New Blog

Hey magnificent peeps, I am moving my blog over to Wordpress after a gentle nudge from one of my favourite bloggers. Do check him out at https://davidkanigan.com///. He’s great company with that first cup of morning coffee.

I want to thank all eleven of you for your faithful following over the years, despite the long lapses between posts at times. I am eternally grateful for your encouragement and your enthusiasm. To think that it all started with a few larfs over some facebook ditties. I truly couldn’t have done without you.

I’m still in the process of setting things up but I did manage to transfer all the blog posts from this platform over there. That was vital.

Here is the link to my new blog. It’s a different look perhaps but still me underneath it all.

https://bogeyandruby.blog/

Namaste

Five Wisdom Teeth

Note: this is an older post from a couple of years ago that I never published. 

I saw the Cowboy Dental Surgeon again today after a three year hiatus. It's taken me that long to recuperate from the cost of my dental implant.

This consult was to extract an upper wisdom tooth that had already been removed in 1995 by another dental surgeon. Yeah, I know. Either I got scammed, paying for an extraction that never happened while I was in my Ativan-induced happy place, or it grew back.

Cowboy dentist has the most luxurious waiting room I've ever experienced or should I say, never experienced. You see, his office tends to run ahead of schedule so I haven't had the opportunity to take a selfie while sitting in one of the plush, red leather chairs, chairs arranged in strategic, geometric groupings of three (strategic because you'll never meet another patient's terrified eyes if you happen to look up from your smart phone).

There's a nespresso machine and accompanying pyramid of coffee pods set up on a console, a television set, and wifi password. A sign above the coffee machine warns us that coffee cups are forbidden in the consultation area. Not a problem. There's no time to make a coffee. At least not for patients.

There is something very fishy about a dentist with a well-equipped waiting room and no actual wait time between consultations. My theory it that he has skillfully eliminated all small talk during the process, deftly ushering us out once he's explained, holding a model of very white, perfect teeth in one hand, and a frightening model ( horribly deformed peaks stained yellow with necrotic looking roots) in his other hand, inferring the consequences of not following his recommendation. I choose the less scary option, please. Appointment booked.

Long story short, I will have to sneak into the waiting room during someone else's consultation in order to take that selfie. Either that, or show up an hour and a half early for my appointment and roll around those red leather seats a bit.

52 Books

I did it, peeps! I read 52 books in eight months, four months ahead of schedule.

On January 1st, I made it my intention to choose reading over social media, Netflix and general farting around.

I am simultaneously chuffed and satiated, not the least because, simply put, I love reading soooo much (arms spread as wide and high as possible).

Over the past years, reading has taken a back seat to boring stuff like responsibility and adulting. Not that working full-time, taking care of fids, fur kids, a teen, and aging parents stopped me from purchasing books left, right and centre. Yes indeed, I have a serious literary habit.

A dear friend recently asked why I buy books versus borrowing them from the library. I replied: “Carol, mostly I like to own the books. Like works of art, I treat them with reverence.  At the same time, I hope to support the artists. Libraries are wonderful. I borrowed from them exclusively when I was a child. I simply prefer to read at my own pace now and have the books at hand when I need. So yes, it would save tons of money. And possibly a few artists would starve.” Rest assured, I do cull my book piles. What you don't see here are the stacks in my office, bedroom and living room. 

Here is my book list so far. I don’t have a sophisticated rating system apart from like, love, and blech. Luckily, there was only one major blech so far. For the sake of brevity, I will only identify the blech and the absolute loves on this blog. Anything without a rating merits a "like". I will re-post this list with any new additions at the end of the year.

(For those of you curious about the lone blech, I leave you with this video review. Click here.)

Books Read 2019

1. The Little Paris Bookshop — Nina George
2. I Know You Know — Gillian MacMillan
3. Life After Life — Kate Atkinson LOVE
4. Big Magic — Elizabeth Gilbert LOVE
5. And Then She Was Gone — Lisa Jewell
6. Bridge of Clay — Markus Zusak
7. Grit — Angela Duckworth
8. The Marrow Thieves — Cherie Dimalin
9. To the River — Olivia Laing
10. The Atomic Weight of Love — Elizabeth J. Church
11. Siddhartha — Herman Hesse
12. Lying in Wait — Liz Nugent
13. Less — Andrew Sean Greer
14. The Woo Woo — Lindsay Wong
15. A Noise Downstairs — Linwood Barclay
16. Bird by Bird — Anne Lamott
17. The Organist — Mark Abley
18. Homes — Abu Bakr Al Rabeeah with Winnie Young
19. The Haunting of Hill House — Shirley Jackson
20. Brother — David Chariandy
21. The Best Kind of People — Zoe Whittall
22. It’s What I Do: A Photographer’s Life of War and Love — Lynsey Addario LOVE
23. The Girl Who Takes an Eye for an Eye — David Lagercrantz
24. All the Light We Cannot See — Anthony Doerr LOVE
25. Songs for the Cold of Heart — Eric Dupont
26. By Chance Alone — Max Eisen LOVE
27. Life’s too Short to Pretend You’re Not Religious — David Dark
28. Agatha Christie — The Mystery of Three Quarters
29. The Travelling Cat Chronicles — Hiro Arikawa
30. Case Histories — Kate Atkinson
31. Gift from the Sea — Anne Morrow Lindbergh
32. Under the Visible Life — Kim Echlin
33. The War of Art — Steven Pressfield
34. A Gentleman in Moscow — Amor Towles
35. The Leopard — Jo Nesbo
36. Gingerbread — Helen Oyeyemi BLECH
37. Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine — Gail Honeyman LOVE
38. The Moon Before Morning — W.S. Merwin LOVE
39. The Word Is Murder — Anthony Horowitz
40. My Brilliant Friend — Elena Ferrante
41. The Wild Edge of Sorrow — Francis Weller LOVE
42. Warlight — Michael Ondaatje LOVE
43. Flash Count Diary; Menopause and the Vindication of Natural Life — Darcey Steinke
44. Natural Causes — Barbara Ehrenreich LOVE
45. Voices in the Air (poems for listeners) — Naomi Shihab Nye LOVE
46. The Blue Between Sky and Water — Susan Abulhawa
47. One Good Turn — Kate Atkinson
48. When Will There Be Good News? — Kate Atkinson
49. Grief is the Thing with Feathers — Max Porter LOVE
50. Bird Therapy — Joe Harkness
51. Lanny — Max Porter
52. The Tattooist of Auschwitz — Heather Morris

And there you have it, folks. Do feel free to comment about your love of reading below and include any books you are currently reading or ones you recommend I put on my to-read list. The best part of this whole experience has been in the virtual sharing of books, truly an inspiring exchange.

Finally, believe it or not, I am still in search of a real-time book club to join! Nothing like drooling over books with like-minded people.

Dream Job

I stopped by Chapters yesterday after picking up some bird supplies at the adjacent pet supply shop, just for a latte and a little looky around. I wasn’t planning on buying a book. Muah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, I said, rubbing long nailed, monster hands together in the thought bubble above my head.

It wasn’t long before a staff member approached me to ask if I needed help. Her name tag said Miri, just like the girl from the original Star Trek series episode. She was very young, a diminutive figure, with long black hair and dark, intelligent eyes. I thought the name Morag would suit her more and at that moment I wanted to be her, way back at the beginning of my life, helping someone buy books they didn’t need to pile on the piles of books already waiting to be read at home. The longing came in a flash and stayed with me.

“You have my dream job.”, I said, my finger pointing to her name tag. “I have my dream job.”, she replied with a crooked smile. “I’m thinking of applying here once I retire.”  “Do it!”, she said, enthusiastically. “Maybe I’ll see you around then.” “Oh, I don’t know if I’ll still be here.” She sounded doubtful.

But this is your dream job, Miri. Where else would you be? Sigh.

In the end, I bought the book Lanny by Max Porter, because I loved his book Grief is the Thing with Feathers so much, I vowed to read everything he writes. I also purchased two wooly cushions, the same blue-gray-green colour as Ian’s eyes, that were on sale, for the new IKEA sofa in the basement, because I need a cushion at my back so that my feet touch the ground. Miri didn’t help me with my book choice but I purposely asked her for help with the cushions, sending her on a wild goose chase for the same cushions without the cushion stuffing, so that I could say her name again and thank her for having my dream job. 

Have a dream job? Care to share?

Random Notes From Pearson Airport

1. The brown club definitely hangs out at this airport. The only white people I’ve seen so far are Ian, a young girl wearing a silk skirt, bangles and a bare midriff and a tattooed family who are heading home to England. Someone on the intercom is looking for Passenger Bombidoodle. You can’t get browner than that.
2. Next time I travel, I’m investing in cabin luggage that has wheels. Either that or a meet and greet service. It wouldn’t be that much of a stretch, really. Today my aching back and forward head posture had golf cart envy. If you’re not fit enough to carry your carry-ons, either stay home or book a cart.
3. I used to love people watching at the airport. The travellers always seemed to be beautiful people wearing glamorous travel togs, wheeling hard cased, lightweight luggage pieces that don’t need to expand because everything inside is silk and who needs extra undies and socks when you’re a jet-setter? Check-in luggage? Nah, that’s for amateurs. Today, everyone seems to be wearing a neck pillow, even before they get on the plane. I was standing behind a girl in the bathroom who was wearing a pair of light beige, skin tight, spandex shorts. There were no panty lines. I checked. On top, she wore a beige, cropped sweatshirt (I fail to see the point) that had a cream-coloured ruff. Her straight, long blond hair hung down her back to the top of her tighty beigies. I worried on her behalf because that’s what I’m good at. What if she sat on an errant m & m in the waiting area? Never mind trying to keep those shorts intact being jostled back and forth in the airplane toilet? Would she order cream in her coffee so that her spills matched her outfit or would she drink it black? I thought about all of this as she applied her make-up in the mirror and the turbo speed hand driver blasted the water from my hands onto the back of those shorts.
4. The bathrooms are better at Pearson. They have a lot more stalls and a lot less people needing to pee. I am the only one at my gate drinking a Venti, no foam latte. When the time comes, I will choose my stall. And if it’s not clean, I will simply choose another one.
5. I see absolutely no logic in traveling further West so that we can wait three hours at Pearson, then board another plane to backtrack our way East. Then again, the brown club is here. Plus there are those lovely bathrooms.
6. Ian is making friends with the brown family next to him. He thinks the white dad looks like his brother Mark after a holiday in the Carribean.
7. Our flight from Montreal to Toronto was delayed. I made everyone in my row panic when i told them we only had 30 minutes to fly into Pearson and make our connecting flight. Thankfully, I misread 22:55 pm as 20:55 pm and am now enjoying a latte large enough that I need two hands to hold it.
8. The only passenger on the entire flight from Montreal to Toronto who reclined his seat was the gentleman in front of me and as he did so, a waft of pungent BO drifted back to our row. Maybe he misread the time of his connecting flight too and suffered a shart. Delays will do that to you. I didn’t dare look to see if he was wearing beige shorts as we deplaned. My son just read this over my shoulder and nodded his head in commiseration. See? Everybody notices these things and I write about them.
9. Someone just started to sing happy birthday on the intercom. With all these people waiting at the gate, it’s bound to be somebody’s birthday, i guess. 

Bon Voyage

I’m not a good traveller. As much as I am drawn to the idea of seeing the world while ticking items off a bucket list sort of itinerary, I love staying home even more. The fact that I am height-challenged and can never reach the overhead bins in the plane doesn’t help, never mind that lifting heavy bags like that is poor ergonomics in the first place. Flight attendants, I feel your pain.

But the worst part of traveling for me, is having to leave my pets behind. The very thought of it renders me to a hand-wringing, horribly guilty state. Heartbroken really. We have three birds and two dogs to board. The birds are fairly new acquisitions but no easier to care for. These small feathered beings recognize us, socialize with us and do not cope well with change. My husband says I am anthropomorphizing them.

Finding resources to look after them has been challenging because most people who love animals have their own menageries to care for with little room at the inn. Plus, the fact that it’s summertime with overlapping vacation periods.

One positive aspect of being an anxious, over thinker is that I gave myself plenty of time to come up with a plan. Our groomer, Tania, will be looking after the dogs. Whereas I don’t know her personally, she does a great job cleaning them up, takes them on very short notice when there is a “poop” emergency and consistently tells me how sweet and well-behaved they are. What sealed the deal though was when she said, “They can even sleep with me if they want!”. Only a true dog lover would ever considering sleeping with boarders.

The birds were a little trickier to place. It had to be an experienced “bird person” as they have
particular needs and tendencies. Based on recommendations from a couple of friends, we booked three spots at the the Veterinary Hospital for Birds and Exotic Pets in town. This had to be organized
well in advance as the prerequisite was a full medical exam as well as preventative treatments for
parasites. While we were there, we decided to have a DNA test done for our albino cockatiel, Johnny Winter, and discovered that she was in fact Betty White incognito.

Yesterday morning, my husband and I washed all the cages, loaded the birds in their carry cages, and transported them into town. The technician who checked them in was great. Efficient, kind and very knowledgeable. Betty White was placed next to two other cockatiels named Bob and Bill and Eugene Blue and Limoncello were side by side just like they are at home. Full disclosure: I bawled my eyes out later in the car.

And I cried again when the vet called me a few hours later to say they were worried about Chelly, our barred parakeet, who had been fluffed up and lethargic for hours. Could be stress or could be that she is ill, the vet explained. Not wanting to take any chances, particularly as we would be out of reach the following day, I gave her permission to do an exam and culture. The vet called me back around 8:30
pm. The culture was positive for a crop infection, was treatable with antibiotics and had a good
prognosis. It was only after the vet hung up that I remembered something. For the past couple of weeks, whenever I kissed Chelly on her little head, I noticed a sour odour, almost like urine. I wondered about it at the time and sprayed her more regularly with the water bottle (she loves having a shower, then preening herself). But the smell lingered. I had also noticed a few times that she stayed in her cage rather than run out to greet me when I opened the cage door with her comical, chicken wearing pyjamas, belly to the ground kind of gait.

In retrospect, thank goodness we decided to board them at the avian vet’s. Not being experienced bird owners, we may have let this go on too long with dire consequences. Birds are fragile little things; when they are ill, their condition can deteriorate rapidly.

We still have to drop off Sami and Gami shih tzu later this afternoon. It’s like they know what’s in the
air. Neither of them have eaten today. Ugh.

Part of me (the adventurous, bucket-list part) is really looking forward to this trip. It will be good to see family overseas again and for my husband to see the land of his forebears for the first time. That being said, I am already looking forward to being reunited with the fids and the fur kids again.

À bientôt!

Limoncello "Chelly", our Linnie.

Eugene the pacific blue parrotlet

                                                                  Betty White

                                                                 Sami & Gami

White Loafers

As far as I am concerned white loafers should stay in the closet at all times but if you’re going to wear them anyway, for heaven’s sake, dust them off and (shoe) polish them up after Spring equinox.

Context: I put my clip-on sunglasses in my coat pocket the other day then sat down for a car ride. Needless to say, either my body heat, hip flexion, or possibly both caused them to bend and contort. I dropped them off at Vizualis to be repaired and picked them up today.

Clerk wearing white loafers before Spring equinox, who I know fairly well and try to avoid when it comes time to choose new frames: "Hi! How are you?"

Me: "I'm well, thanks. You look good. Did you get new glasses?"

White loafers: "No, I lost weight. I'm on a diet, nothing but salads for me."

Me: "Go figure, I'm on a diet too!"

I'm thinking we may not recognize each other next time around. One thing's for sure, you will never, ever, catch me wearing white loafers no matter what season it is. Not even the kind with velcro straps.

56

“You and me, we’ve met geniuses. And we know we’re not like them, don’t we? What is it like to go on, knowing you are not a genius, knowing you are a mediocrity? I think it’s the worst kind of hell.”

“Well,” Less said. “I think there’s something between genius and mediocrity—“

—Less, by Andrew Sean Greer

And that is the bar I am aiming for as I begin my 57th year. Anything between mediocrity and genius will do.

Valentine's Day

Valentine's Day

I love this face

This face, this face

The space it takes

When pressed so close

To mine

The crinkled corners

Of kind blue eyes

The deepened grooves 

That earn another year today

I love the way it takes me in

The tam o’ shanter

Silly grin

That makes me laugh

(At stupid things)

The words that form

Inside its rooms

They swirl and dance

Into songs and poems

My Valentine’s Boy

He makes me sing

He makes me better

He makes me think

There was supposed to be

An earth shattering KABOOM

And oh, by God, there was

A spark, a flame, a plume

That face, that face

it caught me fast

I’m smitten now

No looking back.

Happy birthday, sweet I! ❤️❤️❤️

The Shape Of My Joy

What is the shape of your joy? 

In Kyo Maclear’s wonderful memoir, Birds Art Life, she refers to her friend Jack Breakfast and his cure for creative depression: "He had discovered his joy was bird shaped."

A few years ago, I think it was the month of June, I was walking my dogs through the local park during my lunch hour, when I heard a bird song for the first time. What I mean is, until that exact moment in time and space, this song had been nothing but white noise in my head, the soundtrack to a busy, distracted life. But on that particular day, for whatever reason, the universe opened up and it was like I heard it for the first time. Its melody was sweet and clear. Two notes in succession, repeated. I remember feeling fully aware in that moment and the distinct sensation of my heart lifting in my chest. I scanned the trees above to find the source of the music but to no avail. It was only much later, in describing it to Ian, that he identified it as a chickadee song. 

As it turned out, the shape of my joy was also a bird. And in discovering that joy, my life was permanently altered and I became a bird person.

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

Late last night when I should have been in bed, I was busted by Ian as I edited a selection of the 500 plus bird photos I took during this past Sunday’s snowstorm (make that crazy bird lady). 

“What are you doing?”, he asked.

“Editing photos when I should be winding down.”, I replied sheepishly. I showed him the shot I was working on.

“Nice! I wrote you a poem.”, he said. “I sent it through messenger.”

“Really?” 

(As much as I love poetry, I especially love it when it’s written for me.)

Here is the poem:

My love loves taking photographs

The backyard birds are famous now

Her spirit animal

Chick a dee dee dee...

Little cuddly looking cuties 

that can't be cuddled

Cause they can't be still

If I were to describe a bird 

that most resembles her

It would be the chickadee

Predictably unpredictable 

Or unpredictably predictable

These little flitterfluff rascals

All puffed out against the 

fierce forces of winter

Flitting and quitting 

in acrobatic routines 

that never repeat. 

Peep peep

hard to photograph, a challenge

They don't sit still for long 

Not long enough to focus on. 

Always on to the next task

I'm waiting for my chickadee

To come home

— Ian Hanchet

And here is the photograph I was editing (the shape of my joy):

So tell me, what is the shape of your joy?

What’s In A Name Domain?

So I just bought a domain name thinking it would inspire me to write more blog entries. Here goes.

Actually, I bought two domain names: I purchased the second one after making a big spelling boo boo on the first one. I’ll blame that on my cataracts. Apparently I have to wait five days before canceling the first one which makes absolutely no sense to me unless they’re hoping I forget to cancel. 

In other news, I am following four times more people on Instagram than are following me which makes me rather uncool and needy. Not to mention many of the accounts that do follow me promise to make me more popular on Instagram. Sigh ... welcome to the world of social media. 

Oh, and there are a total of eleven people (still) following my blog. (If you’re reading this, you’re one of them!) Out of those eleven, two are the same people, one is my husband, three are from my defunct book club and five are (loyal) friends.

I’ve entered cancelling my domain name in my smart phone calendar. Five days seems so random. 

My domaine name is bogeyandruby.com, by the way. I was both shocked and pleased it was still available. Sounds a lot better than bogieampruby. com, don’t it?

A Little Support, Please!

I went sports bra shopping today. Not because the ones I wear aren't doing the job. Rather, I wouldn't want to be caught dead in one if I were in an accident and somebody had to perform CPR or something.

Anyone who knows me well knows well enough how much I hate clothes shopping and shopping for undergarments is no exception. Luckily, my go-to clothing store is conveniently located next to my favourite bookstore, the ideal place to console myself after a failed attempt to find something, anything that fits. (I have a lot of books, by the way.)

This particularly clothing store happens to sell a sporty line, clothes to sweat in, or in my case, stuff to sweat in AND wear to the office. I am particularly drawn to the fact that they carry an "ultra-petite" section though by section I mean one pair of stretchy pants (what the hell are sculpture pants?) that are still two inches too long for my 26" inseam.

I found the sportsbra rack at the back of the store, all black except for one conspicuous salmon-coloured model, and searched for my cup size. Uh ... what the heck does size "extra-large" translate to in cup-size? I spotted a sales clerk lurking in the shadows and asked her how the bra sizes work. She replied, "Well, I take medium.", as if that was supposed to be some kind of universal reference point for the rest of us. "I'd better try a large then.", I decided. I headed to a cubicle, undressed and pulled the claspless, crossed-back bra over my head, then grimaced in anticipation as I turned to face my reflection in the mirror. Well, folks, how do I put this? It would have been a perfect fit if I'd been looking for some sort of abdominal hernia support. Or a hammock to have a nap in before I used it to carry my coconuts home.

"How's it going in there?', the salesgirl called from the other side of the cubicle. "I'm afraid I'm not as young and perky as you.", I lamented. I need proper cups that lift and separate and provide a solid surface to rest my chin on.

Besides, I just remembered a book I need to get.

The expedition wasn't a complete loss though. I managed to snag a fall coat on my way out the door. Don't you just love stuff you can try on without undressing?

Additional rant: please, please, please, dear fashion Gods ... make skinny pants/leggings go away and bring back the boot cut. I really don't like having to take my glasses off to try on pants, never mind my shoes. And I don't like having to put my socks back on everytime I take them off. It's bad enough being 4'11" on a good day without feeling like I'm just another link in the sausage train!

Had any luck with clothes-shopping lately? Do share your stories of inspiration.

P.S. I did wear a pair of jean leggings the other day that my dear work friends bought me before my honeymoon last year. It's the first time I wore them in public and even though I was very uncomfortable and had to take my shoes and glasses off to get them on and and put my socks back on when I took them off, I wore them happily because they were chosen with love, by people I love.

An Unexpected Bucket List Item

There are some bucket list items you never think about listing until you've actually crossed them off your list. Like the one one I put a line through today: leaping from a moving vehicle.

I've thought about what I would do plenty of times if for example my brakes suddenly failed in between intersections on a busy boulevard, or my car had a blowout on the highway, or I lost control of my car crossing a bridge and it plunged into the river, or God forbid if the concrete overpass I was on suddenly gave way (scream all the way to my death would be my only option).

But nothing prepared me for Ian's car rolling away from the gas pump with me in the passenger seat and Ian inside the station hut paying the bill. After the first few seconds of shocked disbelief, I felt the car picking up speed and screamed for Ian. With my life flashing before my eyes (and an image of the running shoes I'd regrettably exchanged for sandals before leaving the house), I undid my seatbelt, opened the passenger door and leaped out of the moving car. 

Peeps, I gotta tell you, it's a lot harder to do this in real life than they make it seem in the movies. I am incredibly grateful that I recently joined a gym and have been duly practicing my deadlifts and squats. As a result I managed to plant one foot squarely on the ground, drag the other one out real quick, all the while keeping my balance. I swear the only thing missing from this stunt was a Captain Kirk barrel roll. A week or so pre-gym and I likely would have injured myself, badly.

By now, Ian had heard the commotion and ran out of the hut in time to watch his poor jeep crash into a fire hydrant. Awful as that sounds, it was a better case scenario than heading into the busy intersection just beyond. 

We examined the damage and determined the car was drivable but would need to be repaired. My only excuse for flight instead of fight was that I didn't know what else to do. Ian asked why I didn't hit the brakes. Duh, but that would only have worked if I had Gene Wilder's leg length à la See No Evil Hear No Evil instead of Hobbit feet clad in comfy sketcher sandals. Alternatively, I could have straddled the middle console, grabbed the parking brake as if it were a kettle bell, and performed the mother of all deadlifts, saving the day and the front end of the car. Obviously, neither scenario crossed my mind while my magic car ride was underway.

These kinds of accidents always leave us feeling yucky and wishing we had done things differently. Like leaving a little earlier, or stopping at a different gas station and paying at the pump, or maybe keeping our running shoes on and our wits about us. 

If I could channel Hiro Nakamura and alter the space-time continuum, I'd stay in the car this time and somehow stop it from crashing. But I didn't and we didn't, and it's only stuff, right? Stuff that can be replaced or repaired. Besides, nobody got hurt which is the best part. And what's a bucket list for after all, if not for crossing off. 

The Lone Ranger Rides Again

From over a year ago, right before my dad fell ill and the rest of us fell apart. I've made magic bars only once since.

• Last night someone in our household was farting the Lone Ranger theme song. Either that or it was me humming the William Tell Overture to a galloping rhythm. 

• Here's an oxymoron for you: rushing through a new book on meditation so that I can start meditating as soon as possible. Apparently meditation is the new sexy.

• It's a good thing I did a quick meditation before discovering I had run out of chocolate chips in the middle of baking magic batrs. Rather than shout for Ian, who wasn't home anyway, I turned off the oven, replaced inside yoga pants (jammies) for outside yoga pants, backed over the garbage can lid in the driveway, stopped at Starbucks for a latte (since I was out anyway), remained calm as I counted the cart contents of all the other people in the 8 items or less line at the grocery store, and made it home in time to answer the phone. It was Ian asking if I needed anything from Costco. 

• There's this gorgeous welcome mat at the local grocery store that reads "Bonjour" though it's not so much the message I like but rather its fresh, grass green colour. Ian, knowing me well, suggested I may do better off with a mat that says "Au Revoir".

Auntie Pat

A beloved family friend died on April 3rd, following a brief illness, and broke our hearts. Unable to attend the funeral in Toronto, I helped my father formulate some memories into a eulogy, one that was read by Auntie Pat's son-in-law, Peter, at the ceremony. I then did the same with my own recollections, crying buckets in the process. 

Many of you may know Auntie Pat already, by her claim to fame as cover model for the Supertramp album, Some Things Never Change. Her resemblance to the Queen of England landed her that gig.

The first text is mine:

Yesterday evening, looking for inspiration, I asked my husband to grab a big white box marked “memories” stored high on a shelf in my bedroom closet. In it were a bunch of diaries from my childhood. The oldest one had “Five Year Diary” written in multiple languages all over its black and yellow binding, with a broken clasp in front that once purported to keep the musings of this grade schooler safe from prying eyes. Flipping through it, I needn’t have worried about the contents being exposed as the writing was pretty innocuous. Each page allowed five separate entries, one for each year, with a ration of four lines per annum. The first entry was on February 20th, 1973, my tenth birthday. It read “My Birthday and I got this diary and a Cup from Antie Pat and family.” Amused, I noted that "Auntie" was misspelled and random words were capitalized. What struck me as I skimmed through the entries was that we got together with our friends the Dhillons at least several times a month, be it for birthday celebrations, holidays or just because. Every two months or so, we ate at the Ponderosa Steak House. And whenever anyone from our respective extended families was coming from or heading overseas, we would all meet at the local international airport to either greet them or send them off. I know this because I'd crammed all the "who's who" details into four lines of text in my diary. School night or week-end, it was simply what we did. Indeed, there is a small black and white photo of me, my cousin Eira, and Auntie Pat's daughter, Cheryl, taped at the back of the diary, taken when Eira and her family were visiting from England in July 1973.

Clockwise from left: my cousin Eira, Cheryl, me.

The Dhillons were our true Canadian family growing up. They were the only other family we knew with an East Indian dad and a British mom and Cheryl and Robin were our "too cool for school" older cousins by association. Considering the political and racial climate back then, I think the friendship between our families provided our parents with unconditional support for all the challenges a mixed race marriage can bring, particularly one that produces light brown kids. It normalized our unique situation and provided us with a model of community that eventually included other open and like-minded people. Their friends were our friends and vice versa. As kids, we felt safe and we felt loved, and that, at least for me, provided the foundation for a very happy childhood. It is why neither the miles that have separated us since their move to Toronto, nor the years that have flown by, have ever shaken the deep connection our two families have. And it explains the extent of our grief at the loss of our beloved Auntie Pat.

I have parents and they had these amazingly vibrant friends who would stay up to ring in the New Year long after I had gone to bed, who would dress up for any occasion and dance the night away, who twinkled under holiday mistletoe like teenagers, who outdid one another year after year with their halloween costumes, and who had an Easter party one year and hopped down the stairs wearing bunny ears and cotton tails. Auntie Pat was usually the instigator and everyone else followed suit.

The famous bunny party!
(Pat is the blue bunny and to her left is my mother.)

Cheryl and Robin, we had mothers who married for love and who had the courage and sense of adventure to travel the world at a time when there were no travel guides or itineraries. They raised families, drove cars and worked outside the home when so many of their generation didn’t. They made true, long-lasting friendships, held dinner parties, and together with our dads, connected our respective families over three continents. They sewed, crocheted and knitted endless costumes, including that crazy teddy bear head for Uncle Dhil.

Our parents partied until poor health no longer allowed it.

My parents with Auntie Pat.

New Year's Eve, I suspect after midnight.

Our Auntie Pat was a great story teller and that’s how I remember her best: setting the stage, commanding her audience, elegant hands conducting, laughing that irrepressible laugh of hers through its telling. It’s the picture I will keep in my head whenever I think of her, with love and gratitude for having known her.

We wish so much that we could be there in person with you all today. We share the pain of your loss today and join you in spirit as you celebrate the life of our wonderful Auntie Pat.

And from my dad:

Our friendship began in 1968 when I met Raghbir at an engineering conference in Montreal. 

Our lives would forever be intertwined when I bumped into him again at the airport in July of that same year as coincidentally, we were both waiting for our respective wives and children to return from the UK.

From that day onwards, our families spent holidays together: Halloween, Christmas, New Year's, Easter, long week-ends, and summer vacations. We camped together: weekends in Massena and longer road trips venturing further South in the summer months. There were barbecues in the summer, new restaurants to try when nobody felt like cooking and monthly dances at the local dance club where new friends were made. We attended many of the speeches that Dhil made through the Toastmaster's organization and were so proud of his accomplishments.

Even when they moved to Toronto, Pat and Dhil would return to Montreal every New Year's Eve to ring in the new year with some dancing and partying with old friends. Once a year, time stood still, and we cherish those wonderful times. Of course, we made it down the 401 on occasion too, and have fond memories of visiting Toronto one year to watch The Phantom of the Opera. Life was always brighter, more fun, with Pat around.

Just before our 25th wedding Anniversary, my wife asked Pat to look out for a gold bangle for me, an important symbol of Sikhism. Pat and Dhil brought it all the way from Toronto and helped us celebrate our silver milestone. Thirty one years later and I have removed it only twice, both times for cardiac surgery. Indeed, it is a daily reminder of her and how thoughtful and considerate she always was.

Pat, you were always on the go: smart and filled with energy for new business ventures, travel itineraries and fun-filled projects. You were, hands-down, our children's favourite auntie, not by blood but having earned that spot early on in our friendship. Your children are loved by us as our own.

You were a beautiful and bright star in our lives and remain so in our hearts, our great and dear friend. We will miss you terribly.

Love always,

Paul, Jennie and family 

Boy Blue Valentine

Ian and I met as thumbnails in the summer of 2012 through a random Facebook encounter. My profile picture at the time was a vintage shot of me holding my ex-husband's telecaster. Ian's only comment was "nice tele" to which I replied, "Thanks, it doesn't live here anymore." We met in person six months later at a comedy venue, another chance encounter, and Ian's first words then were, "You're not that short." Real time Ian was a lot less scary than virtual Ian, and back then, a lot less hairy too.

I don't believe things happen for a reason. When relationships end, when dreams die, we are left reeling. We feel pain and we grieve. We carry the people we used to be and the people we used to love with us like layers of clothing. They are part of us like chapters in a story. I wish I could say that love has nice neat borders but it doesn't. It overlaps. Its fuzzy lines bleed from endings to beginnings and back again. Taking responsibility for this doesn't help so much as acknowledging that what once worked is no longer working and that some things in life cannot be fixed.

I met Ian at a time when my pain was easing but his was only beginning. Recognizing this made me very cautious. Zero to sixty is a great song title but in practice, can make one's stomach lurch and one's head spin.

Thank goodness for friends who knew better.

Soon after we met, Ian recorded an original song called Be Myself which he sent to me via a YouTube link. It wasn't so much a love song as it was an I'm okay, you're okay, you wear your crocs, I'll wear Birkenstocks, thank you for being a friend tribute. Bemused, I showed it to my friend Leslie who watched it with tears in her eyes and said, "Sharon, this is it. This is it."

Several months later, while visiting Ottawa for a few days, I received a note from our friend Richard writing on Ian's behalf.

3/5/13
Dear Sharon. Ian has come over for dinner. We've had a great time and a bit too much alcohol. Just want to let you know that Ian is one of the most authentic and honest people on the planet and he adores you. He's sleeping here tonight so don't worry about him driving home.

Ian also wrote to me that night. Here is his wine and limoncello-inspired poetry:

3/5, 11:14pm
Forlorn. Rich is playing guitar for me and I am forlorn. ****, Sharon. Forlorn. You know what that means !!!!!!?!?!?!!

3/5, 11:24pm
Take me home you silly girl. Take me home you silly girl. Take me home you silly girl. Take me home you silly girl.
'Cause I'm still in love with you!

3/6, 1:25am
i am on the couch. stupid and silly. we played galway girl 30 times. i am a bit bent, as you can imagine. i feel. i feel. i can feel what you do to me. you, you glorious altruistic beauty. you shrugging godess! my love for you astounds. knows no bounds.

Seduction by lemon liqueur. How could I possibly resist? But I did hold off a little longer even when friends told me they'd never seen me happier. It felt too good to be true and I told Ian as much In response, he wrote this poem, my favourite to this day.

The Other Shoe

The other shoe
doesn't have to drop
I placed both shoes
next to yours
Quietly when we met.
So as not to disturb
The perfect peace
Of being with you.

In the book "Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life", by Karen Armstrong, there is a chapter called, How Little We Know, and in it the author refers to the French Philosopher, Simone Weil, who used to say that love was the sudden realization that somebody else absolutely exists. I like this notion because it is so much more forgiving then other definitions we tend to use. Less like an arrow through the heart and more like the dawn rising or a fog lifting, making everything that was once dark, perfectly outlined.

The great thing about milestone birthdays is the opportunity we get to take stock of our lives. I'm not considering twenty or thirty to be milestone birthdays because usually at that age, a life lived is far ahead of us. Beyond forty however invites reflection and brings with it an acute awareness that the sands of time are running out. With that awareness comes less ambition and more mindful living. If we haven't already arrived at this point, we are at least closer on our journey to getting there. And the realization that we aren't going to live another forty, fifty, sixty years begs the question: how do we spend the precious time we have left?

What I call living an authentic life, Ian refers to as truth and beauty. Choosing an authentic life doesn't mean opting for an easier one. It tests our integrity in the face of expectations. It risks disappointing the people we love. It sometimes feels like stepping off a cliff, hurtling towards the unknown. It is both frightening and liberating. Hey, in my experience, plan A almost never works out so might we well get familiar with the rest of the alphabet.

So here's what I know about Ian so far, apart from the fact that he's the real dude and he rocks long hair and we should all abide.

Ian's gift is his capacity for deep and meaningful connections with people. His openness and vulnerability to share and to receive what is heartfelt is what makes him a loyal and supportive friend. His ability to hone passion for music in the absence of traditional talent is what makes him a great teacher, and as a result, there are many birds singing (in harmony) in the woods. On a personal note, it has encouraged me to play music again after a long hiatus, and sing out (egad), without fear of judgement. 

We have a tendency to measure our accomplishments using numerical values: productivity, material accumulation, items crossed off a to-do list, number of likes on a Facebook post, number of albums sold, etc, and in the process forget that what really counts when living an authentic life is not so much what we have or what we do, but rather, who we are.

Truth and beauty reflects truth and beauty. It attracts truth and beauty. It brings out the best in all of us and provides us with a safe place to just be. Be ourselves. The only thing that really matters in this life is the difference we make in other people's lives and the our contribution to the village around us. What we pass on when it's time to leave this world is our one true legacy. It's what's truly earned while the rest is simply inheritance.

I look around the room and see Ian's community and feel privileged to be a part of it. So many new and dear friends. It is a community of teachers and artists and supporters of artists and contributors and brilliant people who shine on.

I know Ian is feeling the pressure of turning sixty, the need to increase his output, get all his songs out there à la Willie Nelson. But let me share what I observed in the making of his last cd. It was like exhaling after holding his breath for so long. That the best moments in the making of the album were the little things. The laughs with George, the thrill of working with awesome local musicians, editing with Danny, the blast we all had in the making of Don't: both song and video, and feeling profoundly moved by feedback received from the listeners who connected with the songs on a really intimate level or as Ian would say: they just get it. Let Willie Nelson continue to inspire you with his great volume of music but know that you have already arrived and anything you produce from this point on will be enough.

Ian, our younger selves would never have hooked up. We would have looked right past one another. Our fifties showed us the way and we have lived a lifetime of love in a few short years. My Boy Blue Valentine, sixty is simple. The time to be happy is now. The place to be happy is here. 

<3

House Arrest

My sister-in-law visited my mother in hospital this evening and found her tied in a wheelchair. Chantal described it as a gentle restraint, "a padded, open-faced underwear that goes over your clothes". My mother's version was that she had been arrested for doing something wrong but she didn't understand what it was.

According to her nurse, the reason for the house arrest was that she was forgetting to use the walker that had been plonked in front of her and therefore was at risk of falls. I say plonked because up until now, eight days into her hospitalization, nobody with the necessary expertise has come to asses her gait and balance, never mind her cognitive status. Whoever said that forgetting to use a walker was a crime anyway?

One could argue that I have the necessary expertise to assess this, at least the physical part, and that may be true. But she's my mother and all I can think of right now is there are worse things in life than falling.

Curried

Here is a list of things that will guarantee you a spot in my bad books:

1. Insist I must be pregnant when I tell you I'm not. 
2. Ask me to guess your age immediately after you mistake my muffin top for the third trimester of pregnancy in an effort to distract me.
3. Ask me where I'm from then proceed to tell me how much you hate curry.
4. Complain about your East Indian neighbours stinking up the neighbourhood with their cooking smells.
5. Practice your fake East Indian accent on me and think it is in any way charming.
6. Tell me how much you hate curries using a fake East Indian accent.
7. Refer to all East Indians as "Hindus" because you don't know any better.
8. Tell me I'm lucky I don't look Indian.

The only way to get back into my good books is to tell me how sorry you are over a plate of curry while doing the Indian head nod. Click on the link for directions.

The Long Goodbye

My father came home this week after spending six out of the past eight weeks hospitalized. The good news is his heart, after one hell of a tune-up, has the potential to recondition itself, to a fixed frequency of 80 beats per minute, thanks to a new pacemaker.

Some things though, will never be the same. Feet swollen to a point of no return, the flattened soles/(soul) of a failing heart, are now clad in medical-gauge, velcro slippers, worn indoors and out, that make him trudge with the weight of them rather than roll heel-toe.

Then there's the peripheral neuropathy that burns through the night. There's no cure for that kind of nerve damage and little to no relief from the meds. He's had it longer than the heart failure and about a year ago, I suggested he ask his doctor if he could try pot. Dad was keen but the doc was not, at least for now. You see, long ago in Pakistan, a prankster offered my father a hashish-stuffed pakora and what he remembers the most is that he felt no pain when his mother slapped him hard across the cheek for doing drugs.

Since early April, my father's looming death has felt like a long and painful goodbye. I lived on bagels, neglected my son and distracted myself by reading best-selling thrillers instead of the usual "book club" fare.

I rehearsed the words I wanted to say to him over and over in my head. The kind of speech you hear in the movies, when somebody is dying. But the night before his surgery, he couldn't breathe and his heart rate was dipping below 35 and my mother was too distraught. So I said nothing except, "See you on the other side, Dad." And as it turns out, I did.

Two Moons

I was reading through some unfinished blog entries and decided to group them by subject in an effort to salvage something worth posting. 

The supermoon was November 14th, 2016. Sometimes it's better to experience life in real time than get the shot. 

After googling "how  to photograph the supermoon", I stepped out the back door and took aim at the moon with the recommended iOS, but the clouds got there first, and the focus would not lock through the bare branches of the maple trees on my lot. Not wanting to look foolish, I took some shots of November trees instead, in the dark, and in doing so, completely missed the supermoon.


Haiku

this menopause fog
found cheese in the butter dish
the moon in the man.