole and velcro straps (size: medium).

I’m scheduled to escort my wayward leg back to the hospital in two weeks, where it will meet the orthopaedic specialist and, I hope, graduate to a less irritating form of punishment for its absent-mindedness.

In contrast to the very end of my vacation, the beginning, middle and beginning-of-the-end were thoroughly enjoyable. I stayed up late, got up late, ate far too much, and talked just enough to be glad of a solitary 5-hour drive back to Ottawa on Monday.

One of the high points of this particular long weekend was seeing the debut of Measha Bruggergosman, a 28-year-old soprano and future international diva (in the best sense of the word), at Roy Thompson Hall. Her voice is absolutely superb – a true, clear soprano with almost smoky undertones and a remarkable degree of control, expression and genuine warmth. Her repertoire ranges from classical opera to cabaret to spirituals to jazz – and even if you’re not “into” opera or classical music her talent and genuine love of the material is obvious.

The other high point was, naturally, an altogether too-rare visit with my dear friend Sister StaceyPatrick. She fed me tea and many muffins (they were delicious!), and we gabbed for three hours without stopping about: cats; food; families; books; neighbours; friends; jobs; tv; and all sorts of other life-crap. The good Sister, I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know, is looking wonderful and is maintaining her sense of humour … despite her very understandable frustration with the evident stupidity of employers in the GTA. Sister – for the record, you are just fine (better than fine, actually). It’s the HR guys who are poop-heads!

Gone but not forgotten (I hope!)

2006-02-26T14:47:00.000-05:00

Hi. This is "ink." I'm sorry I can't take your comment right now. Unfortunately, due to the recent defection (I mean transfer) of a colleague, my workload -- and deadlines -- have just doubled. When combined with a very welcome (but somewhat ill-timed) mini-vacation later this week to visit the ever-delightful Sister Staceypatrick followed by my ever-entertaining-and-occasionally-frustrating parents, I am sure you'll understand when I say that I am up a certain smallish kind of highly-scented river without some of the required equipment to steer myself successfully past rapids and those bits of land that sit underwater but you still can't see them before you get stranded like a complete loser. Oh yeah, SHOALS, that's it. Or do I mean sandbars? Well, that's not important right now. What IS important is that while I am not available to take your comments just at the moment, I will be very pleased to hear from you when upon my return on March 7. Thank you for your patience. I apologise for any inconvenience. Have a nice day, and please come again! -- *BEEEEEEP*

Not good at good enough

2006-02-22T11:08:00.000-05:00

You may (or may not) have heard the saying, "Good enough for government work." Well, I may be good enough to work for government, but I’m not good at Good Enough.

[Ed’s Note – The phrase “good enough for government work” is a traditional saying, and should in no way be taken as a criticism of the public service or the government at large. We are proud to recognise the high standards and quality work of the vast majority of public servants. Please don’t sue me. Thank you.]

Perhaps a better, if less linguistically satisfying, way of saying the same thing is that I like to do things well (well, as well as I can anyhow), and I become profoundly irritated when I am rushed to complete a task in what I consider to be a less than adequate amount of time.

Ok, perhaps an even better way to say it is as follows: I don’t like deadlines, at least not ones I haven’t made myself.

This is a problem because I am, at heart, a plodder. I am “all tortoise all the time.” I would be a shoo-in (shoe-in?) for the Meanderer’s Olympics. I am kin to sloth, koala, and Heinz ketchup (anyone remember that old commercial “An-ti-ci-pa-a-tion?”).

In other words, I do things in my own sweet time. And I like it that way.

The world, by and large, does not.

On February 8th (Confessions of a Word Junkie), I wrote, ‘… in a society which sees speed as a virtue in itself, in which the art of discourse and rhetoric have been replaced by the sound-bite and bullet points, brevity has indeed become "the soul of wit"(Shakespeare) - even at the expense of meaning.’ I am convinced speed is the ultimate modern virtue: more important than truth; more important than skill; and certainly more important than quality.

You know what I say to that? “Bollocks!”

I am tired of being forced into doing a half-assed job because of arbitrary (and generally impossible) deadlines or because someone, somewhere didn’t think through the process properly in the first place. I CARE about my work, damn it. When I produce something, I want it to be the best “fill-in-the-blank-here” that I can make it. I want to do the research properly, to think about the appropriate structure, to use exactly the right words, to produce a layout that is effective and consistent. In other words, I want to make sure that the things I create will actually do the job they’re supposed to do in the first place.

And all that takes time. Too much time, mostly.

So, as a result I rarely get the opportunity to do a truly good job. “Good enough” seems to be all there’s time for – and everybody seems impressed with the results but me. Maybe “good enough” is all that’s necessary most of the time. Maybe it’s more productive not to waste time on excellence when it’s not absolutely required. Maybe everything doesn’t need to be up to that “gold standard.” I’m sure that’s all true -- but I really don’t care.

You see, my work is – under all circumstances – a reflection of who I am. And I am not, and will never be, “good enough.” I am better. Much, much better.

So there.

An everyday miracle

2006-02-17T13:52:00.000-05:00

I'm in a sentimental mood today, folks, so here's a true story about an everyday miracle.

Last Friday evening, I was walking through the parking lot to pick up a few things at the grocery store when something caught my eye. A small plant was sitting all by itself on one of the yellow lines separating the parking spaces. There were no cars anywhere around it.

When I finished my shopping, the plant was still there. It was a Reiger Begonia according to the tag, which is warm-climate plant (think Florida or South Carolina) with beautiful glossy green leaves and masses of deep red or shocking pink flowers. In our neck of the woods, it is considered a houseplant or an annual (a plant that survives for one summer only) - a real domestic baby, in other words, completely unequipped to survive Ottawa's cold.

This particular specimen was in very sad shape, to say the least. The leaves were completely frozen - several actually shattered when I picked it up, and the soil in the pot was very cold, but not yet frozen. It had obviously been sitting there for some time.

I somehow doubted its rightful owner would turn up, and ... well ... to be honest, I felt sorry for it. I just hated to think of this harmless little plant -- brought out of its natural environment through no fault of its own -- sitting in a cold dark parking lot slowly freezing to death with no one to know or care, and probably getting run over by a honking great SUV or mini-van.

So I brought it home.

Bluntly, I didn't have much hope of actually saving it: as soon as it started to warm up, all of the begonia's leaves and most of its main stem turned (quite literally) to mush. Within a couple of hours, all that was left was a greeny-brown stick barely an inch long. At that point, I started thinking about giving it a decent burial. For some reason (I'm just a sucker for lost causes, I suppose), I brought it to work instead. [For the record, my office (i) gets a lot light; and (ii) is safe from our 5 delightful, but plant-munching, cats.]

For the past week, I've been watching this sad little green stick and hoping for the best. There was nothing I could do to help it survive, just cross my fingers that a little spark of whatever energy or spirit or whatever it is that drives all living things not to give up on life was still in there somewhere.

And, since this is a story about an everyday miracle, I'm sure you've already guessed that it was, and it is. Today, my little Reiger Begonia has started to sprout two new leaves - pale and tender and tiny still, but definitely growing.

Life sometimes astonishes me with its gifts.

10 things I have learned today

2006-02-13T14:25:00.000-05:00

*Warning - This is not a deep, insightful OR particularly well-written post ... Deal with it. -- The Management.*

Blogdom is a wonderful place, simply chock-full of interesting nuggets of information. Here are just a few things I've learned today as I've been trolling around:

1. Tornwordo knits
2. Musicians really do put a lot of thought into creating their albums (thanks, St. Dickeybird via Tornwordo's blog)
3. Snooze is a librarian ... unless that was just a joke (again, via an old post of Tornwordo's)
4. The great metropolis of Toronto is strapped for cash -- and, as a member of the federal government, it is apparently ALL ... or at least partially ... MY FAULT (thanks, Sister Staceypatrick)
5. Greg the Surly does not think he is interesting or newsworthy (on this point, as I'm sure you will agree, he is in error)
6. Dantallion is either way smarter and/or way better read than I am (GRRR!)
7. Manja can create an interesting comment thread even when she's not trying
8. Epicurist is willing to share recipes ... just not with me ...
9. Under Georgia law, parental consent to an underage marriage (i.e. where one or both parties are under 16) is NOT required if the female is pregnant. (thanks to Grumpy Bunny)

and, ::drumroll::

10. There are clothes that can identify a person as gay* (thanks again, St. D.)

*NOTE: I realize not knowing this fact before now puts me in the realm of Completely Clueless. Don't worry, I'm there so often I have my own key to the executive washroom.

So ... what did YOU learn today?

Confessions of a Word Junkie

2006-02-08T17:52:00.000-05:00

"I think you’ve managed, quite unwittingly, to inspire perhaps the longest blog comment ever, courtesy of Ink!" (Special K, comment from Dantallion's blog, Feb. 3, 2006)

"I made this letter longer than usual because I lack the time to make it short."
(Blaise Pascal)

"Be brief, for no discourse can please when too long." (Miguel de Cervantes)

****************************

Hi. My name is "ink" and I'm a word junkie.

It all started when I was a baby. My Mum talked and read to my brother and me ALL THE TIME, and there were books EVERYWHERE in our house: cookbooks, novels, home repair manuals, magazines, picture books, you name it. With all that temptation around, I suppose it was inevitable that I got turned on to words before I could even walk, and started reading when I was around three. I didn't have a chance. I was hooked ....

And now look at me.

Some of you might have noticed that I am, well, a bit long-winded. I admit it, freely if not with pride. This reality has been forceably brought to my attention on more than one occasion ... strike that ... People tell me this, one way or another, a lot. My problem, you see, is not that I'm hopelessly pompous (pompous, yes, but not HOPELESSLY pompous!), but simply that I am addicted to words. I am entranced by their sound, their look, their rhythm and nuance. I am fascinated by the architecture of language, absorbed by the nuts and bolts of grammar and punctuation, and excited by the evolution of meaning and the continuous drift of pronunciation.

But this seemingly harmless habit is ... well ... not. Harmless, I mean. Because
in a society which sees speed as a virtue in itself, in which the art of discourse and rhetoric have been replaced by the sound-bite and bullet points, brevity has indeed become "the soul of wit"(Shakespeare) - even at the expense of meaning. So, what's a word junkie to do?

Mostly, I ignore the world and continue on my own idiosyncratic way. I write full sentences (including salutations) in my e-mails; I bore people to tears over lunch with descriptions of mnemonic layering in "Baa, Baa, Black Sheep" (hey, if they didn't want to hear it, they shouldn't have invited me, right?); I elaborate, explain and explore in depth the most trivial of matters; and, more often than not, I provide way more information than people are looking for.

But, I am also, sad to say, a working stiff, with a job to do and bosses to please. So, I have learned ... slowly and painfully, 'tis true ... how to be brief. I have learned to summarize, to work in point form, to edit and eliminate and delete. It takes me a while, but if I put my mind to it, I CAN be reasonably succinct. I can even (with my teeth gritted, and a growl in my throat) write bullet points if the occasion demands it.

You see, I have decided to look on brevity as a challenge -- to express, in the most elegant and efficient way, that which needs to be said. I am, in short, in search of my inner-pith.

So, wish me well on my journey into the linguistic hinterland. It could take awhile, but I hope, someday, to stand here before you as a reformed (if not recovered) word junkie.

Sincerely,

ink.

P.S. For the record, that is not the longest comment I've ever made on someone else's blog. I think the record goes to the post entitled "Tragically Lived" on Sister StaceyPatrick's site.

What to do in Ottawa when it rains

2006-02-03T13:33:00.000-05:00

I have declared today an official "Rain Day," and - thanks to the wonders of remote access - e-mailed my boss that it's too miserable to come into the office and I'll be working from home instead.

So, instead of being in my cramped ... er, cozy ... cubicle under florescent lights that make me look like the hag from hell, trying to decide what evil concoction to purchase for lunch from that strange place they keep claiming is a cafeteria, and ignoring the joker who sits on one side of me and the energizer bunny who sits on the other, I am at home in my pjs with a large cup of tea trying to keep the cats from "helping" me type. Oh yeah. Did I mention it's Friday? Bliss!

Well, almost.

I am - I'm sure you'll be happy to know (and just in case my boss ever runs across this blog!) - actually working. As a good federal civil servant, I am reading the Gomery Report - all two hundred pages of it - and flagging items which could have an impact on some of the activities I'm involved in. On the whole, it's not a bad read. Justice Gomery avoids most of the "government-speak" I suffer with on a daily basis (and, if I'm honest, occasionaly create). His conclusions and recommendations seem pretty reasonable and, what's more, practical -- that is, if they're actually implemented. Which, of course, remains to be seen.

While it's not precisely an "ideal" day, all in all, hanging with the good Judge is a small price to pay for a day spent with pjs, tea and pussycats!

When is an apology not an apology?

2006-02-02T12:45:00.000-05:00

This tidbit ran in our local rag a couple of days ago:

Denmark: Newspaper apologizes for Muhammad cartoon
The Danish newspaper that published cartoons of the prophet Muhammad linking Islam with terrorism has apologized for offending Muslims around the world. "We apologize for the fact that the cartoons undeniably have offended many Muslims," Carsten Juste, editor-in-chief of Jyllands-Posten, wrote late yesterday in a letter on the paper's website. But he said the newspaper wasn't sorry for running the cartoons. The apology came after Middle Eastern and North African countries demanded a boycott of Danish goods, protesters in the Muslim world burned Danish flags, and Islamist groups called for attacks on Scandinavia. The 12 cartoons published in September included one showing Muhammad wearing a bomb in place of a turban. Any visual depiction of Muhammad is considered blasphemy, according to the teachings of Islam.

It's been percolating around the edge of my consiousness since then -- not so much because of the subject matter (which is interesting enough in its own right), but because it encapsulates a growing trend: the apology that doesn't apologise for anything.

Clearly, the editor (and many of his colleagues, based on the fact the cartoons have been reprinted in several European countries) does not believe the newspaper has done anything wrong by publishing these cartoons. But he still felt obliged to offer an apology. So, the question is, what was he actually apologising for?

As far as I can tell, the editor's apology says nothing more than, "this paper is saddened by the fact that you (the Muslims offended by the cartoons) are upset." In other words, "I feel your pain." This apology, in sum, is simply an expression of sympathy (and a calculated and insincere one at that).

I don't know about you, but I see this type of apology all the time - both from public figures ("I'm sorry if my remarks offended anyone") to Joe and Jane Average ("I'm really sorry you feel that way").

So, my question is this: Is this kind of apology a cop-out? Is it just a sneaky way of denying responsibility for the consequences of one's actions? Or is it sufficient simply to acknowlege that someone is hurting because of something you have (or have not) done?

Ok, so that was more than one question. Still, what do you think?

Rules to live by ... or not

2006-01-27T11:43:00.000-05:00

I’ve been rummaging around in my sub-conscious quite a bit lately (yes, there’s a bigger story here, but not one I’m prepared to share with you right now), and am somewhat amazed at the things I’ve run across in the crowded, dusty attic of my mind. I’ve recently unearthed – underneath the patch of vinyl wallpaper I “accidentally” melted with a heat lamp, and behind a particulary painful memory of a junior high piano recital (brrrr!) – some of the fundamental “rules" I learned (maybe too well, sometimes!) when I was a rugrat.

I don’t necessarily endorse these rules – in fact, some of them I’ve found to be positively destructive in my own life (for instance, I was 20 years old before I tried Kraft Dinner, and I am, apparently, a wanna-be perfectionist). Others, however, I think are pretty useful guidance for this weird and wonderful thing we call life.

So, both good and bad, fundamental and trivial, I present you with the first installment of The Rules I Live By … whether I want to or not:

1. Work first. Play later.
2. Take care of others before you take care of yourself.
3. The only person you need to measure up to is yourself – so always do your best.
4. You don’t have to be like everybody else.
5. Always keep the house tidy and the cookie jar full. You never know when someone will drop by.
6. Make the most of your natural gifts and talents – whatever they may be.
7. A woman should always have money of her own (i.e. money nobody else can touch).
8. You are stronger, more logical, and more practical than most of the men in your life, so you need to make allowances for them.
9. Homemade macaroni and cheese is better and cheaper than Kraft Dinner.
10. Going outside without underwear on is NOT ACCEPTABLE – especially when you are wearing a skirt.
11. Play by the rules. And if you don't, at least don't lie when you get caught. It only makes things worse. Much worse.
12. There are few things in life that cannot be made better by a nice hot cup of tea, a hug and some freshly baked scones.

I want vs. I should

2006-01-24T12:55:00.000-05:00

After a couple of weeks of relative traquility, my workload is starting to creep up again. It's still nothing compared to the expectations and deadlines of my old job, but I'm still finding myself a bit squeezed for time these days. (Of course, it doesn't help that I'm not exactly the quickest person -- in any sense of the word -- on the face of the planet.)

So, here's the problem. I have had a blast roaming around the blogosphere these past few weeks, and, to be honest, I DON'T WANT TO STOP. There are far to many of you interesting souls out there, and I look forward to dropping in on your thoughts and lives (and occasionally launching a volley of long-winded wit & wisdom on some unsuspecting victim) each day.

But reality -- and my boss -- are tapping on my shoulder and pointing to the (metaphorical & literal) piles of paper on my desk. Something's gotta give here, and, as far as I can see, there are three options:

1. I restrict my blogging time to the lunch-hour and the odd tea-and-cookies break (boring, but practical);

2. I quit my job so I can take up a new career as a freelance blogosphere explorer (intriguing, but I've become rather attached to strange and wonderful things like food, a roof over my head and a bank account);

or

3. You all become MUCH more boring so I'm not faced with this dilemma in the first place.

Given the relative unlikelihood of Options 2 & 3 coming about, it looks like I won't have time to keep up with everyone all the time. So, here's a few questions for all you more experienced bloggers out there:

- How much time do you typically spend blogging each day? Do you restrict yourself?

- What are your strategies for navigating the blogosphere? First, for keeping track of your favorites and, second, for finding "new and exciting" blogs?

and, finally,

- What is the etiquette around adding a comment to an older posting on someone's blog? Is there any point in commenting on something that has been superceded by a newer entry? How far back can you go? Can you "interrupt" a current comment stream (is that the same thing as a meme? What is a meme exactly, anyway?) with a comment about an older post if you introduce it as such?

Thanks for sharing your wisdom with this blogging newbie.

Shh! Don't tell any anyone ...

2006-01-19T17:17:00.000-05:00

So,Snooze tagged me to list three things about myself that no one knows.

I had to think about it for a while since, frankly, I lead a pretty boring life and I don't have many -- ok, ANY -- secrets that make interesting reading. I mean, would anyone care that I still own -- and regularly wear -- a pair of shoes I bought in high school (Mary Janes with a 3-inch heel)? Nope, didn't think so.

So, here's what I came up with. (Don't laugh ... well, ok, you can laugh, but don't let me hear you ...)

1. If I'm all alone for a day, my favourite thing to do is break open a giant bag of Cheezies and read trashy romance novels - the more formulaic the better. I particularly like ones with cowboys in them -- maybe it's the horses, I don't know. I know this doesn't sound like a real secret, but I'm still trying to shake off the lit-snob veneer I picked up as an English major in university. BTW, I loathe Earnest Hemmingway and think critical theory is a crock.

2. I slept with two stuffed animals every night until I moved in with my then-boyfriend (now husband) at age 22. Teddy is a rather smooshed-looking racoon, and Edward the II is a polar bear named after my invisible friend who lived in the chimney when I was little. I still have my stuffed animals, but I'm not sure where the real imaginary Edward is these days. We've lost touch.

3. I had my first real hangover just over two months ago (I'm 37). It's not that I don't drink, I just never drank enough to get hung over before then. The occassion, for those of you who haven't passed out from laughing so hard, was a girls-only weekend with two old friends from grad school. I did not throw up, but I played piano (badly) and sang (worse) for several hours and ended up lying on the floor completely unable to lift my head or speak in coherent sentences. The following day I had a nasty headache, felt like I was chewing wool every time I opened my mouth, and still had trouble lifting my head. Interesting experience, but I don't know if I'll bother repeating it. Then again, we had so much fun, my friends and I are planning to make our weekend away an annual event!

In turn, I will tag Susan as Herself and Sister StaceyPatrick, since they're the only two people I'm sure will read this!

Happy Cranky Day

2006-01-17T12:24:00.000-05:00

Some days, don't you really wish you could just say "Screw it - I'm outa here!"

The weird thing is that it hasn't really been a bad day, just lots of little frustrations. Today, people are ignoring my e-mails, and are not calling back. I have rewritten the same blasted presentation six times at last count and it's still not done. I am waiting to receive the final slide from someone else, which will undoubtedly NOT be what's required, and I will end up scrambling to redo it -- despite the fact I know virtually nothing about the subject.

I haven't had lunch yet, and I will spend most of the afternoon in a pointless staff meeting, where I will feel obliged to be polite and upbeat and attentive -- rather than run screaming like a banshee from the building, which is what I will really feel like doing.

Today I feel stupid and incompetent and generally pissed off. So, I'm declaring it officially Cranky Day.

And in honour of Cranky Day, I now ask you to raise your hand to your heart and recite with me this stirring anthem:

TODAY

Today I will not live up to my potential.
Today I will not relate well to my peer group.
Today I wll not contribute in class.
I will not volunteer one thing.

Today I will not strive to do better.
Today I will not achieve or adjust or grow enriched or get involved.
I will not put up my hand even if the teacher is wrong and I can prove it.

Today I might eat the eraser off my pencil.
I'll look at clouds.
I'll be late.
I don't think I'll wash.

I need a rest.

(from Hey World, Here I Am by Jean Little)

Grrrrrr!

A few thoughts about pain

2006-01-11T12:39:00.000-05:00

I have a migraine. It showed up yesterday morning and - unless my new meds work better than the old ones - will stick around for about another two days. That's 42 more hours, or 2,520 minutes, or 151,200 seconds ... approximately ... until I once again rejoin the human race.

Because the thing about pain is that it defines you for as long as it's around.

I am currently possessed by a malign spirit, manufactured by my own traitorous body, and it owns me just as long as it chooses to stay. Everything in my world now plays a distant, poor second to that spot in my skull: the one just behind my left eye, a little way up and toward the left temple. It is mesmerizing, this spot in my brain -- it is fascinating and terrible. It is the world. It is me. For now.

I have been reading a book of essays called Eccentric Islands by Bill Holm . In it he says we can be "islanded" by pain. He suggests pain can encircle us, isolate us, strip our other identities from us while it is here - when we hurt, really hurt, we are no longer mothers or sons or teachers or friends or anythings ... except pain.

Gotta say - it's a good metaphor. A VERY good metaphor.

Just wish I didn't know that for sure.

Found time

2006-01-09T12:46:00.000-05:00

This morning, it took me two hours to make what is normally a half-hour commute in to work. Ottawa is having a "light snowfall"(according to the weather report), which translates into driving snow, roads coated in greasy slush, and general automotive chaos.

Call me crazy, but I actually enjoy driving in weather like this. After all, everyone's stuck in the same mess, almost no one is making it anywhere on time, and there's nothing you can do to escape it ... so you might as well take it easy, let the traffic crawl, crank up the tunes, and relax.

I consider it "found time" -- one of those occasions when something happens (or, more often, doesn't happen) providing an unexpected moment of ... well ... freedom. Opportunity. Chance. You name it.

For me, there's a certain "Snow Day" quality about found time, even when it's spent sitting in stop-and-go traffic. For those few minutes or hours I have been given an exciting and unexpected gift: my time suddenly belongs to me. Not to the deadlines, or the errands, or the infinite number of "oughta-dos." After all, I'm sitting in a car, in a traffic jam, in a snowstorm. After a couple of quick calls on the cellphone to let people know I'll be late, there's not much else I can do except sit, look out the window, press the accelerator or brake (very gently) now and again, and let my mind wander.

I don't have much time these days to daydream -- or rather, I don't allow myself much time to daydream anymore. There's always something else to do or think about or solve or fret over. But, as I grow older, I'm missing that piece of myself more and more; and I know it's time for me to learn how to play again, how not to worry, how to dream and drift like the child I used to be.

A couple of hours in a traffic jam isn't much, but at least it's a start. Wish me luck.

What part of "Just stay home" don't you understand?

2006-01-05T16:15:00.000-05:00

It seems like every other person in my office is sick, just recovering from being sick, or just about to get sick. (No, I'm feeling fine, thanks very much for asking.)

Now ... I know by writing this down I am courting the wrath of the sneeze gods, so to appease any supernatural, illness-oriented being out there, I humbly send out this offering:

RUSSIAN GARLIC CHICKEN SOUP
8 cups chicken broth
1 ½ bulbs (not cloves) of garlic, finely chopped
1 tbsp white vinegar
chopped hard-boiled egg (optional)

- Bring chicken broth to a boil.
- Add chopped garlic and simmer for 1 hour.
- Add vinegar and simmer 5 min.
- Place a little chopped hard-boiled egg in the bottom of a bowl and ladle soup over top.

(Recipe from a cookbook by Lucy Waverman.)

May you sniffle in peace ... far, far away from the office!

Sometimes I am possessed by the Marx Brothers

2006-01-04T16:32:00.000-05:00

Now, I don't want to sound paranoid, but does anyone else out there ever get the feeling they're possessed? Every couple of weeks, I SWEAR I am channelling the Marx Brothers - all of them! [If you don't know who the Marx Brothers are, take my advice and rent, buy or steal A Night at the Opera, A Day at the Races or Duck Soup. This has been a public service announcement. We now return you to our regularly scheduled blather.]

Take today, for example. I was heading out to a meeting downtown. Boots, coat and gloves go on smoothly and I picked up my purse and briefcase (one of those soft ones with a shoulder strap). So far so good. As I'm heading to the elevator, I stumble - on perfectly flat industrial carpet! - and my purse and briefcase fly off my shoulder. No biggie, these things happen, right?

So, I pick up my purse first and sling it over my shoulder, then bend down to pick up my briefcase. Bang - my purse is on the floor again. So I pick it up again, and this time wedge it behind my arm as I once again move in on the case. I manage to pick it up, but somehow my arm gets tangled in the strap and I end up dropping it again. Followed a moment later by - you guessed it - the purse.

Since by this time I've clued in that Groucho, Chico and Harpo have dropped by - again! - I now approach my accessories cautiously. First the purse - easy does it, with a firm grip on the straps at all times. Then the briefcase - this time, I decide to hold it by its handles ... less scope for mischief that way ... and creep slowly and carefully to the elevator.

While waiting for the elevator to arrive, I put down the briefcase so I can get my keys out of my purse. The purse zipper sticks, naturally, so I have to wrestle it open, and then dig around in the several dimensions accessable through this particular bag (and you thought the Tardis was impressive!) in order to find my car keys. Of course, they've become tangled in the spiral notebook that I aways keep handy and must be coaxed free through a combination of swearing, pleading and judicious violence.

And as soon as they're untangled - yup - I dropped 'em. So, there I am standing by the elevator doors in full winter kit, with an open purse dangling off my arm, a slightly mangled spiral notebook in one hand, a set of keys resting on one foot and a soft brown leather briefcase squatting moodily next to the other. Oh, yeah, and a meeting downtown in less than 15 minutes.

So, I did what I usually do in situations like these (sadly, this is not a unique experience for me). I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and banged my head against a wall. Sometimes I find it helps to shake things up a bit inside.

And the meeting ... it was cancelled.

Any questions or comments?

2006-01-03T16:22:00.000-05:00

Some of you may have noticed that I'm a bit new to the blogosphere. So there are bound to be a few hiccups along the way. Thanks to Sister Staceypatrick, you should now be able to comment until your heart's content ... or at least until the boss walks by.

Very sorry for any inconvenience ... Please come again ... I'll bake cookies ... really!

Ink.

Maybe I just need more popcorn . . .

2006-01-03T13:56:00.000-05:00

Life isn't like the movies, so they say (frequently followed by slight shrug and a quick change of topic). Well, I've made a decision: I'm not having it anymore. Life is just going to have to shape up and start behaving itself. And I'm not putting up with one of those gritty "slice of life" dramas either. No way! I want my life to be like a 1930s comedy, one starring, say, Katherine Hepburn.

You see, ever since I was a child, I have wanted to be Katherine Hepburn ... or Audrey Hepburn ... a Hepburn of some kind anyhow. My mum was an old movie buff, and I spent a fair chunk of my childhood watching the movie marathons on PBS (back-to-back movies all weekend – yum!) and the weekly double-feature on Saturday Night at the Movies on TVO (Ontario's public broadcasting service). And most of them, at least in my memory, were black-and-white features from the 1930s and 40s, with the occasional 1950s musical thrown in for good measure.

So, growing up in the 70s & 80s, I was more familiar with Cary Grant and Fred Astaire than Al Pacino and Paul Newman, and felt more at home with Judy Garland and Shirley Temple than Jodi Foster or Jane Fonda. But, in my child’s mind, Katherine Hepburn stood above them all – followed closely by the lovely Audrey.

Katherine was tall, elegant, intelligent, charismatic, and witty beyond belief. Audrey was tiny, but equally elegant and utterly captivating with her boundless enthusiasm, million-watt smile, and those enormous, luminous eyes. As you may – or may not – know, Hepburns always ... well, almost always ... dressed beautifully and had adventures with fascinating men in exotic locals such as Paris, Rome, and upstate New York. And, because they were clever and charming and determined, they always figured out what to do to make things work out right by the time the credits rolled.

In many ways, these two women, and the roles they played, formed my beliefs about what MY life could – and should – be. In the films of 30s and 40s, heroines were generally powerful and smart, enthusiastic, charming, well-dressed and witty. They were the equal of any man – and more than a match for most – and they did what needed to be done. More often than not, they got what they wanted: usually (but not always!) the man and the occasional puppy . . . or tiger.

Bluntly, I LOVED these movies – still do.

As a kid, I was very tall, a bit overweight, and ferociously intellectual (in the sense of using book-smarts as a defensive weapon). What’s more, I had no athletic ability and precious few social skills – particularly during those oh-so-memorable teen years. I rarely had any clue what to do to make anything “work out right” ... and I was certainly not beautiful, witty, charming or well-dressed! (You can imagine the desert that was my social life - except for the oasis provided by my best – well, only – friend, Sister Staceypatrick.) So, the Hepburns – and their silver-screen kin – gave me something to aspire to and the hope that there was a world in which the smart girls were also beautiful, glamorous and charming, and led wonderful lives. Sitting in my living-room with yet another bag of potato chips, I figured if I could just become more like them, my life would automatically turn out like the ones I saw flickering across the t.v. It was a nice, simple equation.

Of course, it hasn’t quite worked out that way (although I can’t really complain). In my quest for a life ‘just like the movies’ I forgot to factor in one essential thing – a really good scriptwriter. I’m all ready to roll of course, but life, I’m sad to say, is just mucking about in its trailer and refusing to learn its lines.

So, if anyone out there knows of a top-quality wordsmith specialising in comic banter, zany adventures and – above all else – happy endings, please let me know. I’ve got all the source material right here.

In the meantime, I guess I’ll try banging on the trailer door again. Sigh!