The Gist of It All

Perks of the trade

2011-07-28T16:31:00.000-07:00

There's a lot more to translating than meets the eye. It's not just about good grammar and sentence structure, when to use semi-colons, the long dash or the short dash. It's all about context. About representing the meaning and essence of someone's words and ideas. Be it a press release, a brochure on recycling, a Web site for a local spa, assembly instructions, conference notes, the challenge is finding the "mot juste" - the right word. The right word for the right context.

One of the reasons I love translating is that I get to widen my pool of knowledge every day. When researching on best practices in the medical field, looking up architectural terminology, or discovering what pressotherapy is (basically a body squeeze), I go to bed each night slightly more enlightened than the day before. Another reason is the variety. I never translate the same document twice. Every document, every day, every week is something different. From titles to short sentences, paragraphs to full letters, brochures to year-end reports. All new, all the time.

Did I mention the advance notice on announcements and events? I know before the newspapers do. :D

Bijou tout neuf

2011-07-28T16:11:00.000-07:00

Local photo club contest.
Theme: No. 9
Won second place

From one extreme to the next

2011-07-25T21:54:00.000-07:00

Pondering my recent foray into "extreme" land, I can't help but think about today's youth and their need for "extreme" everything. Pushing myself past my comfort zone makes me feel alive. Now that I've come to understand my need to "be", to "exist" and to "matter", I wonder if today's youth, in their quest for the fastest, the biggest, the most exciting and the most dangerous, aren't just seeking the same thing - to be, to matter, and to exist. And I wonder if this isn't a reflection of their upbringing, by parents focused on themselves, their needs and their drive to succeed. By parents more concerned with having successful, talented and popular children while keeping up with the Jones' than balanced, confident and healthy ones. Are these children being seen? Heard? Do they feel that they have a place in the world? Or are they so numb, by a pain they don't even recognize, that only the most extreme circumstances can make them feel alive?

Balancing act

2011-07-25T21:02:00.000-07:00

Last Sunday, hubby, myself and our two girls visited a woodland obstacle course, otherwise known in Quebec as "hebertism". For three hours we climbed, balanced, crossed, zip-lined, and worked every muscle imaginable. (Today I can barely pull my pants up or down, but I digress.)

I'd been thinking about doing this for two years now. A challenge that would have me facing yet another fear, after last year's cruise to Alaska. That fear had been three-fold: fear of flying, fear of large ships (I'd sworn to NEVER go on a cruise), and fear of spending an extended period of time with my in-laws. I overcame all three, or should I say, mastered one and learned to control two. As for Holland America, they have a fan for life.

Back to the treetops. This fear was all about heights and giving myself permission to let go. After getting harnessed, we began to walk down into the woods. I refused to think about what was coming, refused to look up, and kept my focus on the task of gettin' her done. After a short demonstration on the use of carabiners (locking and non-locking), transport pulleys, the correct order to clip in, and red-coded wire to clip into, we were given permission to set off on our own. That's it? Would someone be at every station to make sure we were attached properly? No. Would someone be constantly watching us from the ground? No. Were there nets to catch us, just in case? Nope. Our only instruction was to yell "patroller" three times if we needed to be rescued. Okay then...

Following a couple of deep breaths, I climbed up to our first perch and clipped my two safety lines in. Looking down at the rope ladder stretched to the next tree - and through it 30 feet down - my pulse began to race and my "flight" mechanism fought to kick in. My chest began to constrict and I had a moment's panic when I realized my asthma pump was in the car. Closing my eyes, I repeated the obvious - "you're strapped in, you can't fall" - and placed my right foot on the first rung. Halfway across the ladder, I decided to breathe and felt my chest loosen. With shaking legs, and now air in my lungs, I reached the next tree and clipped myself in. I was doing it. And my family was right there with me, every step of the way.

Finishing the first segment by zipline was not only exhilarating but strangely fun. Hanging 30 feet in the air by a harness and sliding down a metal wire through the trees was very liberating, to say the least. The second segment, closer to 60 feet in the air, was much more challenging. The obstacles, such as two logs hanging at an angle, a set of roughly 20 swings, and the "floating" skateboard, were all quite difficult and sorely tested my balance and upper body strength. By the end of the segment, my arms were limp and my back sore. Luckily, the zipline to the ground proved to be welcomed rest. Though I opted to forgo the final segment for lack of strength, I was very proud of my achievement and knew my body would be reminding me of my feat for the week to come.

Thanks to my husband for having my back, literally, and my two daughters who led the way. Now, which fear to tackle next...

Daily Program, ms Zaandam

2010-09-06T11:58:00.000-07:00

DAY 5: SITKA, ALASKA / TUESDAY, JULY 27, 2010
DRESS: SMART CASUAL / WEATHER: 59F/15C PARTLY CLOUDY
ARRIVAL: 8:00 AM
LAST TENDER: 4:30 pm

Welcome to Sitka, Alaska.

Post-production black and blues

2010-06-27T15:59:00.000-07:00

It's been two weeks since we closed the show and my bruises are healing nicely, thank you. The bruises from the fight scene, in case you're wondering. Major bruises on my inner upper arms and inner thighs from jumping on Ovni's back, wrestling him to the ground, and later being overtaken by him again. All in the final scene of the play.

What a show. When you have total strangers walking up to shake your hand every night, telling you they'd completely forgotten you're a woman, you know you've done a good job at playing a man. I think the love patch might have worked in my favour, too.

What began as an exercise in frustation, what with a workshop leader who'd never led, a director who'd never directed, and a series of participants flying the coop week after week (I being one who seriously considered it), our show turned out to be what I beleived was one of the best and most entertaining of the seven presented this year. It wasn't until dress rehearsal that I finally realised just how good a show we'd put together.

Up until then, I'd worried it might never happen. That's because two participants were so unreliable, showing up late at every rehearsal, missing rehearsals completely, that I questioned whether they'd show up for the actual performances. But they did, late, but there just the same. I didn't help that several participants were still on book just days before opening night...

As is the magic of live theater, the process was exhilirating, eye-opening, touching and wonderous. I was honoured to witness a number of catterpillars turn into magnificent butterflies on stage, only to be transformed into more confidant, accepting human beings. To grace the stage is to come to life...

Will I do it again in the fall? I don't know. Too soon to tell. It's a major commitment, both in time and energy. Production week was brutal, what with being at the theatre from 5 to 11 p.m. every night. Was it exciting? You betcha. The most exciting thing I've done in the past 18 years. And that's just the beginning...

Next stop? Alaska. This July. Photo safari, here I come!

Ten days to showtime...

2010-05-30T21:00:00.000-07:00

Time to play

2010-02-03T16:40:00.001-08:00

The familiar can be both exciting and frightening all at the same time. Take my latest project.

I'm in a play.

For years, I've noted that a local company has offered drama workshops culminating in a production. For years I've wondered what it would be like. I've stopped wondering.

Now theater is not new to me. I first hit the stage in high school, then at my local Little Theatre company. I would later go on to earn a bachelor's degree in Drama. I've acted, written, and directed. I've even chaired a local theatre company for several years, promoting plays, designing posters, sewing costumes. What have you. But it's been years since I was on stage - 18 to be exact. And this time its really different.

It's in French.

I've never played in French. And while French IS my first language, it's not one I use 8 hrs a day, and certainly not this level of French. So learning my lines has been, dare I say, a bit of a challenge. And to top it all off, it's a combination of ''joual'' (slang) French and academic French. My character also speaks a very different French than I do at home. Plus he's a man. I'm playing a man. My esteemed director, all 4' of her, all 25 young years of her, is a professional actress who has never taught or directed. Her instructions thus far have been ''work at lowering your voice''.

Mmm. Have I mentioned that we've done no research, script analysis or character development? Have I mentioned we've only been assigned our roles two weeks ago and already we're on our feet... blocking the damn thing? Oh, did I mention that out of the 10 actors participating in this play, myself and one other person are the only people with theatre experience? The others have none. As green as unripened bananas.

It's been an experience, to say the least. Every week, I see my fellow thespians struggle at understanding what is expected of them, struggle to understand the text, struggle to understand their characters, their motivations, their placement for the next scene. So when I mentioned to said director that maybe we'd skipped a few steps and needed to lay a little more ground work, her answer was ''there's no time, we'll learn as we go along.'' I see. Brave, are you.

Am I worried? Yes. And no. Stressed about the final product for weeks. But I've finally come to the conclusion that I'm only hurting myself and its not helping the show. So, I'll cast my fears aside, learn my lines, take my cues, and be as helpful and inspiring as I can be for my director and fellow actors, and together we'll put on one helluva show. Now that I've stopped worrying, I'm actually enjoying myself.

The name of my character? Shit. It's a four-letter code to access the system. The setting of this play is a survey call centre. The characters all have code names that represent their state of mind. There's Love, the office nympho. Ange (angel) the devout christian. Star, the materialist looking for excitement. Drak, the goth, and a few others. Shit, for his part, is not a happy person. In fact, he thinks the world is going to shit, pardon the pun. The author uses this character to express how he feels about death, war, famine, and the Jerry Springer show. Shit drinks on the job, smokes pot with his coworkers, and bemoans how low society has sunk. According to Shit, it's not normal to see so much human suffering on television and not be affected by it. The question is, what is normal?

So I'm on an adventure. The important part of this adventure is the process. Stepping out of my comfort zone... out from the wings and onto centre stage.

...

Line please!

To bee... or not to bee. Me is the question.

2010-01-01T14:27:00.000-08:00

After much consideraion, months of therapy, and a good swift kick in the pants, I've decided that this year, yes, THIS year, I'm going to stop standing on the sidelines of my life as it quietly passes me by and instead, grab a cymbal and join the parade.

The plan is to BE. Just be.
While this might sound odd to you, in the daily grind of being a wife, mother, daughter, sister, employee, neighbour, and friend, I often forget to be. Just be. Me.

In fact, I'm thinking of getting a bee tattooed on my hand, as a reminder.
Because I need reminding.

To bee.
To bee, or not to bee.
Cause not bee-ing means not existing.
I'm am.
Therefore I bee.

Moving on

2009-12-06T17:13:00.000-08:00

It's time, I said. Time for me to let you go and stand on my own.
Time for me to trust myself.
She smiled. Like me, she knew this to be true.
It was a privilege to have accompanied you on your journey, she said.
I smiled.
It's one I could never have taken without you, I said.
She smiled. This too she knew to be true.
Not a goodbye, I said. I don't like goodbyes.
No, she said. I'll be here, should you ever need me.
I know, I said. Thanks for that.
She smiled.

I looked around the room. The painting facing my chair. The beams along the ceiling. The cracks in the walls, along the joints. The basement window. All so familiar now. She waited for me to stand before rising from her chair, opened the door, and followed me up the stairs.

It's a beautiful fall day, she said holding my coat open for me.
Yes, I said, slipping an arm into the sleeve. Thinking. It's over. For now.
It's my favourite season, she said.
Mine too, I said. The changing colours, weather. Changing. It's a season for change.
She smiled at that.
May I give you a hug, she asked.
Surprised, I said yes and opening my arms, leaned into her. She held me.
The tears wanted to come.
Not a goodbye, I said.
She smiled. Knowing.

Take care, she said.
I will, I said.

Doubtful clouds

2009-12-06T15:14:00.000-08:00

Cloudy skies

Visibility is hampered

Not quite seeing what is below, or above

Sensing that clarity is just beyond reach

Not quite attainable

Flight patterns are not easily modified

Landing gear not as reliable as it once was

Nothing is

But the flight continues, onward.

Cloudy heart

Visibility is hampered by pain

Not quite feeling what is inside, or out

Sensing emotions just beyond reach

Not quite attainable

Habits are not easily modified

Relationships not as secure as they once were

Nothing is

But the healing continues, inward.

Cloudy thoughts

Visiblity is hampered by memories

Not quite remembering what was, or seeing what is

Sensing awareness is just beyond reach

Not quite attainable

The truth is not easy to hide

Certainty not as it once was

Nothing is

But the hoping continues, forward.

Learning to crawl

2009-06-25T15:18:00.000-07:00

Thanks, Doc. I know, I know, baby steps. Yes, I do see my progress. I promise to go easy on myself. Upward and onward. Or as my brother likes to say, Bunny on.

Thus ends the majority of my sessions. Now that I've replayed a large part of my youth and have come to terms with the fact that my parents did not in fact provide me with the nurturing I needed, or deserved, its up to me to accept what cannot be changed and live in the now. The bigger challenge is reversing the learned behaviour.

At a very early age, I was inadvertantly taught to take care of my parents, i.e. make sure they were never upset, ensured they always felt safe, and never, ever questioned their values, interests or God forbid, intelligence. Ultimately, I was the perfect child who didn't make any demands. And if I dared make a request, and it was turned down, I accepted the explanation given, if there was one, with no questions asked. I would not even allow myself to get angry or think anything unfair because it might have translated onto my face and upset them. I never shed a tear in their presence, knowing that my distress would ensue their distress, and potential lead to anger.

I dutifully carried out every social convention required of a child and thus my parents could count on receiving the expected attention, card, gift, etc at the approprate time. When visiting, I sat quietly and waited to be invited to play - waited to be invited to enjoy a bonbon - waited to be told that it was time to go home.

Waited to be told what to say, what do do, what to think, what to feel... To the point that I lost track of who I was in an effort to be someone else, in an effort to please my parents and be the little girl they could be proud of.

Hence my dilemma today, as I wait to be given the permission to exist. What does this mean, exactly? Simply put, it means putting myself first. Recognizing my needs, wants, desires, wishes, longings, over everyone elses. To live according to my true self. And who, pray tell, must give me this permission? Why who else but me!

Easier said than done. Part of the trick to undoing learned behaviour is envisioning different outcomes to repeated scenarios which helps to see life in a very different way. So, onward and upward. The learning contiues.

Sis

Gonna take a sentimental journey...

2009-04-27T17:42:00.000-07:00

Eight weeks have gone by. Rather, eight therapy sessions have passed. This is how I've come to see my life. In terms of weekly sessions. Each one touches on a different aspect of my problem. Of being the adult child of a narcissistic parent.

Along with my eight weeks of therapy, I've read four books on the subject. Each has helped me greatly to put words to thoughts and emotions. There have been many ''ah-ha'' moments over the past weeks, starting with why I lack ambition, why I often feel like a ''fake'', why I'm such a perfectionist (not a good thing), why I'm constantly trying to understand my father's behaviour, and why I have such trouble developing fulfilling relationships. The biggest and most difficult of these moments was coming to the realization that I had to give up hope of ever being recognized as an individual and loved unconditionally by my father. I cannot expect something that he is not capable of doing. Having said that, I will probably grieve this for years to come.

Once the tears have dried, all of these moments can easily be understood from an intellectual perspective. Reaching beneath that level, to gut emotions, is the hard part. I accept these epiphanies yet struggle to internalize them. I, and many people for that matter, tend to intellectualize our feelings in order not to feel them. Since narcissisists lack empathy, their tendency is to intellectualize everything in order to protect themselves. By doing this, they distance themselves from their own emotions. This protective measure also has a negative effect - it robs us of opportunities to feel and to grow.

I grew up needing to maintain and inflate my father's ego. This meant to never question his authority (this was seen as an insult), never show negative emotions (this was distressing to him), and never take attention away from him (this too was distressing). I was to be the bright, obedient child who was an extension of her father. No mistakes were allowed, since this reflected directly on him. I was not to have my own thoughts and opinions, especially if these conflicted with his thoughts and values. Neither did I have choices. When choices were presented, the expected selection was made clear. Mind reading was another skill expected from my father. He never needed to speak to make himself understood. A look was all it took. And if I failed to understand, I was at fault. Any self-affirming action on my part was perceived as a threat to my father's fragile ego. The safest route was following in his foosteps and following his every order.

So many memories have been rekindled throughout this process. A particular one involves math homework. My father believed himself to be rather proficient in math. Except that when his attempt to ''teach'' me didn't work, he'd get annoyed, then angry, to the point where I would eventually lie and announce that ''yes, I DID understand'' rather than bear his anger, which could escalate to such a point where he would accuse me of not understanding on purpose just to piss him off. My lack of understanding simply could not be a result of his instructions but rather must be out of spite. My father would react as though he'd been personally attacked, something that is very typical of narcissists.

Since I was an extension of my father, and thus existed only as a source of narcisstic supply, my own sense of self is buried deep within me. This is what I am attempting to recover. By giving myself permission to exist. Permission to make choices based on my wants and needs (that still, for the most part, remain a mystery to me), by carrying out activities that help connect me to my self (activities that allow me to express myself creatively), and by recognizing and welcoming the pain and sorrow that I was not permitted to express in my youth. The examples are too many to list.

I must learn to let go of my fantasies (dreaming of an idealistic relationship with my father), believe that I am worthy of being loved, that I deserve to be happy, allow myself to make mistakes (so that I may grow), and not be afraid to reach out to other people. Baby steps. That's what my therapist says. I must learn to accept that change will come in small increments.

After 47 years of living in this state of constant frustration and confusion, I'm just happy to finally understand. After years of wondering what's wrong with me, I'm relieved to know it wasn't me after all.

The journey continues...

Sis

Me, my self, and the lack thereof

2009-02-25T19:30:00.001-08:00

So tomorrow afternoon will have me sitting before my therapist and having to admit I didn't do my homework. In fact, she'll look at me knowingly as I apologize for not fulfilling my obligations to myself. The smile will tell me that apologizing is not necessary. She's not my teacher. Or my dad. And the only person who's going to suffer is me because I'm delaying the process. And I desperately need to move on because I feel like I'm stalling. Which I am because ''investing'' in myself is something foreign and alien and goes against every grain of my being.

Last week, I was told to ''give myself permission to exist''. An odd statement, but after some thought, an apt one. When you've spent your entire life being subjugated by a narcissistic father, you tend to lose your sense of self. After spending years playing my dad's pawn and ensuring that his ego and image were intact by being the perfect and ideal daughter, I spent the rest of my life taking up other people's causes and working my ass off to make sure (insert name of company or organization here) gets the best of what I have to offer. Being the ideal employee. The one who never says no. The one who can do it all. The one who never works for the money, but to get the job done, and done right, without mistakes, and on time, and exceed his employer’s expectations. I'm not just a team player; I'm the employee who takes on the responsibility for the entire company's survival. Stressful? You think?

My skills have come in handy to ''friends'' who require said skills, but said ''friends'' only show up when a need arises. This realization has made me weary of investing myself lately. In fact, it's made me retreat into my shell and question many of my relationships. I'm probably just feeling sorry for myself...

Always being focused on other people's needs leaves little time for my own. It occurs to me that I may (may?) be compensating by fulfilling other's needs to avoid facing the fact that I'm completely unable to define my own needs and commit to myself. What do I want? It's always been what other people want. What other people need. And while this therapy is about me, each week raises more questions and makes me realize just how alone and empty I feel. And how fucked up my father really is. Unbeknownst to him.

I was describing myself to a friend the other day and she looked at me like I was crazy - she see's me quite differently. How can there be such a divide between how people see me and how I see myself? What am I projecting? What do I have to offer? My homework this week from my therapist was to go back over the many jobs I've held and see myself through the eyes of my co-workers. I don't think I'll be able to do that. Apart from the obvious - a boss who tells you you're being too hard on yourself - how other people see me appears to escape me. And whatever praise was lauded my way has always been dismissed or played down. Winning two writing awards in a category that was alien to me (sports) was just embarrasing. They weren't even sports stories but rather human-interest stories. Which means I stole the awards away from the real sports writers because the judge had a soft spot for kids and deposed coaches. SEE? And while we're at it, I wish my office manager would stop telling me how great a job I'm doing because I'm just doing my job and that's what I get paid to do!

Okay. Maybe we can discuss this tomrrow. Let's say 1:30 p.m.?

Ray, last Sunday morning

2009-02-23T17:59:00.000-08:00

25 Random Things About Me

2009-02-23T17:49:00.000-08:00

This is a little exercise making the rounds on Facebook. An interesting way to get to know people better. You post a note with 25 random things about yourself and tag 25 people who should do the same and tag you back. Thought I'd share. Here goes...

1. I was born the day Marilyn Monroe died (August 5, 1962).
2. When I was five, I let my brother’s rabbit out of its cage and it got hit by a car and died.
3. As a kid, each time I stopped to admire life’s beauty, on days when I was truly happy, I’d have a panic attack. I knew one day I was going to die and it would all be gone. Okay, enough about death.
4. I like to look at the glass butter dish when it’s clean and holds a new stick of butter. There’s just something so right about it.
5. When I was 12, I used to get up in the middle of the night and clean my closet.
6. I played with Barbies until I was about 13. With the help of a little putty, Ken was anatomically correct…
7. I’ve played an extra in six feature films. Since high school, I’ve performed in 10 plays.
8. I hate winter. Really, really, hate it. It’s probably why I refuse to invest in warm clothing and boots, or wear a hat. Like I’m in denial or something.
9. I gave myself permission to stop believing in God when I was 14. Turns out I didn’t get struck down by lightning. Go figure.
10. I steamed open the reference letter given to me by my high school drama teacher that accompanied my college application. It basically said I’d been ‘useful’ with no mention of my talent. That hurt.
11. I lived in France from 1969 to 1971.
12. I get very annoyed when people forward e-mails that are really hoaxes. I always feel the need to reply ‘to all’ and provide the Web link to hoaxbusters.com. I wish they’d make sure to check before creating more junk mail and wasting everyone’s time.
13. I never had a lot of girl friends in school. All that girly stuff and cattiness… too much. The boys were always way more interesting.
14. I have a tattoo. I may get another…
15. I loathe people who litter. I have memories of my father unwrapping his pack of smokes in the car and tossing it out the window.
16. I know a little about a lot of things. I wish I knew a lot about a few things.
17. I was a dancer… in another life.
18. I listen very closely to the lyrics in songs. No matter how good the music might be, if the lyrics are stupid, I won’t like it.
19. I cry at movies. I sob at some. I’ve been inconsolable at others.
20. I think Robert Downey Jr. is a genius.
21. Scientology is a load of crap. One day, Tom Cruise will wake up and be really, really embarrassed.
22. Thongs are just stupid.
23. I love macrophotography.
24. Car dealerships give me hives. Beaucage in Sherbrooke gives me a migraine.
25. I wish I had a real passion for something.

This time, it's all about ME

2009-02-04T17:38:00.000-08:00

So far, what psychotherapy has taught me is that a) my father appears to have narcissistic tendencies (if not a bonafied narcissictic personality disorder) and that b) I can stop trying to earn his respect and admiration because c) he's not capable of recognizing me as an individual but rather, will always see me as an extension of himself and thus d) I will never measure up. In my book, that's worth the $70 per session.

That's nar-cissist, the emphasis being placed on the first syllable.

Since this was revealed to me, I have scoured the Internet looking up information on Narcissitic Personality Disorder or NPD. To realize that what I am is a ''source of narcissistic supply'' for my dad is actually liberating. It's allowed me (well, not quite yet but I'm working on it) to stop blamnig myself for ''not being good enough''. It's also helped me understand why ''it's always about him''. It's easier to accept that my father has some sort of personality disorder than to just simply think he's an arrogant, egotistical asshole.

That's ass-hole, the emphasis... oh never mind. You get the point.

Bottom line is, there's hope for me yet. And in the future, instead of getting royally annoyed with my dad when he asks me how I am and proceeds to spend the next hour telling me how HE is, I'll look at him and smile and know HE's dysfunctional and not me. It also explains his behaviour towards my mother, who seems only to exist to meet his needs. And why he has very few friends. For my dad, people are valued for what they can bring him. Once that supply source has died, he no longer has need for them. I could never understand why he could be so close to someone for a time, then be completely turned off by them. Probably because they dared to either snub him or question his importance.

According to my mother, my father once said that he had never made a mistake in his life - they were all experiences. And if someone had gotten hurt in the process, it wasn't his fault. It's because they were weak. I know that this has had a profound effect on how I have internalized emotional ''pain'' and why I tend to get angry when my daughters are hurt and need me. Something I am well aware of and working on. When I was young and my father got angry at me for something and flew off the handle, he'd often visit me in my room later in the evening to ''explain'' himself. I used to think that this was honourable, until I realized years later that he never apologized for his outbursts. I don't think I've ever heard my father apologize for anything. I too visit my daughters and explain myself, but the first thing I do is apologize.

I prefer to feel sorry for my dad than to be angry with him. Now I can grieve the relationship I will never have instead of trying so hard and feeling like a failure for not achieving it.

Christmas Eve and Alcohol-Induced Family Secrets

2008-12-26T17:20:00.000-08:00

Ho, ho, ho, merry drinking.

While other children were snuggled up in their beds with visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads, I was sitting at a table with a half-dozen other family members (mostly cousins) and listening to my inebriated father telling stories. Not the warm and cuddly kind, mind you, but rather the kind you'd wish he'd kept to himself because THIS kind of story made him slip one step further down the ladder of respect and good taste. There was a moral to this story of course, there always is, and this particular story was supposed to describe how SOME decisions are not easy ones to make...

As this little ditty goes, one day late in the summer of 1960, my soon-to-be-married father decided he needed some time alone and opted for a swim in a nearby swimming hole. Shortly thereafter, a young woman arrived on the scene. Janet (her real name now fails me) and my father were childhood friends and she, knowing he was soon to be married, made advances to him and reminded the future husband that his bachelor days were numbered. Swimming suggestively towards him, she made her intentions very clear. My father described how he was torn between not wanting to offend her (she was desirable, to say the least), the fact that he was soon to be married, and wanting to prove he was perfectly capable of performing whatever service Janet required. In the end, he fought the temptation and did not give in to his lust and/or ego. Admirable, to say the least.

Had the story ended here, we would have all gone home satisfied and my father's reputation would have remained intact. But this is my father we're talking about. So while he still had his momentum, he moved the story seven years into the future. One day, my father found himself working side by side with this same Janet in an electoral office. Just the two of them. They worked the phones for hours, were brought liquor (this was the 60s) on a regular basis, and soon enough... something DID happen. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink, know what I mean??? Of course all I could think about was my mother at home caring for his 6-year-old son and 5-year-old daughter. I've always known the old man was a womanizer and adulterer, but I'd never actually been presented with concrete proof, and particularly not from his own mouth.

Merry Christmas, Dad. And thanks for another warm and cuddly memory.

Computer and gas station idiot

2008-11-28T12:39:00.001-08:00

My computer crashed. Again. And I think this is it. I'll have to get a new one. It's not the expense per se that bothers me but rather losing data and having to reinstall ALL of my programs. It's only five years old, a baby in human years but ancient in techno world. ''Couldn't you just replace the motherboard?'' I asked the nice techno geek at the techno shop. No, it doesn't work that way. He then proceeded to go into WAY too much detail and lost me after ''First of all...'' Computers are only fun when they work.

Reminds me of when I stopped at a gas station a few weeks ago and tried using my debit card at the Express pump. I never go into the station if I don't have to. That way I don't have to speak to anyone, make nice, smile. So I'm standing outside, it's hailing, and the wind is as sharp as tacks. Must have been the hail. I swipe my card, wait, punch in my NIP, wait, say no thanks to their stupid reward program points, and the card is refused. I know my money's good, so I try again. It's just as windy, the hail continues to sting my face, and I swipe once more. Punch in the NIP, yada yada yada. Refused again. I pump the gas into my car, cursing under my breath as the hail continues to come at me with increasing force. I then enter the station and hand over my debit card. This is try number three. Goes through no problem. ''So, can you tell me why my card was refused twice at pump number 3?'' I ask the teenager with the up-flip hairdo behind the counter. He nonchalantly hands me back my card and sayd ''They're machines. It's fun when they work, eh?'' That's your answer? ''Bravo,'' I say. ''Fun...when...they...work. That's brilliant, dude. Your custome service skills are rather impressive,'' and left the station in disgust.

What can I say. Customer service in Quebec is practically non-existant. For the most part, most customer service personnel walk around like they resent the fact that they have to serve you.

I'm sorry, didn't you know the job would require you to interact with people?

Sheesh Louise.

Mimi, revisited.

2008-11-26T18:06:00.000-08:00

Clough St. Iris

2008-11-15T15:17:00.000-08:00

De-segregated birth bath.

2008-11-15T15:05:00.000-08:00

Beeing There

2008-11-15T15:01:00.000-08:00

St-Benoit-du-Lac Abbey Butterfly

2008-11-15T14:01:00.000-08:00

Grande-Fourche Cycling Trail Lily

2008-11-15T13:58:00.000-08:00

Clough St. Poppy

2008-11-13T20:15:00.003-08:00

Summer 2008.

Turns out t'was

2008-09-26T19:43:00.000-07:00

Ray Meets David Usher

2008-09-01T19:09:00.000-07:00

It was advertised in the paper. David Usher was going to be the main attraction at Brome Fair in Knowlton on Saturday, August 30. At 8 p.m. David Usher at Brome Fair? What the f---! Why on god's green earth would David Usher WANT to play Brome Fair??? But then the question begs, why would David Usher want to play Le Magog in Sherbrooke?!! It's a hole! But I digress. David (as I like to call him) was playing at Brome Fair, and what that meant was that I could bring Ray to see him perform live. At 10, she's not old enough to carry fake I.D. so bars are out. ''So, Ray, you interested in seeing David Usher?'' Stupid question.

As the day draws nearer, she's getting more and more excited. ''I'M GONNA SEE DAVID USHER!!!'' spontaneously combusts from my daughter at erratic intervals. Yes, she's excited. But then, so am I. But I play that down, so as not to compete with her enthusiasm. Plus I'm an adult. We don't get excited over rock stars. Much. That morning, I'm casually reading my paper and sipping my coffee. No, I didn't have to go out half-naked this time, Hubby got my paper before going to work. I think he's been reading my blog. Anyway, I'm reading my paper and Ray is furiously trying on outfits for the concert. I have to remind her that we're going to a fair, so a skirt and heels are not appropriate. (Tell that to the dozen or so young women we encountered during our visit. Heels for Pete's sake!) ''What time are we leaving?'' she asks. Well, the concert is at 8 p.m. and I'm not about to walking around the fair grounds for six hours so I say 3 p.m. Get there for 4 p.m., visit, have a bite, try a few rides, and take in the show.

Of course, we don't leave until close to 4 p.m. I then realize I've misjudged the distance and its more like 1.5 hours to Knowlton. Fine. We get there for 5:30 p.m. Go through the horse, cow, sheep and fowl barns (all in that order, you don't visit a country fair without getting a taste of country - or should I say aroma), then do a few rides. I figure it's safer to ride first, eat later. I used to LOVE rides at the fair, but as I get older, it seems to be getting harder and harder for me to recover. Something about the inner ear, I'm told.

Time to eat a couple of hot dogs and a box of fried potato twisters. When I say a box, I mean the kind you can pack a fridge in. Love those things. So we scarf down our food with some water, then make our way to the grandstand to find a seat. By this time the place is packed. I'm sitting behind a post but at least Ray's got a good enough view of the stage. Which is across a horse track. This is going to be interesting, I think to myself, looking around the gray-haired crowd around us. I don't see these people really getting into this man's music. But hey, it's the fair. All's fair in love and war, as they say. The MC is telling us that David is here and pumped. How David can be pumped about playing Brome Fair is beyond me, but I digress. I don't care. He's here and if I have the chance, I'll personally think him for agreeing to do this gig.

The MC is trying to get us excited but his banter is somewhat lame and predictable. What I didn't expect was his asking if we felt we were too far from the stage... What? Hell yes, but what are you getting at? That's when he invites people to get closer to the stage. Suddenly, I see people rushing across the horse track to the stage area. Oh. I get it. Uh, Ray? Wanna get closer? She's already half-way down the steps. I excuse myself as I exit the bandstand (we were about 10 rows up and midway across the damn thing) and find my daughter near the stage area. I still can't believe David Usher is here. It's a perfect evening, warm air, no bugs, and the crowd gathering around is a mixture of young and middle-aged. We're about five rows back from the stage. Pretty good placement, I'd say. The band is introduced and David approaches the edge of the stage. Ray looks up at me and smiles. I hold her in front of me and we both start moving to the beat. After the first song, she decides she wants to get closer. I'm fine where I am, for fear of a) losing my spot and b) getting nasty comments. I watch her get to the front of the stage and keep an eye on her. About four songs into the concert, I check to find Ray and she's disappeared. I'm not too worried but scan the crowd nonetheless. Two songs later, I spot her sitting on a box directly facing the stage...minutes before David Usher crouches down to her and two young boys sitting with her. I realize she's safely made her way closer and feel a tinge of sadness that we won't be sharing the music together but thrilled for her good fortune.

A few songs later, I feel two small arms wrap around my waist and look down to see my daughter's face beaming up at me. ''I touched him!'' she says, smiling broadly. I can only laugh. But you've lost your place, I point out. She squeezes me. ''But I wanted to be with you!'' she says. I smile down at my youngest and give her a squeeze. One song later, she looks up at me and says ''I'm heading back in. Wish me luck!'' And with that, she's gone again. Within seconds, she's found her way back to the box. Amazing. I lose myself in the rest of the concert. David and his bank return for an enthusiastic encore. During his last song, he thanks everyone for coming, a sign that he'll be leaving the stage for good. He ends the song, bends down towards the crowd and I see a small hand shoot out - it's Ray's! He shakes it, then turns around and leaves. After much cheering, the crowd begins to disperse and I make my way to the front of the stage. Ray is sitting up smirking. Did you enjoy the concert, I ask. ''YES! He rocks!!!''

Yes, he does rock indeed. This is the third concert I've seen in less than two years and he brings the same amount of energy and enthusiasm to each one. But besides his energy, it's his lyrics that really move me. He has an incredible way of expressing himself that I can translate into my own life and feelings about the world. And somehow, he manages to touch my 10-year old as well. That's an amazing feat in itself.

I didn't get the chance to talk to him, but I did get a chance to speak to his lead guitarist and expressed my appreciation. It was an awesome night. I even put the ''Mom'' in me aside and we did two more rides after the concert. Suffice it to say, we got home late. Late, but pleased as punch. Now that I think of it, I've enjoyed TWO David Usher concerts with my girls - one with Cat back in the spring at Le Magog and this one with Ray. Hey, going to rock concerts with my kids. Cool man!

Sis

Attention, wayward shoppers...

2008-08-25T18:27:00.000-07:00

Going to the store for one item is nearly impossible for me. Unless I'm heading to the corner gas station to buy my paper on Saturday mornings, wearing nothing but a spring coat over my nightgown and dark sunglasses. I think the wind across my cheeks keeps me from dilly-dallying.

Apart from my nearly-naked outings for the paper, entering a store, any store, overloads my brain with stimuli that races across my circuit board like dogs racing to get the rabbit. Booker knows what I mean. The lights, colours, variety, row upon row of merchandise and yellow ''Liquidation'' signs lure me like fish to bait. It doesn't matter that I make lists. A totally undesirable item will catch my attention and send my brain waves down aisle 453 to rekindle some long lost memory of my needing crazy glue for some piece of jewelry that required mending. Never mind the piece of jewelry is now lost and the need for glue has passed. I'll make my way down to the hardware section and look for a deal on glue, scanning the aisle for minutes on end, frustrated at myself for my indecision between the liquid, gel, one-time use or heavy-duty adhesive for...plastic? Glass? Earthenware? After what seems like hours, I finally give up the search, concluding that I can't remember what I need it for. When I do, I'll write it down. On a Post-it.

So it was this evening when I entered the big-box store (which incidentally also carries tiny boxes) to purchase some dog food. Dog food and crazy glue. I actually had a need for the glue since my glasses needed mending and the dog needed to eat. So armed with my list of two things, I entered the store. At 6:22 p.m. I grabbed a cart and made my way to the pet section, heading straight for the Purina One for Large Breed (the plum-coloured bag with the teal accent), grabbing the two bags left on the shelf and loading them into the cart. One down. I'll just mosey down the aisle, see whats... oh cat food. Yes, that's good. Couple cans of those. Still looking to give the kitten away but until then, it still needs to eat. Oh, a cute toy on sale for only $3. This gets tossed into the cart. Now, what else do I need... Vitamins? No... Toilet cleaner? No... There's a rack of cute decorative pillows. Pillows! I need a new pillow. I'm sure the one I have is giving me a crink in my neck. Where is the Bedding department? Here. Pillows for side sleepers, pillows for stomach sleepers, for back sleepers, down filled, polyester, fiberfill, buck-wheat husks... What are those, edible? Need a little fiber in your diet? Whatever. I find one I like but now must travel to find a price-check scanner. Three aisles down, I finally confirm my pillow is $12.99. Did I want to pay that much for a pillow? Did I notice cheaper pillows? Do I actually WANT to go back? No. I have to keep looking for... what is it again?

I make my way down another aisle desperately looking to make a visual connection with what I need. I pass the shoe department and remember Ray needs new school shoes but we'll go to an actual shoe store for those. My mind wanders through my music collection as I pass the electronics department. Wasn't there a CD I wanted to buy? What's that song by... I hum a few bars but the name of the band escapes me. No surprise there. Passing the cosmetics section, I notice Oil of Olay on sale but quickly remember I purchased a few bottles down in Bar Harbour at a ridiculously low price. Which reminds me of the Ernest and Julio Gallo Rosé bottles that were also ridiculously low priced compared to Quebec prices - nearly twice the amount in Canada. Our tax system is obscene. What a great trip that was, fireworks on the Fourth of July at the dock --- What is it I'm looking for again? Damn it.

I decide to cut across the store through the lighting fixtures department and stop to inspect the desk lamps. Ray needs a new one, her older sister having absconded her clip light some months back. I can't decide to replace the clip lamp or choose a table model. Fluorescent? Halogen? Gooseneck? Magnifier? She could magnify her nail clippings. Sorta of like science. What does SHE want? What colour? Best to come back with her and let her choose. A liquidation on picture frames. Hmm... Do I need some? Didn't I just buy some black frames? Yes, and they're still empty. Right. I had a concept but it's slipped my mind so the frames are sitting on a shelf, still wrapped. It'll come back to me. Someday.

I suddenly check my watch and realize it's 8:27 p.m. Shit. I have to get home. With two days before school starts, the store only has two check-outs open and four express check-outs accepting up to 10 items. Problem is, everyone has bulging carts full of school supplies. I consider ditching a few items to have express access but fear reprisal from my dog. I choose the least offensive of the two lines and exchange idle banter with my neighbour to the south. This goes on for 20 minutes, wherein I pipe up and ask if another check-out can be opened for ''those of us who didn't wait until the last freakin' minute to buy our school crap'' (but that have more than 10 items.) This draws a nasty look from my neighbour to the north. I'm passed caring. It's now 8:49 and I won't be getting home until 9:15 p.m. My evening is shot.

So goes another visit to the store.

Note to self: In future, shop 15 minutes before store closure.

Sis

T'was not to be for Mimi

2008-08-17T18:27:00.000-07:00

I tried. Really I did. I fought the side-effects, used antihistamines, a few drops of Visine now and again, but no. It just wasn't meant to be. So now I'm looking for a good home for Mimi.

I suppose it was the optimist in me who wanted to believe, desperately believe, that allergies CAN disappear on their own. I've tolerated the symptoms but now can't ignore the pains in my chest which have been getting worse over the last two weeks.

After years of being out of practice, I'd gotten used to emptying cat litter, the smell of cat food (really, people, is there nothing more disgusting, besides the counter-top compost bin?), missing items on my desk (she loves playing with pens), additional letters in my documents (what I call her keyboard dancing), the trump-trump-trump of her little paws as she tore across the hallway or up the steps, the 5 a.m. wake-up calls via loud purring in my ears (tiny pink paws across my face - sometimes accompanied by an unpleasant litter odor), the sound of her climbing the curtains/back of the couch/side of the bed/stereo speakers, and the miscellaneous questionable pieces of debris found under tables, chairs, desks, beds, and other various locations.

It's been really wonderful having her in our life. Ray finally had a pet she could cuddle up with (Booker is not the cuddly type). Neither are fish. And our guinea pig was too skittish. Even the two rabbits (yes, made that mistake twice) couldn't beat the instant gratification of a purring kitten lying in your arms. And to say Booker had come to appreciate the little critter and even let her sleep next to him on his pillow. That's got to say something of Mimi's power of persuasion.

I'll miss her, we all will, there's no doubt of that. But I must think about my health. I've sent out an e-mail to all my friends within driving distance, with pictures (really cute pictures), so hopefully someone will come forward. Thanks to all those who've responded with good wishes. A special thanks to Ross for the heads up. Deb still working at the post office? Wait, isn't James on Facebook?

Sis

What am I thinking...

2008-07-26T15:08:00.000-07:00

Did I mention I was allergic?

It's a few minutes to 11 p.m. and my eldest daughter calls to say she's found a cat. Well, not found quite yet, but there's this kitten, see, and my daughter can hear it crying in a nearby park. She's with her boyfriend who'se summer job is patrolling the borough. He's called the SPCA and twenty minutes after they've arrived, they've given up. If she and the boyfriend find it, can they bring it home?

Shortly after midnight, she and the boyfriend arrive at the house with the kitten. It's shivering and hungry and... awfully damn cute. Like all kittens. ''Can we keep it?'' asks my daughter. How many times do I have to remind you people that I'm allergic? For the night, I say. It's 2 a.m. Let's talk about it in the morning.

Ray is up before anyone, as usual. Laying in bed and struggling to go back to sleep, the cat suddenly pops into my mind. It doesn't have a litter box. Crap. I rush downstairs to find Ray watching her morning intake of cartoons. Without looking up from her show, she announces that there's a cat under the couch. She's heard it crying. And she can't figure out how it got in the house. She checked the door this morning and it was locked. Do I have any ideas?

I relay last night's event. Cool, she says. Except it won't come out from under the couch. Meoul's a lot, but won't come out. I get a broom and gently prod the kitten out. It's still just as cute, and now I'm wondering if its done its business under my couch. Now that the little bundle has become a concrete thing that she can see and hold, Ray is delirious with joy. ''Can we keep it? Is it a boy or a girl? How old is it? How did they find it? Listen, it's purring!'' Yes, it's purring, as happy kitties are apt to do. Did I want to keep it? Of course I did. But I knew that would mean being on medication until the day it or I died. And what about poor Booker? What if he thought it was a rabbit? He's a retired greyhound.

So this was the plan. First, we see if Booker accepts the cat. Everyone has to be prepared for the eventuality that one day, one of us (and it could be you Raybay!) comes home to find Kitty torn to shreds and strewn all over the basement family room. Graphic enough for ya?! If she's smart enough to survive the week, we'll see how my allergies do. In all reality, I was just trying to buy a little time. I love cats. Have had them all my life until the age of 24 when I suddenly developed an allergy. I've missed sharing my home with a cat. Sorry Book, but I'm just not a dog person. You're too needy. Too dependent. Love ya man, but I tolerate you more than anything, it's Hubby that truly loves you and, well, I truly love him so am willing to put up with you. It's all good.

So Kitty has survived two weeks. We THINK it's a she but it may be too soon to tell yet. And she's come to be known as Mimi, on account of the meouling. Booker has shown to be rather tolerant himself. Maybe he senses its in his best interest. Mimi occasionally gets too close, playing with an ear during naptime or his tail and he pulls off a half bark half huff which scares her off. As for my allergies, the Visine for allergies has come in handy and there's been a couple of days where I felt the need for a Reactin but otherwise they're not bad. I'm thinking it's cause she's still a kitten. Maybe her ''real'' hair will come in later and the symptoms will be tenfold. Until then, Mimi is adding a lot of life to this household and getting into her share of trouble, as kittens are apt to do. Funny. There's a framed picture of Booker upstairs next to the couch and I keep having to pick it up off the floor...

Forgive me for I have wained

2008-07-22T18:41:00.000-07:00

Blogger, it's been six months since my last post. How many Hail Mary's is that?

Wish I had some virtual scotch-tape. My first (and only) diary, written when I was 9, features pages upon pages taped together with the words ''forgot'' written in bold letters on the front. I should have written ''Nothing of great importance happened between (insert date here) and (insert date here)''

Not that I haven't had anything to write about. Like death.

My last post was about a death. As life would have it, I experiened another death over the last six months. Isabelle, almost 26, my sister-in-law. Car accident. The only passenber (of 5) not wearing a seat belt. Still pisses me off everytime I think of it. In fact, I don't think I've forgiven her. Isabelle lived her life exactly the way she wanted to. Travelled all over the world seeking her purpose. A high school drop out who'd finally found her calling and was in university studying social work. Who'd found true love with her Guillaume. Guillaume from France, who she'd met in some foreign land as they both tried to change the world. Who'd travelled from France to begin a new life with her in Canada. Who'd waited at the airport for his Isa to pick him up. An Isa who had never arrived, and never would.

Part of me still blames her. I know its wrong.

I just prefer to think that Isabelle is off travelling.

Moving on. I had my first acute gout attack last month. Big toe. My left foot. Began with mild pain, then a few days later I couldn't bend my toe. Rare in pre-menopausal women. A man's disease, actually. So anti-inflamatory and painkillers. Four days later, all was back to normal. Except the pain set in again three days ago and the doc is on holidays so its Motrin to the rescue. Gout is actually a form of arthritis, you see. My age is showing.

Visited Maine recently. Fourth of July weekend. Fireworks and chanting (USA, USA, USA). Not me, of course. The crowd. Hiking along Acadia National Park. Whale watching. Humpback and finback whales. And lots of seals. Oh, and lotsa puking. Not me, of course.

Went camping last weekend, here in Parc Orford. Rained the whole time. It was an adventure.

Moving on. Again. It's time for a career change. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Sis is nearing the 3 year mark in a job and it's time to move on. But this time, it'll be something I want to do. It's time I was my own boss. Ideas are in the works and I'm meeting with an entrepreneurial consultant. I'll fill you in at a later date.

Oh, and there's Mimi. Our new kitten. Did I mention I was allergic to cats? Now THERE'S a story...

Forever Sweet 16

2008-01-27T17:32:00.000-08:00

The phone rang at 8:30 this morning. My Mother-in-law was looking for hubby. There had been an accident. Four kids between the ages of 15 and 21. Three dead. A fourth was fighting for her life in hosptial. Katy. 16. Our niece. His brother's step-daughter. No details as to how the accident occured, only that there was a head-on collision between their vehicle and a U-Haul at around 3:30 yesterday afternoon.

Sixteen years old. Seventeen in the coming months. Our families are not close. The last time I saw Katy was at Hubby's 40th birthday party two years ago. She'd been 14. A beautiful young girl with a quick smile and a happy disposition.

As a mother, I can't grasp just what my sister-in-law is going through right now. With Hubby at work, all I knew is that I wanted to keep my two daughters close to me today. They each obliged. The three of us took Booker for a long walk and picked up a movie on the way, the Emperor's New Groove. We got home and cuddled on the couch, watching a favourite cartoon. Just me and my girls.

Life is so short. And even shorter for some. My heart goes out to her parents, and to the parents of the other three who died in this tragic accident. To their families, their friends, their schoolmates, their colleagues, their neighbours... Every loss touches so many lives. I commend my brother and sister-in-law for their decision to donate Katy's organs. She will not only live on in our hearts.

Good night, Katy. Rest in peace.

Resolutions for the New Year

2008-01-01T14:29:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year everyone.

Here is my list of resolutions for 2008:

Stop talking about it and do it.

(Wait.. wasn't that my resolution for 2006?)

Health: Keep up what you started in 2007. You did good. You can do better. Let 2008 be the year you make peace with your body. Get it to where you want it to be. Imagine yourself in a dressing room trying on bathing suits... with a smile on. Stop trying to use your age as an excuse.

Family: Spend more time with the girls. They'll be leaving sooner than you think. Accept and appreciate them for what they are - two beautiful individuals who will make their mark on the world in their own way. Let them fly and listen to their song. Spend more time with your parents. They'll be leaving sooner than you think. Accept and appreciate them for what they are - two aging people trying to be happy with each other. Their struggle is not your struggle. Keep in touch with your brother. Accept him for who he is. Accept his limitations. Be the bigger person. Know that he loves you in his own way.

Love: Stop taking Hubby for granted. He is an amazing man who loves you with all his heart. Stop doubting that. Let him be human. Forgive him his faults. He's trying, which is more than I can say for you at times. Let him be who he wants to be. He's done that much for you. Show him more respect. Let him take the lead. Let go.

Work: Stop trying to run the company. You're not the boss. The fate of the business does not rest on your shoulders. Just do your job and offer advice when asked. Stop being so hard on your coworkers. Let them have their faults. Let them be human. Be more communicative about concerns, instead of letting them eat you up. Stop playing down your strenghts. Stop being so
damn insecure about what you do well. Realize that people actually respect you for your ideas. Hey! Guess what? You're a pretty smart cookie.

Friends: Be grateful for the ones you have. Let them know. Open the doors to new ones. Widen the door to those on the outskirts. Make time for people. Don't be afraid of what they can bring you. Know that you have much to give.

Life in general: Stop worrying. Particularly about things you have no control over. It's a waste of energy. Be more positive. Give up some control. Don't be so hard on yourself. Remember what Ross said? "No one is ever going to be harder on you than you are on yourself."

Let yourself be human. Change what you can. Accept what you cannot.

And as my caustic friend would say..."Bunny on."

My secret's in the mail

2007-12-14T06:48:00.000-08:00

It's been a while since I checked in with PostSecret, but then having ADD does that. Lets you forget if its not right in front of your face. Which is why I have pictures up of people I love. Not that I'll ever forget them, but to help me remember to think about them. The person who came up with the old adage ''Out of sight, out of mind'' was an ADDer. I'm certain of it.

Anyway, when I DO remember to check in with the site, I'm reminded that this big world we live in is filled with people whose lives are just like mine. Whose fears and hopes and dreams are not being fulfilled and who are as frustrated as I am about not finding their ''rightful'' place in this world. Who are frustrated from living on the edge of their potential. Who have similar thoughts about love, family, themselves. Who have the same secrets but aren't afraid to release them...

Many of the ''secrets'' are funny, enlightning, and positive. But many more are not. Secrets that reflect inner lives, thoughts that if spoken aloud would draw stares, sneers, even shame. Secret thoughts that, by just having them, could lead the person to think there's something wrong with them. Secret thoughts that mask secret selves. Having an outlet to release these secrets anonymously is more than just therapeutic. If I just think it, it may not be true. Once I say it out loud, I have to confront the reality that it is...

Frank, it's an amazing project and I secretly wish I'd thought about it instead of you. Your little community art project has touched so many people's lives and I both admire and applaud you. You're uniting a whole world one postcard at a time. Thanks for reminding us that we are not alone with our secrets.

For those of you who haven't already done so, check it out. Prepare to be moved.

http://postsecret.blogspot.com/

P.S. One day, I hope to have the courage to mail mine.

The power of a lyric

2007-11-02T08:23:00.000-07:00

Music has always played a huge part in my life. I have to thank my father for that. Saturday mornings, I would awaken to the sounds of the Glen Miller Orchestra or Benny Godman, blaring through the house. Drifting up from my sleep, I could feel not only the vibrations of the bass drum but those of my father's footsteps coming towards my room. I'd smile and clutch my covers, knowing that within seconds he'd be standing over my bed, pulling the sheets away - WAKEY WAKEY, time to get up and greet the day!

At other times, we would play records and write down the lyrics - play, stop, write - then sing them together. Imagine us sitting on the floor of the living room, belting out a duet to Peggy Lee's ''I'm a Woman''...(loudly and off-key) Cause I'm a woman...W.O.M.A.N...I'll say it again... My father was keen on cranking up the sound, pointing out the instruments or the rythms. Much to my mother's chagrin. Loud music was not something she particularly enjoyed, especially in her own home, or car.

Aside from the music itself, what really attracts me to a song are the lyrics. In particular, if those lyrics reflect what I'm feeling at a certain time. There have been songs throughout my life that have mirrored my state of mind, particularly during difficult times. As a teenager, my nose was a source of embarrassement and stress. It had (still has) a bump on it, like my mother's, and was the butt of many a jokes. Our bus driver was a gentlemam from France and sported a rather large nose himself. The students on the bus called him ''Le Pif'', a French slang term for nose. I too was awarded my own moniker - ''Eagle Beak''. Stupid boys.

And then everything changed because of one movie and one song. Barbra Streisand's ''Funny Girl''. Not only was she beautiful, but she had a big nose just like me. And she was okay with that. The song ''I'm the Greatest Start'' reflected everything I was feeling at the time. ''When you're gifted, then you're gifted, these are facts--I got no axe to grind. Hey, what are they--blind? In all of the world so far, I'm the greatest star!'' Yes, I was special too. And someday, people would notice. I suspect that this is what drew me to the stage and theatre. I liked to make people laugh, just like Barbra. And if she could laugh at herself, so could I.

Another female singer who helped me some tough times was Bonnie Rait. She came into my life just as I was getting mentally prepared to leave my first husband. From ''I can't make you love me'' to ''Something to talk about,'' Bonnie was moving me along, helping me to see what I needed to see. My god but I cried during that period. For what I had lost. My failures. How I was scarring my oldest daugther. But also for what was coming ahead. Giving me strength to face the future. The rest of my life.

Still today, lyrics remind of what was, and what could have been. And depending on the song, I mourn what can never be. Amazing, the power of a lyric.

Giving Credit its Due

2007-10-24T17:59:00.000-07:00

Dear ForEver Shop
card holder,

It is with great pleasure that we welcome you into our big family of indebted Canadians. Now that we have you within or folds, allow us to offer you a multitude of services you really have no need for. Like our ''quick-check-your-credit'' benefit which provides you with speedy credit clearance so that you don't have to wait longer than you need to and take that 95'' plasma screen TV home with you tonight. Yes sir, TO-night! And it's only pennies for the first two months - we'll quick-clear you, but for a price.

And while we have your attention, please know that we WILL be sharing your information with any one who asks. You can look foward to a multitude of offers for credit from every Tom, Dick and Harry Financial Services with a limited time only very low introductory rates. Consider the See-eye-bee-see's introductory rate of .007% interest for the first 36 hours and 350% interest compounded daily! Or how about the Are-bee-see's tempting 0.9% financing for the first week or we'll take your home AND personal vehicle program! Don't forget the Case-Pop that pays YOU dividends! Don't even THINK about getting any service though.

As you know, our company targets the youngest and most naive members of society - university students - right smack at their most vulnerable (when mommy and daddy aren't looking). Our booths, set up in student union buildings across Canada, ecourage bright, young people like yourself to use our credit card to purchase Kraft Dinner! Yes, kids, why pay for your weekly groceries now when you can put it off a whole month and have cash in your pocket for wings and drinks at The Lion! Get your priorities straight, kids! You're in university! This isn't the time to be sensible and responsible! And you'll have a whole month before mom and dad back in Ontario get the bill! Think of what you could do with the $1500 of credit we offer you right off the bat! Clothes, bling, booze, dope, it's yours for the asking. Oh and don't worry. As soon as you near your credit limit, we'll increase it in increments of $500 so you can keep having fun without worrying about a thing. It's THAT easy!

To thank you for choosing our institution, we're including a genuine expandible cuniculus-skin wallet featuring 31 - yes 31 slots - to carry your collection of credit cards. With 31 slots, you can choose your ''carte du jour''. Cards that let you keep your cash in your pockets...until it's time to pay the piper. For more details on paying the piper, please read the small print at the back of this form. At the bottom right hand corner. Yes, it's there but you may need a magnifying glass. Or a microscope. But it's there. Trust us.

Lastly, I'd like to personally welcome you to the fastest growing segment of our population - the debt-laden youth who are single-handedly carrying our nation's economy on their shoulders and who, with our help, will leave a legacy of unpaid bills to their children. We couldn't do it without you. Get rich, that is.

Yours truly,

Bob ''Get the KY'' Buttfuck
Vice-president, Marketing
ForEver Shop Inc.

It's no longer a dog's life

2007-10-18T16:29:00.000-07:00

Name: Booker
Profession: Retired racer
Nationality: American
Age: 3 years on November 4

It was the eyes.

We were only supposed to be visiting. A three-hour drive to Vermont to just look. Really, just look! We really should have known better.

We're met by Dorothy who lets us into the shelter. There are 32 dogs in all, each quietely lying in their respective cage. Brindled greyhounds, black and white dogs, and some tan coloured ones, or fawn coloured as we were to be told. The first to meet my eyes is...Booker. He's sitting to the right of the door and has turned towards me as I come in. ''Don't look at me like that!'' I say jokingly. I'm overwhelmed by the number of dogs. How could anyone actually choose an animal if that's what they were coming to do.

Dorothy introduces us to a small black greyhound with a white patch on its chest. The dog is taken out of its cage for us to inspect. She's rather aloof and isn't interested in us. That's fine. After the sixth dog and two and a half hours later, we knew this wasn't just a visit.

Two and a half hours later, I was beginning to feel somewhat uncomfortable about how long we'd stayed and how many dogs we'd asked to see. Dorothy was wonderful and patient, and a wealth of information. She'd take a dog out of its cage and lead it into a pen covered with sand. Each dog would run out, grab a toy, lie down, jump up, run to us, take a sniff, and run back to their toy. Some were livelier than others. Most just didn't seem very interested in their visitors.

My mind kept going back to Booker. It was getting late. Dorothy had been more than kind. And yet... ''Could we see one more dog?'' I asked. ''Could we take Booker out?'' Of course, said Dorothy and headed for the door to get the dog.

Minutes later, Booker was coming through the doorway. He ran out to stretch his legs and walked over to the water bowl, taking a few sips. He didn't run or bounce like the other dogs. After his drink, he quietly walked over to Hubby and leaned up against him. After a few pettings, he moved from Eric to Ray, who at first appeared intimated by the dog's size but who quickly fell under Booker's spell. The dog leaned up against her the same way, allowing himself to be petted. He was quiet, reserved, reassuring in some way. Lastly, he wandered over to me. I was quite taken aback by all this and looked over at Dorothy who was wearing a knowing smile. ''He's chosen you,'' she said. That was it.

Since I'm normally allergic to dogs, I had certain misgivings about taking Booker home. While these dogs are short haired, I did not want to spend the next ten years on allergy medication. Try him out, said Dorothy. Take him home, give him a bath, and see what happens. If it doesn't work, bring him back. ''Really?'' Dorothy was convinced that this could work. And she didn't want any money up front. ''But you don't even know us?'' I trust you, she said. And let us leave with Booker with only our phone number as collatoral.

That was on September 3rd, Labour Day. Seven weeks ago. I'm reacting but mildly. Booker has been officially adopted and is now a member of our family. He's just an amazing animal. Not perfect by any means, but amazing just the same. He's won over everyone he meets and has become quite the talk about town. People say he's a lucky dog to have been rescued. We say we're the lucky family to have been chosen.

Welcome to the family, Booker.

Lost in the music

2007-05-09T21:25:00.000-07:00

We give love too easily. Some people say.

Lyrics by David Usher.

So I get this e-mail from some guy selling his gig. He's opening for David Usher. David who? Do I want tickets? Well, my friend Erin likes David Usher. Whatever. I forward the e-mail to Erin. Wanna go, she says? Only for you, I say. So here goes. David Usher. April 26, 2007 at the Bar Le Magog in Sherbrooke.

Honest? One of the best fucking concerts I've ever been to.

Aside from almost getting into a fist fight with a couple of bimbos trying to elbow their way closer to Usher, I'm totally sucked into this man's vibes and lyrics.

The room legally holds about 180 but we're closer to 250. It's hot, fucking hot as David repeatedly says, but he's right. And it isn't just the temperature.

The man is giving above and beyond. The audience is loving it. I'm loving it. How is it that I'm not onto this guy? Moist? Flew under my radar. Right now he's dead on and six feet away.

Your first song was The Music. And isn't it what it's all about? Getting lost in the music?

Le Magog. Why on earth would you agree to play in such a hole? Whatever. All I can say is...thanks for coming.

You gave a lot of yourselt that night and won me over completely.

For those of you not in the know - http://www.davidusher.ca/

For J.F. Coley, thanks for the invitation and for a great intro. You guys rock.

For Erin, thanks girlfriend.

For Bunny, it's on its way.

Truth be told...

2007-04-14T09:21:00.000-07:00

...all hell would break loose.

Out of the mouths of babes... As children, we speak only the truth. What we feel, what we see, what we hear. Yes, even what we hear. Because as much as the adults around us lie, we believe in them unconditionally. So theirs IS the truth. Which in turn becomes our truths.

We carry these truths down our own paths, until a time when our minds and our souls are ready to accept them as untruths. This in turn forces us to look back and re-evaluate the source of aforementioned truth-sayers. And if we're lucky enough to have found our place, we can look upon said truth-sayers with enough objectivity to forgive them for being human and fallible.

If not, we carry that burden within us. In so doing, we not only taint the perception of the world around us, but of how we see ourselves.

Some truths would change mankind forever.

Imagine.

If there WAS a heaven...

* * *

Truths and lies are black and white. In youth, our gray zone is limited.

It is or it isn't.

As we age, the grey zone begins to widen.

It is AND it isn't.

Some truths would change our own world forever.

Imagine.

If there WAS a way...

And thus we learn to accept that to be happy, we must accept to live with the untruths.

Such is life.

Reflecting on the what ifs

2007-01-30T19:55:00.000-08:00

Okay, people. (For the purpose of this blog, people includes me and the one rabbit who reads this.) Enough about my exercise regiment.

I know what you're thinking. No, I haven't given up. (How could you think that?) In fact, things are still going very smoothly and I'm told that it's beginning to show. So maybe I WILL go out and buy that little black dress size 9 and hang it up in my closet for when the time comes.

Today, I'd like to talk about reflecting on life's little twists and turns and the ''what ifs'' of this world.

Growing up in a rural French Canadian family (really, rural? You're harsh, my long-haired friend), my father was adamant that I grow up questioning everything. There's two sides to every coin, he’d say. ''Random sampling'' was another favourite expression. I could never get away with making a blanket statement about anything, let alone have a fixed opinion on any subject. My father felt the need to enlighten me on the ''big picture'' at every turn. Yes, but what if...

Now, you might say that this was a good thing and I would agree with you. Up to a point. Problem is, my father started this so early that what he instilled in me was chronic self-doubt. If I was not permitted an opinion, I had no voice. And if nothing is certain, how could I be sure of anything?

“But what if...” became a modus operandi. “What if” also became a braking mechanism. The uncertainty produced by the “what ifs” prevented me from experiencing life to its fullest. I simply could not trust myself to make the right decision.

It took me years to stifle the “what ifs”, to venture out and find my voice. Years, until I allowed myself to speak up, even if I wasn't 100% sure of everything. To realize that I needed to trust my instincts. Years to come to the realization that if I was going to be happy in life, I'd have to start making the calls, whether right or wrong, and learn to live with the consequences. Because the uncertainties of life are too numerous to control, and letting the “what ifs” control your life is simply not living.

Today, the “what ifs” no longer rule my world. Still present but now relegated to the back seat. And when they rear their ugly heads, I listen, out of respect, and follow my instincts. Right or wrong, I simply have to trust myself.

On the cusp of 45, the ''what ifs'' are taking on a new dimension:

What if...

...we'd stayed in Quebec in 1969 instead of moving to France.
...we'd stayed in Nova Scotia instead of moving back to Quebec in 1975.
...my early foray into homosexuality had led me elsewhere.
...I'd actually given JM what he wanted that night after the arena dance.
...the attractive stranger at Pondhook had turned out to be a sexual deviant.
...the gun held by the scruffy stranger on the tracks had been loaded. What if he'd been serious.
...I'd discovered my love of theatre sooner.
...that cruel but mysterious boy in high school had asked me out.
…my father had opted for caps instead.
...MG had done more than put his hand on my knee after prom.
...I'd been accepted at John Abbot the first time around.
...I hadn't quit college after 1 month.
...I'd married JB.
...I'd accepted the line of cocaine cut for me that night.
…I’d contracted something serious during that wild year.
...I'd never met MO.
...I hadn't quit Concordia after 2 months.
...I'd stayed in Montreal.
...I’d been infertile.
...that part in Balconville had gone to someone else.
...I'd never met Hubby.
...we'd made a different decision in 1995.
...we'd opted to forgo therapy.

I know that my life would be different than it is today. Not that it would be better. But different.

For some, reflecting on the “what ifs” of the past could prove to be a harmful exercise, fostering regret and bitterness. Tonight, it's made me realize that my life has taken twists and turns, but that I have no regrets. It's also made me realize how lucky I am.

Life is good.

On the cusp of the halfway mark

2007-01-14T20:27:00.000-08:00

In less than an hour, it will be January 15th.

Two weeks ago today, Hubby helped me design a workout regime that would have me exercise a minimum of 30 minutes a day. Hubby is the resident expert on exercising and general health (a brain that retains trivia and a subscription to Men's Health et voila!) We discussed my goals and problem areas, and custome-tailored the regime. Let's start with January, we said. Let's take it one month at a time, and adjust accordingly.

January 1 to 29:

Monday - a swissball workout with weights
Tuesday - a 30-minute walk
Wednesday - a video of my choice (Pilates series)
Thursday - a 30-minute walk
Friday - a workout with weights
Saturday - a 30-minute walk
Sunday - a 30-minute walk

I don't consider walking a workout - although I know it is. I see it more as getting some air, greeting the neighbours, checking out main street, or sightseeing along our local cycling path. Sometimes I'm joined by my daugther Ray or friend Jo Jo and her dog Missy. Usually I'm alone, with my music, walking to Nickleback, Shawn Mullins, Jonas, Tom Petty, or Meredith Brooks. Keeping the beat for one song, slowing down the next, picking up speed on the third.

Last Thursday, I came home from my walk so pumped, I picked up my weights and did a mini routine. Then I turned on my eldest daughter's Dance Dance Revolution game and did 20 minutes of jumping around, trying to earn a B to Stray Cats' ''Rock this Town'' (beginner level of course.)

My ultimate goal is to lose 30 pounds and firm up those flabby areas - become a lean-mean-44-year-old machine. After two weeks, the scale is still repeating the same number. But that's okay. I'm probably building muscle. And if I'm not, that's okay too. Cause what I'm most happy with right now is the fact that I've kept up the routine. Fourteen straight days. And this morning, my walk turned out to be a full hour - just because it felt so damn good. I'm eating better than I ever have, not less, but better. Above all, I'm feeling great.

They say it takes 21 days to form a habit.

I have 7 days to go.

Wish me luck.

Sis

Happy New Year to Me

2007-01-01T08:58:00.000-08:00

It's January 1, 2007.

My very first entry on this blog reminded me of goals set and dropped in 2005. A short series of small failures, but failures nonetheless. Yet, 2005 was a year of awakenings on a number of levels. A year where I vowed to stop just ''thinking'' about it and just ''do'' it. I did ''do'' more that year than in previous years. And while I continued to ''think'' about it, the thinking was reaching a deeper level.

2006 was the year I began to seriously question the goals set in 2005.
Did I ''really'' want to do those things and did they ''really'' make me happy? And if those things ''really'' made me happy, why wasn't I incorporating them into my daily life? Maybe it was my ADD playing tricks on me, hyperfocusing on something I really enjoyed but then forgetting how much I enjoyed it.

And what about those 30 odd pounds? Did I ''really'' want to lose them? Why couldn't I just be happy with how I looked? It's ONLY 30 pounds. It's not like I'm 100 lbs overweight. I wouldn't even make the cut on The Biggest Loser.

Reality check.

I'm 44 years old. That's more than middle-aged. I can't expect to look like a 25-year-old. Even if I feel that inside. I should accept to age gracefully. I should get used to the loose blouses that hang below my butt. I should forget about ever having a waist again. I should forget about ever feeling comfortable in public wearing a bathing suit again. I should just accept my current physique and just be happy that I'm relatively healthy, that I have a loving husband, and two wonderful daughters who adore me. I should stop colouring my hair.

I should accept that life will simply continue to get in the way. That I need to put other's needs before my own. I should not be selfish. I should focus on being a good wife and a good mother and join the local knitting circle. I should accept that, after years of thinking that I had ''time'' to change, that I've finally run out of time. That it's too late.

Okay. Let's cut the crap. I'm not ready for that.

It's not about being selfish. It's not about focusing on family. And it's NEVER too late.

What it's really about is giving up on ourselves. It's about being lazy. It's about looking for excuses. It's about deflecting blame from ourselves to our environment. It's not OUR fault that we're not where we want to be. That we're not happy. It's the demands placed on us by our families, by our jobs, and by our friends.

Boo hoo hoo.

Reality check.

It's about not facing our real fears. For me, those fears are failure, NOT being in control, and aging.

You can't fail it you don't try. I can control everything around me but I have no self-control. And losing those 30 odd pounds will reveal my age.

There. My fears exposed, it's now time to overcome them and prove to myself that I am worthy. That I can win. That I do have self-control. And that those wrinkles will not change who I am inside.

I started this blog 3 months ago in the hopes that it would encourage me to write. I stopped ''thinking'' about it and ''did'' it.

Now it's January 1, 2007.

After two years of contemplating and questionning, I've identified and exposed my fears.

I'm now ready to embark on a new year with a focus on achieving what has been my biggest obstacle for the past nine years - my negative self-image.

For everthing there is a purpose. Like this blog, for example. Three months ago, it was about writing. Today, it's about the rest of my life.

I'll keep you posted.

Sis

Dear Diary

2006-12-10T18:18:00.000-08:00

One Christmas, when I was around twelve or so, my parents (or maybe it was Santa) gave me my very first diary. It had a lock and a tiny key and was covered with a padded pink material and the pages were lined and bare and just waiting for me to pour my heart out. I couldn't wait to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head and tell Dear Diary everthing!

As it turned out, I never did. The very first time I tried writing something REALLY personal, I froze. What if someone found my diary and read it? How embarrassing would THAT be? What humiliation!

Since I couldn't handle the risk, I was never able to just let myself be totally free with my thoughts and feelings. My fears and longings. My crush (lust) on John McNeil or the episodes with Frenchy. My deepest secrets remained locked in my head for lack of will to pen them to paper. So I wrote about banal things. Like the weather. Or what I ate that day. Or what book I was reading. I might include a dream once in a while. But never anything REALLY exciting like watching Sherry make out with some stranger in a cabin (that is, until his buddy started eyeing me funny and I suddenly needed to get some air and ran all the way home.) No, I could NEVER write about those things because I couldn't trust my brother and if my folks ever read those things, well, I'd be punished. Maybe have to write some lines. Like 150 of them.

Which reminds me of a story. One afternoon in early winter, my brother and I were playing Monopoly in the dinnig room. On a snack break, I passed by a window that was covered in condensation. Without really thinking about it, I wrote a word. The first one that came to my find. It was the ''F'' word. I must have gotten distracted, because I promptly left the window and returned to the game. About a week later, my brother and I were called into the dining room by our father. He wasn't looking particularly pleased as he stood by the window with his arms crossed. ''Who wrote this?'' he asked. I didn't know what he was talking about. Writing? Where? Dad pointed to the window. As I neared the foggy pane, it suddenly became very clear...

Of course we both denied it vehemently, even blaming Sherrie who'd been over a few days prior. ''It must have been Sherrie!'' I said. Sherrie was reknown for her potty mouth. But my dad would have none of it. He made my brother and I write the word out on a piece of paper. To see whose handwriting matched the offensive word. Like we were going to use our REAL handwriting? I tried my best to give my ''k'' a very distinct look. Hey, I ALWAYS make my k's like that! (Note to self: use new k at school). Well, dad didn't buy it anyways and I really wondered what the whole exercise was about if not a complete waste of time cause we were both punished and had to write about 150 lines having to do with lying and profanity. I was used to the punishment and would start a row of about ten''I's'', then ten ''will'' followed by another ten ''never'' and so on. Once I'd get to the 149th final word (usualy ''again''), my hand was so cramped it felt like I'd never be able to open it again. If anything, the punishment improved my penmanship.

Which never really got much practice in my diary. The first week, I dutifully recorded my day before going to bed. Then I skipped a day. Wrote about going to the movies on Saturday afternoon. Or maybe we'd had company one Saturday night so I got lucky and didn't get into trouble when I came in past my curfew. Then I skipped a couple of days. Then I had to tape a whole week together because I'd forgotten what I did. Then it was a whole month that got taped together. With the word ''Sorry!'' written on the first page. I think I stopped writing around May. Suffice it to say, nothing of REAL importance ever got recorded in the diary. I simply couldn't risk it.

Like this blog. I wish I could write about my in-laws, or my family, or my job, like some people do, and REALLY tell it like it is but that's never going to happen. Too many risks involved. Too many people. Too many feelings. Then there's the mortgage...

''What do you mean that sounds like your mother? Don't be silly! That's not your mother - it's Mrs. Crawforst next door. I swear!!!''

Fuck

Company's a comin', clear them dust bunnies!

2006-10-17T18:15:00.000-07:00

11 hours 19 minutes

Departure time for Pencil-vay-neea, U.S.A.

Home of the bro.

After 13 months of imagining the Knob and Tube palace, the track lighting in the kitchen, Critter, Boomer, Liberty Works, the pickup, where intervals take place, Perk on Main, Rodent Publishing, and possibly a run in with the woman whose eyes flash blue-green-blue (who knows, it's a small world), I'm about to delve into the world of the Bunny.

Hubby and I, plus the Rachelmeister, are about to undertake a trip down South and West a ways. Something to do with keeping my word.

Which I feel I haven't kept about this space. To myself that is. Life is a all-powerful washer that swallows every spare sock, forcing you to develop a unique sense of style. A style accessorized by guilt.

Having said that, I can relieve that guilt with tonight's entry. Well, not really, but at least I can fool myself for a bit.

So here's to clinking glasses with Bro on his own turf.

I look forward to sharing your part of the world if only for a short time. Forging the binds that tie, as they say.

And having a cup of joe. With my bro. At his sto'.

Yo.

Sis

Delicious Pink Filaments of Pure Sucrose

2006-09-19T21:16:00.000-07:00

Every year, I take the time to visit our local fairs, taking in as many as I can handle. This year I managed the Cookshire Fair and the Richmond Fair. I passed on the Ayer’s Cliff Fair and the Brome Fair. There’s just so much carnival a person can take.

Carnies are a very different breed of people and their reputation has gone unchallenged since they sprouted legs and crawled out of the swamp. My apologies to all good and decent carnies everywhere – all three of you. While basic level math is required to feel financially secure at the fair, I still got ripped off by $2. It just took me 15 minutes to realize it. That’s how much they’ve honed their skills over the last millennium.

The fact is, going to the fair is just an excuse to indulge my sweet tooth. I admit it. I’m a cottoncandyholic. A pink crystal addict. A fanatic of the fluffy stuff. The British call it candy floss. The Aussie’s refer to it as fairy floss. In Quebec, we call it ''barbe à papa'' (Daddy's beard - I still don't get it). Call it what you will, its pure sucrose that literally melts in your mouth. It made its debut at the St. Louis World’s Fair in 1904 and sold in chipped-wood boxes for 25 cents – half the admission price. Sold like fluffy pink hot cakes too, which is no surprise to this sister. Today, a bag will go you four bucks at the fair. And you can just forget about the stuff sold at your local corner store. Unless it’s spun right before my eyes, amid carnival music, flashing lights, and laughing children, it’s not the right stuff.

A word of warning for all those who’ve never had leftover cotton candy. Should you decide to save some candy for later, if you put the bag away, like in a snack drawer, or your underwear drawer, or a safety deposit box, and you fail to close the bag properly, you’ll find that your snack has shrunk to half its size overnight. A pathetic and distressing sight. I share this story because it happened to me. I’d actually forgotten the leftover remains of a bag of cotton candy under my bed. Well, under my daughter’s bed. Okay, it was HER cotton candy but she’d had more than enough and really, I was doing her a favor. When I found it, the candy had shrunk to the size of a small potato. It looked like one of those gadgets you find at We B’ Toys – just add water and it grows to 600% its original size. But it didn’t. It just made a mess.

This year, I discovered a new reason for going to the fair. Homemade fudge. Maple walnut fudge. Amaretto fudge. Mint chocolate fudge. Double choco fudg...

Damn those fairs!

Sis

A little whine about wine

2006-09-02T18:13:00.000-07:00

It’s a celebration of Quebec wines. A showcase for provincial vineyards. A ''5 à 7'' that lasts five days. It's called the Fête des vendanges (vendange = harvest), an annual event that takes place in Magog in Quebec's Eastern Townships. After snubbing it for 11 years, Hubby and I decided the 12th edition might have a little more flavor - matured with age - as they say. About wine.

We arrive at Pointe Merry, the hub of all the action, and immediately note two massive line-ups comprised of well-to-dos: fashionably dressed and coiffed individuals in wait to purchase their ''admission pass.'' Let's see...$5 gets you a foot in the tasting tent. $15 gets you two feet, a mass-produced souvenir tasting glass (void of any date - a practical bunch), and 12 tasting tickets. $20 gets you in, the glass, and two dozen tasting tickets. Since Hubby and I both wanted to get home in one piece, we opted for the $20 deal, figuring 12 tastings would be plenty and the 5 km walk back to the parking lot would sober us up.

Once inside the tent, we're met by a mass of vino neophytes looking for the first cuvé of Caustique Nouveau. The place is packed to the gills. Hot and stuffy. We inch towards the closest vendor and are accosted by what looks like a flight attendant looking to sell us timeshare. What the... As is in his nature, Hubby is gracious and attentive, even asking relevant questions, as I glare at him to ''move on!''

The much anticipated alcohol haze is prematurely lifted when we finally hit our first wine producer promoting a prize winning ice wine. Eight tickets for ONE taste. One 2-ounce taste. Holy grapes of wrath! The vendor, noticing our utter shock, smiles and says ''But once the nectar flows down your throat, you'll say we're not charging enough!'' The man obviously came prepared. We passed on the chilled variety and opted instead for an inferior 2-ticket tasting. Suffice it to say, our 12 tickets didn't get us very deep into Quebec wine country. We did get some excellent advice on wine glasses, though.

In spite of the crowd, the heat, and the expensive appellations, a pleasant buzz was had by all. Don't ask me which wine I tasted, from which region of Quebec, or from which corner of the tent. I don't remember. Not because I was drunk mind you, but because I simply don't have a palette that cares enough to distinguish one grape from the next.

Give me a good box of rotgut anyday. Hell, make it a screwtop.

Sis

It's my first time, so be gentle...

2006-09-02T09:26:00.000-07:00

2005 was supposed to be the year that I stopped thinking about it and just did it.

Like read more. Write. Adopt a hobby. Sing outside of the shower. Try tap dancing. Exercise. Eat better. Lose that pesky 30 lbs gained during my last pregnancy. 9 years ago.

It worked. For about 67 days. Read a book. Took up gommogravure (mind you I don't think carving into an eraser for an hour can be described as a hobby...) Downloaded some lyrics. Switched from tap dancing to yoga (thought I'd start off slowly.) Went for a walk. Ate moderatly better (went from Pringles to veggie chips.) Didn't lose an ounce.

It's now September 2006. My oldest just started college. My youngest just started Grade 4.

I think it's time for me to just start something. Like something I've talked about doing for a long time. Write.

This site is dedicated to my brother Mark who stopped talking about it and just did it. He's a writer, by the way.

Okay, Bro. Let's see where this goes...

Sis