New Year's Resolutions - High Or Otherwise

Happy New Year.

I'll start by nagging about celebrating safely. This does not mean encasing your champagne bottle with a condom. A taxi is a hell of a lot cheaper than having your ass sued off - and yes, it can and does happen all the time. Crashing on a sofa is more comfortable than waking up in the tank and that embarrassing trip to court later on, or thumbing it in the freezing cold of winter because you lost your licence and your car is impounded. Nuff said.

On to 2012. Several life-evolving events have taken place recently. Both involved family members, one young, one old. Those were in addition to the toxic stress levels of things happening within three feet of me at any time. I completed school and managed to graduate at the top of, not just my class, but the entire college (kudos for the menopausal fat broad!) and actually land TWO jobs in my field. I'm still living in a construction zone and hope that the next floor quotation will be the last before we start ripping out broadloom. All in all, I have dubbed 2012 officially "The Year Of The Change."

I resolve to begin Change. I do not resolve to lose weight, save money, be kinder to the environment or pay more attention to my health - they all go before me without saying. They are not part of Change but a daily on-going battle. None of which will ever happen overnight. The same goes for world peace, curing life-threatening diseases or giving up chocolate.

I will start with small Change - literally, like emptying my wallet once a week and portioning out my pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters, loonies and twoonies (which I think should be spelled 'toonies) into individual jars and tins. I did that for the first time a number of years ago and find that by RRSP deadline, I have a tidy sum I didn't have to scramble for to deposit into my fund.

And speaking of retirement...my mother-in-law, who will be 91 in March, finally resolved to go into a nursing home. It has been rather an emotional ordeal for all of us as, at first, she didn't really want to go, and although no one could make her, common sense prevailed. Not to mention that her two main caregivers both sustained fractures within a week of each other and that left no one to take are of MIL. She lived in a small, French-speaking, fishing village in northeastern New Brunswick, population about 1200. They all know her. That is, they all know her personality and assisted-living needs. Without malace, I state simply that she is extremely hard to get along with. She is a strong personality and very demanding in what she wants. Although her body is failing, mentally she is sharp as a razor. Nothing gets by this old broad! I only hope I will be as stubborn and well-grounded if/when I reach that age. Realizing that we could not longer find someone to drive Miss Daisy, my sister-in-law stepped in and helped to relocate MIL into a senior's facility in Fredericton. For the bargain basement price of $4000 a month, mother gets the best of care. For that price, she should have six Nubian slaves carry her around on a litter. The government pays about half. Those of us planning to retire within the next 10-20 years, take note. This is an average cost. Take the increasing ratio of aging Canadians to available facilities, inflation and a government who are merely serving drinks on the Titanic and by the time I need accommodation in this type of facility, I'll be lucky to get space on an ice flow. I may laugh now but I am seriously considering getting a quote on retrofitting my house with ramps, grab bars and a lifetime supply of supplemental oxygen.

Which brings me to my next Change initiation. A younger member of my family recently experienced a health speed-bump. I am happy to report that this person, whose identity and confidence is sacred, is none the worse for wear. However it has made me stop and think - very hard - about the next half of my life and reflect on all the things I said I would do before I got here. Most of all I think about all those things I haven't done. Yes - I've travelled, I've written, I've loved - not enough of any of them to my satisfaction, but to the extent that it is more than most people I know. Having no children of my own, I will leave only the memory of myself to those dear to me, and a few ISBN's in the Library of Congress. I therefore resolve to finish at least one book this year. I also resolve to begin planning my next travel adventure. I want to go to Ireland, the land of my ancestors. I want to find out what makes me part of every other little red-headed, Guinness-drinking, battle-ready punt with a sometimes crappy attitude. It's in my blood and I therefore claim the God-given right to stagger from pub to pub in the Temple Bar area and puke in the river Liffy. I can quote, ver batum, every line in "The Quiet Man." My great-grandmother came from the south of Ireland and spoke a dialect called Lilt. I believe whole-heartedly that a piece of me is still there.

I want to see London because it's old and, well, a fortune-teller once said I had an old soul. It must be true because I am constantly fascinated by castles, museums and drive my hubby crazy with re-runs of Jane Austen movies. I pant at the mere thought of Season 2 of "Downton Abby." I 'get' British humour. I'll finish the tour in Scotland, because there's scotch. I will tour a scotch distillery or two, (or three, four, five, six...) and attend a scotch nosing, or - well, why repeat the obvious. I do get chills when I hear the pipes. I've never met a haggis I didn't like. And also because ancestors on my mother's side were born there. I have old sepia-toned pictures of stalwart-looking women whose foreheads and no-nonsense noses I see every time I look in a mirror.

I want to see Paris because everyone I have ever known who has gone there has been changed by it. I want to walk thousand year old streets, be rudely snapped at by its citizens and have a bistro breakfast of cafe and a butter croissant before touring the Louvre. I want to tour the outskirts of the city where farmer's fields were once muddy trenches that harboured battle-weary soldiers and wonder from which whorehouse my great-grandfather caught syphillis - seriously. (Treated 3 times during the Great War, I'm surprised he had any time to fight the Huns!) And because I'm into Change, it's going on my bucket list.

I spent Christmas with my mother, who is heading back to the cutting table for joint replacement no. 3. Therefore I'm doing all the above soon before my own body decides to rebel in ways it can never recover. And smoothly this takes me to the next Change...

Yes, I do intend to incorporate better health practices. I want the stamina it will take to fulfill my dreams of travelling. I will put away a few extra dollars any way I can so I can afford to take myself where my heart desires. I will keep writing as long as my brain can function to put words on paper (or the screen) in hopes that some hundred years or so from now, some student or reader will be moved by something I've written and be curious enough about the author to find out if any of those promises she made to herself were the result of the Changes she wrote about on that New Year's Eve of 2011.

Have a Happy and Prosperous 2012 and may your own Changes start something wonderful!

Merry Christmas

December 24, 2011

I usually don’t get involved with
discussions involving politics or religions but I have a certain bee buzzing
around in my bonnet. It has to do with
the de-naming of “Christmas.” Now, I
consider myself to be a fair person of average tolerance regarding Canadian
multiculturalism. From time to time I do
weigh in on subjects that push my feminist equality buttons. This year, for some reason – and I think it
has to do with the number of e-cards I receive which dance around the word “Christmas”
– my internal defence mechanism kicked in by about card no. 14.

So far I have received the following euphemistic
phrases on greeting cards: Happy Yule, Happy Holidays, Joyous Winter
Celebrations (as opposed to cards that enthusiastically announce June 21st
as the official beginning of summer, no “Let’s Celebrate Not Having to Shovel
Cold, White, Shit Out Of Our Driveways For The Next Three Months Or So” – so far
none have shown up in my in-box), Season’s Greetings (that old stand-by),
Winter Solstice, ad infinitum…just as long as the sender doesn’t feel he or she
is offending someone by using the word “Christmas.” Why not go all the way and join R. Lee Ermey’s
Marines by singing “Happy Birthday, Jesus” with all the blind enthusiasm that
prevents getting your teeth kicked in by Gunny.

Who decided Christmas was a bad word? And when did it become so passé to wish someone
“Merry Christmas”? Why did something
that has been so acceptable in Christendom for over 2000 years suddenly become
taboo? Let me think about this for a
moment and I’ll get back to you.

I personally love Christmas. I love everything about Christmas. I like the music, the lights, the frantic
rush, the endless baking, the exhaustion and I love complaining about it. Of
course, I was raised in a Christian household.
My mother was a practicing High Anglican and my father, at some point in
time, went to a parochial school in Montreal, complete with creeping nuns
dressed in black. The celebration of
Christmas was mandatory. Belief was as
unquestionable as the sun rising or the rain falling. My great-grandmother, the reigning matriarch
of our family, had a basic grade school education but could quote the bible
backwards and forwards and had a rather large, worn tome which met with the
back of my head or my rear end more than once in my life. Jesus was the son of God and that was
that. You celebrated his birth on
December 25th, no questions asked.

From a theological point of view, you could
break down through layers of semantics and get to the heart of Christ’s
origins. He was Jewish. So is Adam Sandler and everyone else he sings
about in The Hanukkah Song, which, by the way, I find hilarious everytime I
hear it. While I’ve never heard of Jesus
playing with a Dredl or exchanging chocolate gelt with his Hebrew playmates, I
certainly wouldn’t raise an eyebrow if that’s what went down. He preached the word of God. His disciples brought the idea of
Christianity into play at the risk of being crucified or eaten by lions. Somewhere along the line, Christianity grew
along with the settling of the Western World.
Our English and European ancestors told us that celebrating this day was
important and we’ve all merrily rolled along.
The little Hebrew kid is over 2000 years old now. I really think it’s too late to change the
party invitations.

Now I come to the heart of this blog. Those who disapprove of the word “Christmas” –
DO SO AT YOUR PERIL! If you don’t like
Christmas or feel offended and overwhelmed by it, by all means, use that gift
which the God I was raised with gave you called Free Will and choose to leave
until after New Years. There are flights
out of the country even on December 25th. No one will stop you. Choose not to put up
lights, no one will care. Don’t buy
presents, I didn’t get you one either. Turn
off the radio, Mr. Grinch. Try hard
enough and you can find a station that doesn’t drone on about the most wonderful
time of the year. You don’t have to
watch movies about singing priests, Santa in court or a pregnant Hebrew
teenager on a donkey, that’s what satellite is for anyway. BUT STOP PISSING ON MY PARADE.

I will continue to wish people “Merry
Christmas” with no expectation of reciprocation. I will sing Christmas carols from the top of
my lungs. I will fight with strings of
lights until I am dead. I will put up my
Christmas presents under my Christmas tree.
I will continue to celebrate the birth of Christ until he puts a stop to
it himself.

So, for the potentially offended I say, “put
up or shut up.” If you don’t like it,
then by all means, feel free to opt out of the statutory holidays this seasonal
celebration provides. We’ll even let you
give back the money you get paid by not having to work! And if you feel claustrophobic standing in
line this time of year, consider this - according to their calendars, the
following religions have listed their “holy days” for 2012:

Muslins:
7
Jewish:
23 – 15 of which no work is permitted at all
Buddists – 139, if you take in all factions
of their religion which use one or more days for different celebrations for
deities and prayers
Hindu – 19
Pagans – 5

So, party-poopers, leave our three little
days alone and allow me to celebrate my Christmas, my way.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, one and
all.

A Jackson Family Rememberance

The following is a factionalized account of what happened in Hong Kong 70 years ago today. It is meant as a memorial to a man I never knew but who is entirely responsible for my being here. The facts were gathered from several books, websites and what few family passages were handed down to me over the years:

December 19, 1941

British Territory of Hong Kong

“The Ridge” - An abutment overlooking
Sai-Wan Bay.



D106529

Pte JACKSON A.

"The Ridge", 1941 Dec 22

1941/12/19

Sai Wan Memorial

Column 27.



Private Albert Jackson and three of his Royal Canadian Army Service Corps (R.C.A.S.C.) are taking heavy fire in a hastily hollowed out trench – along with over 1900 Canadian and British troops who arrived in November of that year to support the defence of Hong Kong, the Asian
“Jewel in the Crown” of Great Britain.

Winston Churchill said, “Hong Kong will never fall.” It was a promise he made to President
Franklin Roosevelt at the outset of America’s entry into the Second World
War. It was a promise he could not keep.

When Albert Jackson and the rest of “C” force departed from Vancouver that fateful day October, 27th of 1941, did he know that he had less than two months to live? Did he know that of the 1977 soldiers sent to Hong Kong to defend it against what would be a seismic wave of Japanese infantry, he would be one of the first 290 Canadian casualties to die in the Pacific theatre?

Back in Montreal, Edna Mae Jackson (nee Cavener) appears in the Montreal Gazette as part of a puff piece of war propaganda “Soldier Doesn’t Know About Twin Daughters.”
The article goes on to state that Edna, who gave birth to the twins after her husband departed to Hong Kong, has no way of reaching him to tell him the news. Albert may never know that his pregnant wife gave birth to two daughters, leaving only a 3-year-old son to carry on his name. He would go to his death remembering the infectious smile of a sandy-haired toddler, mugging in front of the camera wearing a miniature soldier’s uniform, including a forage cap. Seventy years later, that smile is still just as infectious in a man who barely remembers a father who went to war and never returned.

Seventy years ago today, a battle raged that changed the course of one family forever.
Pinned down on “The Ridge” with spent ammunition and forced to use hand-to-hand combat, scarce and faded eye-witness accounts would tell of the South-African born and British-raised father of three who took a bullet – probably more than one, - which ended his life. In their fervent rage and haste to overrun the remaining soldiers and staff barricaded in Stanley Hospital, the Japanese would raze “The Ridge” with tanks, burying the wounded and dying as they went.

Private Albert Jackson (posthumously promoted to Corporal) would be confirmed as KIA (killed in action) on December 22nd. His body would never be found. Four days later, British forces surrendered the island of Hong Kong. But before that happened, a massacre of inhuman proportions would take place. In the outlying jungle, on the beaches, in bunkers and in the hospital itself, Japanese soldiers murdered any wounded soldiers they found. Several nurses in
the Stanley Hospital were raped, some murdered, shot or bayoneted as they tried to defend themselves. The remaining troops would be herded onto “Hell Ships” and transported to the island of Japan as slave POW’s and sent to work in the mines. Many would die in captivity – murder, starvation, disease – or simply worked to death. Some would make it through to liberation. The lucky ones would recover and be sent home. Some would say they never left Japan. Most will say that part of them never recovered at all. They would live to envy the dead.

What remains of Albert Jackson’s legacy and service to his country can be viewed at these links:

http://www.veterans.gc.ca/images/collections/books/bww2/ww2033.jpg

http://www.veterans.gc.ca/eng/collections/virtualmem/Detail/2128678

The man whose name is carved in Column 27 is scarce remembered only by a single living relative now. For those of us who are here because of him, look into that part of yourself which is proud of the country in which they live, that may display bravery in the face of odds and who believe that honour still exists. Never wonder where it came from.

I have been asked if he was a hero. To that I say, “no.” He was however a man who volunteered to serve his country; a soldier who went where he was told and who died doing what he
was trained to do. He was a patriot. He was a Canadian.

The rest of us who are here today and share his blood must never forget he was also a father.

The Purrfect Gift

Greetings friends, family, readers, casual acquaintences and the rest. Well, the Toronto Santa Claus Parade is over. Two of our local radio stations have started playing Christmas music and of course, the stores have been at it since the middle of October when the Christmas shipments have been stockpiled in the back rooms behind the Halloween goodies.

It's officially the Christmas season here north of the border. This Thursday marks the start of the holidays south of us. I'm still grappling with household renovations here. I recently had to box up everything from the living room to paint and (hopefully!) in preparation to put down new flooring. I was amazed at the amount of STUFF we've collected over the years. Luckily, here in town, several organizations were collecting other peoples' STUFF for sales and fundraising. I promptly lined up empty cardboard boxes and started clearing out the STUFF. There was a book box for the local library book sale, gently used magazines for the hospital where I volunteer, lots and lots and lots of paper for the recyle and, while I was at it, I cleared out closets and bagged up gently used clothing for Goodwill and the Salvation Army. In the process, I learned that my local animal shelter was in need of clean blankets and towels so I plunged into my linen closet as well.

To my horror, I realized I had only made a small dent in the amount of STUFF I still had to box up and move before we start ripping out the old carpeting. It got me to thinking about those loony-tunes reality shows about people who are drowing in their own STUFF. Hoarders, clutterers, consumers, collectors - and those half-wits who abandon their own STUFF in storage lockers.

So, Christmas is coming. People will get in their cars and go "dashing through the mall..." to buy STUFF, more STUFF. STUFF some people don't need, can't use or will re-STUFF next year. This brings me to the point of today's blog....

In lieu of STUFF, why not jump on the net, surf to your nearest animal shelter agency and give something somebody really needs. I'm talking about donations, people. Money, specifically, since most city animal shelters, like the Toronto Humane Society, are 100% not for profit and rely on donations from the public. I have been donating for years since I am a rabid (pun intended) animal lover. In the small backyard of the senior's condo my parents own is a mini-pet cemetary. Three dogs and one cat. When they passed, one at a time, they were cremated and buried in gardens with flowering bushes above them. Three house moves later they all reside together now under a beautiful Rose of Sharon, lovingly tended by my mother, Canada's unofficial "Canadian Gardener." They were, all of them, treasured and loved and filled our lives with irreplacable affection and unquestioning loyalty. (I have often been heard to say that I will NEVER have another husband, but will always have another dog! Another blog for another time.)

Every year the OSPCA - Ontario Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals and The Toronto Humane Society care for hundreds of abandoned and abused animals. This includes, food, shelter, veterinary services, medication and special public education services. None of this is accomplished in a free vacuum. Donations of money, materials, time, volunteers and special services make these organizations run smoothly and efficiently. No animal is turned away - no situation goes uninvestigated - 24/7. Every holiday season these organizations run seasonal fundraising campaigns. This year is no exception since I received my mailing today - hence this blog.

When our beloved cat, Buddy, passed from our lives after 18 years, I asked my friends and family to make a donation in his memory, which they did. He too was a THS rescue. A few short months later I was able to set aside my grieving and one Sunday afternoon we took a drive to the local animal shelter just to "look" at making an addition to our family. We came home with 2 adorable kittens, Beau and Belle. They run our lives, as anyone who knows us will tell you. Last October, Beau was rushed to our vet with what was later diagnosed as atrial fibrillation. In layman's terms, he had a heart attack. Our rambunctious three-year-old suffered from congestive heart failure. Armed with prayers, tears and lots of hours walking the floor, the vets did their job and pulled him back from the brink. I am happy to report that he is a healthy, furry bundle of trouble who requires only daily medication and a slightly altered diet. He loves to wake me up in the morning by jumping on my boobs and never tires in starting fights with his sister, Belle. Last winter he actually caught a mouse in our basement and was proclaimed worth his weight in gold, regardless of however many toilet paper bombs he leaves in the bathroom or how often I catch him on the counter nibbling out of my sandwich whenever my back is turned.

Belle is daddy's girl. A gorgeous orange tabby who was the runt in a litter with a little crook in her tail and a tiny heart murmer. She gets meds, too. She loves to climb on my husband and curl up in the crook of his neck and sleep while he watches tv. She has a snore you can hear in the next room. Our lives wouldn't be the same without either of them.

But other animals are not so lucky. So, this season, I'm asking you to set aside the idea of trudging out into the cold, fighting crowds in the mall and spending precious time in lines, not to mention the cost, to buy STUFF.

STUFF THE STUFF!

Make a donation instead. It's just too easy! And, here in Ontario, the OSPCA and THS will send you a thank you card or, if you wish, send the card to someone if you make a donation in their name. The year we lost our Buddy, the THS included his name on their memorial page. You can donate in the name of an animal or person. There is also another very practical perk to this idea. By the time you've forgotten all about the donation you made at Christmas, a nice reminder will arrive in the mail next Spring. Your Tax Receipt! Donations of over $20.00 gets you one of these and you get to deduct your donation amount off your income tax. Bet you can't do that with a Chia or that jar of gourmet artichokes collecting dust in the back of your pantry! A donation really is the gift that keeps on giving. If the idea of giving a lump sum all at once bothers you, think about spreading out the payment monthly. Zoom over to your animal shelter website and investigate the options available. Think of it as one coffee a week, which you won't miss or one candy bar or fast food meal, which none of us really needs.

For those of you who might take this spark of an idea even further, why not make a trip to your local animal shelter and see about giving a deserving animal a loving home? It may be the best decision you make this season and for many seasons in the future.

So, readers, once again....instead of giving STUFF, just GIVE to your local animal shelter. It will make you feel warm and fuzzy on the inside and you might go home with something warm and fuzzy for every other part of your life.

Wishing you a simply Purrrrrfect Holiday Season!

Rocky Halloween Horror Champagne Breakfast Cuban Gone With The Hurricane Picture Show

BOO! The last three weeks seem like something out of an old episode of Twilight Zone - the Robert Redford as Mr. Death epi, not the 'there's something on the wing of the airplane that's going to kill us as William Shatner spoon feeds us his overacting for the first time' 22+ minutes of fame episode.

The Job Front: job offers up the ying-yang. Have accepted 2 part time jobs where most of my work can be done at home. The same day I received a call from the hospital wanting me to come in for an interview on Tuesday which, of course, I'd be a moron not to say 'no' to. The following afternoon I get an 'urgent' e-mail from the College wanting to know if I'd haul my carcass up to Barrie and teach 5 days a week. Hmmm, travelling north to Barrie...in winter...for a short term teaching position...umm - NO! Drunk but not stupid.

Champagne For Breakfast: lunch and dinner. Currently working on bottle no. 3 since Tuesday, that's when the man drove my car (for the first time) to Pearson, with me in the passenger seat, as I silently cursed him for running off to Cuba with his buddies for a week. A whole week in Cuba with sun, sand, booze, really bad food, even worse plumbing, a real bad case of the shits, sunburn/stroke/sand flea bites, heat rash - dermus eruptus of the crotchus - itchus of the testicallus and lastus but not leastus - Flying into Hurricane Rena by way of Cancun. BWAAAHAAAHAAA. I opted to stay behind and spend a week alone, with 2 cats, 4 bottles of champagne, a mani/pedi/massage, a cute haircut, sleep in the middle of the bed, watch marathons of The Simpsons and assorted chick flicks (still looking for 'Black Swan') an evening of pseudo-scary Tim Burton-directed Johnny Depp movies and absolutely NOT resisting the call of boxed Halloween chocolate. Sorry kiddies. Oh, and the champagne thing totally does not have anything to do with the trip to the dentist for an afternoon of needles, drilling and happy gas, or the emergency trip three days later for the pieces that fell out (no charge for that one). Or, maybe it does.

Pause to sip...sip...sip...etc.

Garden put to bed for the winter. House suitably decorated in seasonal kitch - thankfully found the orange pumpkin candles. (Whew) Turned down a party at the local watering hole as I couldn't find my Wizard of Oz Dorothy costume. Note that I did find the shoes! Had a truly mad thought about going out dressed in a certain Canadian iconized police uniform but would probably wind up with tall brown boots up my butt if it ever got back to a certain police person that I unlawfully absconded with a uniform which no longer fits him but fits me like a glove! Boots were too damned big anyway. Hat fell down over my eyes. Have an upper lip rash from trying to wipe off the moustache I drew on with eyebrow pencil. Damn - I looked good in red. Sip-sip-sippy sip.

So, while OTHER people are enjoying all-u-can-eat repititive Cuban fare, I'm here free-basing on Greek Yogurt, cognac pate, 50% off chocolate truffles from the Upper Canada Candy Co. which is closing for the winter and yep, you guessed it....sippity sip sip. I also consider myself on vacation although I haven't been drinking straight from the bottle - yet. And, since I can't squeeze a face lift/boob job/lipo in between now and Thursday it's just me time with Arbor Mist and Meryl Streep. Had planned to see "Annonymous" - pause to sigh over the thought of Elizabethan costumes and CGI polluted Renaisance London and cut away portions of The Globe Theatre - however above mentioned movie hasn't made it up here to the boonies yet. Unfortunately, the only thing polluted here is me. And a damned good job I'm doing - sippity sippity sippilicious! Damn the laundry and full speed ahead. If I run out of mindless Halloween tv to watch - apart from "It's The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown" - and that horrible Van Helsing thing that was sooooo bad even though Vigo looked sooooo good - I may have to resort to throwing on my beloved copy of Gone With The Wind and let the bubbles land where they may; for although tonight is devoted to the narcissistic (did I spell that right?) consumption of alcohol and calorie-free chocolate (and you thought the sippies weren't affecting me, foolish mortals), Tomorrow Is Another Day!

TTFN.....

oh - P.S. speaking of Wills and Quills...Congrats to my writer friend Wills who married his long-time partner Joseph this month. And if you have to read this again and think about it...sippity sip!!

Thanks - Now Lets Work On The Giving.

Happy Thanksgiving all. Unlike you, I am not full of turkey and therefore the tryptophan (the hormone in turkey that makes you want to sew your ass to the sofa and doze after supper) is clearly not working since it's 1:30 in the morning. A writer's favorite time. Also insomniacs, Big Bang Geeks, shift workers and people whose meds haven't kicked in for the night. Pick one.

Since I am WH tonight (without husband - who is somewhere doing something) I am naturally out of the whole sleep rhythm thing. Also I cooked a bird last weekend and am still siphoning off the last of the carcass dregs so the sleepy drug stuff it probably already gone. Casserole today. Turkey stroganoff in the near future.

Yesterday - the yesterday that occurred prior to midnight - a good friend of ours turned 70. He had a little party which required a cake from yours truly. My third in the last thirty days. I've warned everyone that cake season is officially over now until December - or at least until I can find a job that pays enough to replenish my baking supply cupboard. We were invited over for a little get together starting at 11 a.m. Wow - wine before lunch. Grape juice with a kick. A few party munchies - cold cut cubes, cheeses, crackers, dip - the usual carbs and this awesome black forest cake which was painstakingly put together over two days. All this before lunch - made me I was on one of my favorite all inclusives except there was no beach or pool. Also no too-gorgeous-to-be-straight guys in tighties running around with a volleyball snuggling their hips. Just good company, good food and a lot of razzing and hazing going on about the age of the Septuagenarian.

I still doubt I'll ever get there. My nerves are just a little too fragile. Ditto my ego. Rinse and repeat on the RRSP. I was just wound waaay too tight for 50. I'll still be feeling the feedback when I hit 60. Seventy isn't even on my radar. Yet for all that, there are still a lot of things I'd like to be doing if/when I hit the big 7-0. Sex for one thing. A friend of mine told me a story about how her mother, then in her late 70's and settling into a nursing home after a broken hip, met a man she wanted to have a relationship with. My friend picked her mom up to take her to a doctor's appointment and accidentally left the mail key sitting on the passenger seat. Mom gets in and plants herself on the seat. Next thing you know, Jill gets a key tossed at her by a very frazzled mom who points to her bottom with a tarty, "have a care! I've only just started using it again." Things you really don't want to hear from your mom!

I'd like to still be skiing. I'll probably be sporting the latest version of TOH's grow-your-own-knee-replacements from a busted fingernail I mailed in from a dollar store genetic test kit. Same goes for the new pelvis and lower spinal plastic fusion. I'm thinking while I'm under for surgery, I'll get the works with some face paste and an anti-gravity, droop-proof boob reconstruction. A tummy tuck and a little lipo and I'll be good to go. And first I'll go to my bank to finance it all and then to my lawyers if those boobs are just a millimeter off centre and then I'll sue the bastards. Come to think of it, 70 will give me something to look forward to. I'll still be writing. And of coarse, the dog will have replaced the long ago displaced husband (private joke).

So, after having considered the things I get to look forward to I've decided it's worth giving thanks after all. And if worse comes to worse, I know I'll still have my mom to accompany me on a little travelling adventure. OTOH - mums will be close to 90 so maybe having her pimp out our beach umbrella might not be the best idea. I can't see her luring in any prospects with GenXXXiPod featuring Tony Bennett duets numero 40. Somehow the cryogenically frozen crooner with electrical throat stimulations croaking next to the transplanted head of Lady Gaga to Madonna's preserved body isn't doing much to set the mood. Hate to leave y'all with that site floating around on top of the gravy but I'm done for the night. AND...I get to sleep in the cushy middle of the bed all by my only. No snoring, no farting, no loud flushing of toilets.

...and for this, I am truly Thankful!

Autumn - New Season, Same Angst

Finally, it's cooling down. For those of us who are MenoPausitive this is good news. No more schlepping out to job interviews and arriving wetter than I was when I got out of the shower. No more standing under the ceiling fan for a half hour before getting dressed. And forget standing in front of the open fridge door.

This season opened with my hubby's birthday - just a few friends, a lot of beer and some chocolate cake. A return to the BWGWC (Bradford West Gwillimbury Writers Circle) operating out of the new public library here in Bradford. A special note to some of us who were nominated to speak on "Open Mic Night" on November 15th. I offered to censor some of my material but the concensus is 'don't'. We'll see if they want me back after this! Also nominated to be featured at one of the library's "Author's Night Speakers" - details to come - goody. Next in the works is a series of writing workshops sponsored by the library board. I told them to take a look at my website, sift through some of my works and read the excerpts. Ah - Haven't heard back from them yet. Inasmuch as I write for a micro-niche of readers which, incidentally, seem to outnumber the 'general' readership, I really would like to expand my genres and not concentrate so much on which character's penis is being inserted into whichever other character's orafice (or, meatus as those months in med. admin. have taught me).

And speaking of the job front - two interviews last week which leaves me waiting for a total of 3 call backs. Another interview tomorrow which, when I reread the job app, finds me wondering what state of mind I was in when I applied since it involves nothing I'm really interested in. I'm tempted to cancel but my curiosity wants me to stick it out. It's the old 'Road Not Taken' and the reckless side of me that sometimes can't help but open that old chest in the attic even though I'm pretty sure that I'll be the cause and catalyst of the next apocalypse. Oh well, fortune favours the bold so we'll see what I've got myself into tomorrow. For now, I'm still peddling my ass - in the physical aspect - by parking my exercise bike in front of the tv and catching up on the new crop of season premiers. Thank God for pvr's.

Totally addicted to NCIS, and Mark Harmon (yum!). Project Runway-just when I thought the gay designers couldn't possibly get any gayer, they are. Ice Road Truckers because, having made the trek through the province of New Brunswick in the middle of winter on nothing but a sometimes-maintained logging road, I like to hear the truckers whine and cry about how frigging cold it is up here. Yeah, boys - it's Canada. Hawaii Five-O because I love Scott Caan and the witty banter between Steve and Dano. Okay, Jack Lord and James McArthur they ain't but once in a while they shed their shirts. Flashpoint - of course. Shot in Toronto and I get to have personal, in-house, play-by-play commentary on each and every move - and what's WRONG with it. Nuff Said. How much fun is that? Ditto for Law & Order: SVU because...you just can't have too much "In The Criminal Justice System..." I also await the new season of Masterpiece Theatre and the special little cake tweaks PBS likes to drop in from time to time - when they're not begging for money, of course. Love laughing my ass off with The Big Bang Gang (pun intended!) and ending the week with Blue Bloods (yeah, Tom Sellick is getting long in the tooth but he still has class).

It's Sunday so I close today as I can smell the moose simmering in the crock pot. Yep - MOOSE. Stewing in stoneware, surrounded by garden fresh onions and new potatoes. Not my cup of tea but the man made a special request so we'll see how it turns out. Hopefully I won't be posting my next blog entry from the Newmarket ICU.

TTFN....

Another Day in Job Search Paradise

Had an interview today - with a vet. Animal, not military. An unlikely career choice but - as I AM on marriage no. 3 (if anyone's counting) - I've always said that I'll never have another husband but I'll always have another dog - or cat! I say this as 'Beau' my 3-year-old feline beauty sprawls across my mouse pad after licking what's left of his balls.

In a way men are like cats - some are very warm and furry and purr quite loudly when someone else does the ball-licking. Beau is quite a charmer. He doesn't understand that Mom is having major angst over trying to find a job. But he does sense that something is a bit off. He licks me more than usual. Maybe its because whenever I unconsciously download my Meno-app - iSweat - my arms taste nice and salty. Maybe its because I deboned a chicken for supper and he's draining the dregs of roasted fowl pheromones. Whatever the reason, I'm grateful for the sandpaper kisses and reward him with a scratch behind his ears.

Or, maybe he senses that there is a potential employer out there with enough feline fur to satisfy any fuzzy fetish (I just had to try to get four 'f's' into that sentence). Does he sense impending usurpment of his throne? Not likely since his too-beautiful-diva twin sister invented upstaging so he's used to playing second fiddle. I think he might be hinting that as a result of today's cattle call in Barrie I too will probably be upstaged by approximately 30 or so younger, thinner (but not so brilliant) candidates for the vet job. But unlike Beau, I won't even get a scratch behind my ears for my troubles. I'll be lucky if I get a call-back for the infamous "group" interview.

I often wonder about the wisdom of group anythings. What does the HR department get out of these mass cullings? Do they expect us to compete like gladiators in the arena? Cat fights (pardon the pun) to determine the last CSR standing? How about a reality show - "Job Market Survivor" - watch 16 unemployed Canadians as they battle to the death for a single position. Thank goodness I don't have to do this on skates. I can't imagine enforcing my way past Ty Domi for a shot at the gainfully employed goal. I'm the player who will get the crap beat out of them; tossed head-first into the boards and run over by the Zamboni as the driver flips me the bird.

If nothing else, however, it gives me the chance to check out the competition. And from what I've seen so far, I wonder what team the opposition is playing for. There were the "I don't care about my appearance so I'm showing up in jeans" group, a crowd of "I'm flaunting my wicked eyeliner and tats," a gaggle of "shut-up I'm on my cell phoners," a party of "my jingly jewelery and I took a bath in perfume" and last, but not least, a couple of old broads like myself, classic and conservative, dismissively eyeing the rest and smiling at each other out of veteran respect. This is my competition. Bruised, battered but still here for the long haul. Time will tell if the Gods were in our favour today.

Hopefully - not too much time!

And now...to take out the garbage and pill the cat.

The Diet, The Job Search and The Never Ending Reno

So...It's September and day three of yet another diet and exercise program concludes. Rode ten miles on my exercise bike - 237 calories burned - one frozen yogurt bar consumed, followed by four bottles of water. Wondering how many calories consumed by running back and forth to the bathroom to pee. Whole wheat pasta and sauteed veggies for supper. Good until I had to make the man's lunch for tomorrow - licked a line of Becel off the butter knife like a junkie jonesing on a dare snort off a public toilet seat! Resisted the urge to wet my finger and tap up the white bread crumbs. More water!

Jobs applied for: none today. I think most HR offices are still experiencing extra-extra long weekend hangovers. Expecting job scene to pick up later in the week. Still fighting with Employment Insurance Canada for botched paperwork at their end = no money at my end. Hit the local Giant Tiger for .43 cans of tomato soup, two bucks off almost-expired milk and applesauce for the old gall bladder. (Note: the above veggies came from my garden.) If EI doesn't get off their ass soon and pay me, the cats will be eating better then we do. Still hoping something will come out of my hospital volunteer position. On the upside, if the gall bladder explodes, I can walk myself over to emerg and save on the ambulance transport fee.

Keep promising myself to work on removing the wallpaper - or what's left of it. I'd like to find the morons who owned this house before we did and smack their heads together! Contact cement on wallpaper borders - really?? Am learning to repair drywall. If it weren't for Wikipedia, we'd be living in a tent. Hope to move the first bookcase tomorrow. As usual, I'm up on a ladder when plot-defining scenes and witty dialogue pops into my head. I now keep a notebook on the ladder and a pen on a string. Must remember to shorten string - CATS!

Have decided to write another gay novel. This may have something to do with the demise of HQN Spice. The Reluctant Whore needs an edit in the worst way. Trying to decide where to send my fairy story.

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Just returned from the mailbox with October issue of Romantic Times. Nothing further will get done today. Must resist temptation to buy September Vogue until at least the weekend. Won't be able to get it off the rack anyway without a portable block and tackle.

Now...where are those historical fiction reviews??????

Another One Bites The Dust

B'bye Labour Day Weekend. It ends as it should; cold, gloomy windy - without the 'bang' and definitely with a whimper. No last blast BBQ, no run to the LCBO - simply with a roast of port simmering, a husband snoozing and two cats clawing more holes in my sofa. It's not officially Fall by the calendar but the feeling hangs heavily in the air, like the smell of decomposing greenery in my recycle bin.

I Love Fall! It's my 'summer.' I love digging out the cable-knits, donning my long pants and not have to worry about keeping up my pedicure or feeling forced to shave something every time I hit the shower. Not to mention that the rivers of sweat-inducing humidity will soon clear out and late afternoons - or early mornings - will be perfect for walks.

I find I hit my creative stride in the Fall. Ideas seem to come easier, not beaten down (I suppose) by the oppresive heat of summer. Things seem to flow smoother, faster and with a more steady rhythm. Some people are Spring writers - preferring to wait until the last petrified pile of grey snow has melted before they buckle down to the keyboard. I know a few - very few - summer writers. These are mostly people who make the weekend run to the cottage and pound away at a keyboard on a dock, surrounded by water, beer and have rivulets of sunscreen dripping off their nose and splashing off the space bar. The majority of my writer friends leave it all for the winter months - closing up social shop at 00:01 on November 1, immediately after disposing of the wilted pumpkin and sweeping the evenings' accumulation of empty chip bags and Kit Kat wrappers off the porch. They are also the same people who wake up on the 23rd of December, throw a wreath on the door, grab some Wal-Mart gift cards, a pre-stuffed turkey and call it Christmas. I really admire those types of people. I collide with them in the dying days of Fall, usually in the middle of the Wal-Mart line.

If I'm a good writer and I carry the momentum through until Easter, that gives me enough lead time to hit the end-of-winter sales and shop for next Christmas without having to break a sweat. That's when I see the last of the winter writers, wincing at the sunlight and preparing their edits to send off material in advance of the pre-writer's season editorial rush. (For you non-writers out there, Spring and Summer mean a lot of writing conferences - RT, BEA, RWA - after which editors are deluged with new manuscripts.)

And so, here it is. For every writer there is Season. For every a season there is a new book. My season is heavily polluted with edits and the raking of new ideas, or in lieu of, leaves from my neighbour's encrouching Maple tree. And seeing that my neighbours have just left for a month in Newfoundland, I may spend my dwindling summer hours on a ladder with a very long pair of pruning shears.

Labour Day Weekend

Ouch! There's that 'u' thingy again. On to today...

Since it's the last blast of summer before the return to school, regular hours and sobriety, here's to the start of the weekend. I cleaned the BBQ. I had to. My hubby loves to BBQ - he's the Chairman of the Grill (without the foreign words of anyones' uncle). He could fillet Bobby Flay. And I dare Guy Fierri to roll up in the Cami, Drive to our humble Semi in the 'burbs, Dine at our antique oak table by Diving into one of the man's steaks.

Feel free to thank the humble servant who spent two days blasting the grill plates. You see, I live at the end of that road to Hell which is paved with good intentions. Ever since last April when the man leans into the stretch of the upcoming weekend and I frantically rush to the fridge to scribble down the chores on the white board, I always write down his repetitive quote, "remind me to clean the BBQ grills." Being on the Virgo/Libra cusp, there exists in the man a streak of procrastination wider than my butt. Yet the weekends come and go and my burger, chop or steak is coated with an ever increasing layer of charred remains of the previous meal.

"I gotta clean that grill," he mumbles and picks off a fleck of cremated protein from his current crispy corpse. He looks over at my meal. "Just eat around the burnt part," he instructs. I sacrifice to the Cancer god and pray my gall bladder doesn't explode. "I'll clean it," I gently offer. To which he says, "no, hon. I said would do it and I will." He just never said when. So today, in 40+C humidity I took my pail, rubber gloves, scouring pads and mini-vac out to the deck to do battle.

As I scrubbed and scoured and pounded away at the blackened, cemented-on gunk, the right side of my brain turned on - as a writer's brain must do, or perish - and I likened myself to one of the many nameless Brit archaeologists patiently digging out a pre-Cambrian burial ground. The left side of my brain questioned the wisdom of wanting to be cremated at some time in the future. Back to the dig. Would some intrepid scholar exhume the few pounds of my powdery leftovers some centuries from now? What sorts of conclusions would the doctor scribble down after sifting through my ashes? I can just imagine him/her shaking their head in disgust and muttering, "too much red meat." Keen eyes scanning the screen on some 23rd microscope and raising a quizzical brow in amazement as my last meal is dissected and the state of my health at the time of my death is flashed up for all the learned colleagues to ponder. Red meat, chocolate, alcohol, dairy products and some kind of starch - no wonder this poor woman's heart exploded!

They may question my choice of sides but, hey, what's a good steak without a baked potato loaded up with sour cream and butter, a glass of wine and a piece of chocolate cake to finish off the day. It begs the question: do I want to die happy or hungry? I return to reality.

The BBQ is now de-charred and ready for the long weekend. Tonight I'll bake that chocolate cake which may very well kill me someday but I'm taking it to my Dad tomorrow to celebrate his birthday. He's managed to reach the middle-senior era of the 70's, despite the above mentioned lifetime diet. And the four heart attacks. God bless the Labour Day weekend. God bless my Dad. And above all - God bless the Canadian health system which allows me to consume cholesterol-lowering drugs.

Happy Labour Day Weekend.

The Great Canadian Middle-Age Rant

For lack of anything better to do (insert sarcastic smirk) I've returned to blogging. Probably because I don't expect to generate a lot of readership I can use this blog to as a sort of techno-diary to post my acquired angst. Be warned: I'm no Carrie Bradshaw or Bridget Jones but I have had enough misadventures to make a lot of bad movies from good books. And speaking of movies - here is a quote from one I love to hate - "...these are a few of my favourite things...." (yes, I'm Canadian so I stuck a 'u' in the second trimester of a word)

Menopause - I hate it and it hates me. It's a mutual hate, like my first two marriages. Like my first husband, Menopause is a body batterer - it doesn't care where I am or what I am doing - WHAM! I start raining down sweat. Real handy when you go to a job interview and you're trying to make a good first impression. My potential employer sees nothing but a clean-up in aisle 7. The whole alien-taking-over-my-body thing happened faster than you can say 'Segourny Weaver'. My mind stumbled into a black hole, every body part between my knees and shoulders expanded and my skin looks like the aftermath of adolescence meets chocolate. Nuff said. On to ex-hubby no. two - a now nearly 60 year-old man who still doesn't know what he wants to be when he grows up. Selfish, unmotivated and indecisive - that's the emotional toll of menopause - guilty because it's all about me and guilty because it's not. For those of you who have not yet entered this first ring of purgatory all I can say is - you'll all be there - someday! For those of you already here - I've brought my own martini glass and it's five o'clock somewhere. For those of you already over and done with it....STOP LAUGHING.

Fat - see Menopause above. Yes, it's self-inflicted and yes, I got here one bite at a time. However...I've been told if I give up the HRT's then Meno ex's one and two will take over with a vengeance. But I've also been told that I will most probably drop the extra 40 pounds I've put on. Let's see...death by hanging or death by firing squad...???

My Third Husband - he's the source of a lot of my angst but he loves me. You really have to weigh what's most important to you in your life, especially when you hit 50. He works for the government. That's all I can say about him here. I could tell you more but then I'd have to...well, you know how the rest of that story goes. We're happy. That's all that matters at the end of the day.

On Being Unemployed - yes, I went back to school. Yes, I graduated with honours (there's that 'u' happening again) and kicked butt. Out of school three weeks and so far, nada. I feel like I've been dropped into the eye of a hurricane. Job Hunting blows! Interviews blow! Sending out endless resumes to people who don't give you the courtesy of a reply blows! Staying optimistic blows. Running out of money blows! I have no illusions about lottery winning. I've never been a lucky sort of person that way. I do, however, still have my sense of humour ('u'!). I believe in karma. I know the right job is out there somewhere. Hopefully it won't take me as long to find it as I've spent on finding marital happiness. I just don't have that kind of energy, courtesy of Meno-ex No. 1.

And now a closing line from my fav novel "GWTW" (Gone With The Wind for all you laypersons out there - yes, anyone who knows me knows I'm a rabid 'Windy')...

..."tomorrow is another day"...

Until then...