I think I would have made a great obituary writer. There’s something sort of maudlin about the job, yes, but it’s also such an honour. You’re really saying people’s last goodbyes for them, aren’t you? You’re saying goodbye to all of the people the family may not have remembered to notify - an old bowling partner, the guy who sold you your fruit, your childhood sweetheart, the one you haven’t seen in 50 years. All of these people who made up your thoughts and pulled all of the little threads of your day into a tight, warm tapestry. They may mean nothing to your great aunt Myrtle who you haven’t seen in 27 years but they meant something to you.
The anniversary of my Grandfather’s death was yesterday. I have thought of him every single day, probably a little more than I should. Especially at this time of year not only because it is the anniversary of his death but it was also his favourite season - Remembrance Day. I will forever be grateful that he had a chance to pin one last poppy to his jacket lapel before he died, to recite ‘In Flander’s Fields’ with his hat over his heart. He was the first, best man that I ever knew. Solid and good, quiet and patient. With a slightly inappropriate sense of humour and a relationship with Jersey Milk chocolate bars I never fully understood.. A lot was going on in my life when he died, a lot of selfish small stuff that I can’t even really remember anymore. But I remember his obituary. It was fair, a good representation of his ’stats’ just like it should be. I wish I had written it. So I hope you will forgive me, readers, for this small indulgence. This is what I would have written, could have written, wish I’d written.
Joe McGuire - from the old Irish Block and more importantly from the Monday night Bridge Club where he always managed to win more than he lost- has died. He died exactly as he would have wanted - really quickly and near the toilet. His best friend, his dog Benji, watched over him all afternoon and remains faithfully his alone. He had eight crazy, wonderful children (6 daughters - names here 2 sons - names here) that loved him. Some more than others it might be said, but Joe knew he was loved enough. Joe was a good friend, a hard worker, a seriously tough debater. He really should have been dead 10 years ago, but there’s nothing like a good Merlot to keep you around a little longer. He was a good son to parents that loved him. His childhood was spent on the farm working and praying. Joe didn’t grow to believe in God but was raised to believe in good.
Joe was in the military for most of his life. He travelled with his family all over the world, saw things we will none of us ever see, lived a bigger life than most of us have ever imagined, but still preferred Sunday night roast beef dinner and watching the hockey game with all of his people to anything else. He was a good Grandfather - the kind that never cooks for you or helps you wash up or teaches you manners but lets you jump in the big piles of leaves he just raked, reads you stories long after you’re old enough to read for yourself and teaches you to play the harmonica. His catalogue of dirty limericks and songs were legendary. As was his ability to see into the heart of a thing, his quiet way of knowing how to love a girl best.
Mostly though Joe was husband to Gerry. Gerry drove him crazy. She had her hair and nails done every third day or so. She never kept her receipts even though Joe was an accountant and dreamt in receipts. She gossiped too much for him (even though he always secretly listened) cried over everything from a cracked teapot to a newly budded tree in spring. She fought crazed nonsensical wars with his daughters, nagged his sons and fussed over his grandchildren. But she smelled sweeter than any other woman he ever knew, carried his Juicy Fruit gum for him in her purse when he was trying to quit smoking and best of all…gave him permission to want something else from life. Gave him his family, and his friends and his fun. Their love may not always have been right, but it was the only love he ever wanted. Dearest Grandpa, you are missed and remembered.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Matthew is…tired of playing these head games. Moving out as of tomorrow morning.
Allison is…missing her Dad today - R.I.P. July 14th, 1997.
Jackie is…looking forward to getting rid of all the emotional baggage - so long Daniel!
James is…on his way home from Qatar with very little money and too many memories.
Facebook. I don’t know how many of you have signed up for this little social experiment but let me tell you, it can be incredibly addictive. This is what happens, essentially - you get your own profile, you find some old friends that haven’t seen you or heard from you in 1000 years, then find more friends…and they tell two friends, and so on, and so on…It’s a great idea, really. I’ve bumped into (or hunted down) a whole slew of people I hadn’t heard from in years. People who knew me way back when - when I was in grade eight and looked like a middle aged Laura Bush, when I was in high school and wore tie-dyed shirts and fought for Amnesty International, when I was in Switzerland and behaved like an incredible drunken fool. And I get to see who they’ve turned themselves into - the amazing part being how few people really change, the core of who they are is still so integrally them. Mostly.
It is nice to see them all, read about their kids, their spouses, their home improvement projects. Plus, everyone seems to have these handy little photo albums to browse through -very voyeuristic but I’m kind of like that so it suits me well.
So yes, it’s a wonderful little system and all of that, reconnecting us to people from across the globe as we never could really have been reconnected before. But there’s a downside. A surreal, slightly off-putting downside to tell you the truth. You see, there’s just no filter on Facebook. People forget they don’t actually know you anymore, don’t know things like what you take in your coffee or how you spend your Thanksgiving. Yet here they are, spilling all of their emotional beans all over the Internet. Inviting you into their dramas - and in a way, all of their friends’ dramas - without knowing much at all about you other than you used to both really enjoy the Footloose soundtrack.
But there’s just no way around getting involved in their emotional beans - especially when they drop intriguing little one liners like “Victoria is…finally ready to just do it already!! I’m not afraid anymore!!” Well now I just need to find out more, don’t I? What was Victoria afraid of, and how is she getting past it? Naturally one becomes quite the Internet detective - once offered the first little tidbit I must then delve deeper into the ‘Profile’ for any sort of helpful clues, look at pictures for hints to solve the mystery, read Wall postings (which are little notes sent back and forth on people’s profiles available for public consumption) and generally stick my nose in where it doesn’t belong. But it’s just so darn tempting!
And everyone seems to want you to know as much as they can tell you about their lives, good, bad or ridiculous. Something along the lines of a twenty-four hour commercial starring you as the main product. Not my strong suit - I generally get a lot of emails from people who knew me way-back-when querying; “Holy Heck, are all of those kids YOURS??” and then one or two from some old acquaintances who knew me as a Nanny in Switzerland; “I can’t believe you had kids!! I’m so scared for them - you were AWFUL with children!!”. (I’m better now, I swear!) So pretty much no showing off for me.
The verdict is still out for Facebook in my opinion. It’s really fantastic in a way to find all of these people you remember from when you were five or fifteen or twenty-five. To know who really DID become a doctor like he’d always dreamed, who is living in Amsterdam with her husband and who is divorcing her childhood sweetheart. But in a way, I miss the people I thought they would turn out to be. Better, worse or indifferent. And do I really want my MAJOR crush of grades nine through twelve to see a picture of me washing dishes with a towel on my head at eight months pregnant? You decide…
Allison is…missing her Dad today - R.I.P. July 14th, 1997.
Jackie is…looking forward to getting rid of all the emotional baggage - so long Daniel!
James is…on his way home from Qatar with very little money and too many memories.
Facebook. I don’t know how many of you have signed up for this little social experiment but let me tell you, it can be incredibly addictive. This is what happens, essentially - you get your own profile, you find some old friends that haven’t seen you or heard from you in 1000 years, then find more friends…and they tell two friends, and so on, and so on…It’s a great idea, really. I’ve bumped into (or hunted down) a whole slew of people I hadn’t heard from in years. People who knew me way back when - when I was in grade eight and looked like a middle aged Laura Bush, when I was in high school and wore tie-dyed shirts and fought for Amnesty International, when I was in Switzerland and behaved like an incredible drunken fool. And I get to see who they’ve turned themselves into - the amazing part being how few people really change, the core of who they are is still so integrally them. Mostly.
It is nice to see them all, read about their kids, their spouses, their home improvement projects. Plus, everyone seems to have these handy little photo albums to browse through -very voyeuristic but I’m kind of like that so it suits me well.
So yes, it’s a wonderful little system and all of that, reconnecting us to people from across the globe as we never could really have been reconnected before. But there’s a downside. A surreal, slightly off-putting downside to tell you the truth. You see, there’s just no filter on Facebook. People forget they don’t actually know you anymore, don’t know things like what you take in your coffee or how you spend your Thanksgiving. Yet here they are, spilling all of their emotional beans all over the Internet. Inviting you into their dramas - and in a way, all of their friends’ dramas - without knowing much at all about you other than you used to both really enjoy the Footloose soundtrack.
But there’s just no way around getting involved in their emotional beans - especially when they drop intriguing little one liners like “Victoria is…finally ready to just do it already!! I’m not afraid anymore!!” Well now I just need to find out more, don’t I? What was Victoria afraid of, and how is she getting past it? Naturally one becomes quite the Internet detective - once offered the first little tidbit I must then delve deeper into the ‘Profile’ for any sort of helpful clues, look at pictures for hints to solve the mystery, read Wall postings (which are little notes sent back and forth on people’s profiles available for public consumption) and generally stick my nose in where it doesn’t belong. But it’s just so darn tempting!
And everyone seems to want you to know as much as they can tell you about their lives, good, bad or ridiculous. Something along the lines of a twenty-four hour commercial starring you as the main product. Not my strong suit - I generally get a lot of emails from people who knew me way-back-when querying; “Holy Heck, are all of those kids YOURS??” and then one or two from some old acquaintances who knew me as a Nanny in Switzerland; “I can’t believe you had kids!! I’m so scared for them - you were AWFUL with children!!”. (I’m better now, I swear!) So pretty much no showing off for me.
The verdict is still out for Facebook in my opinion. It’s really fantastic in a way to find all of these people you remember from when you were five or fifteen or twenty-five. To know who really DID become a doctor like he’d always dreamed, who is living in Amsterdam with her husband and who is divorcing her childhood sweetheart. But in a way, I miss the people I thought they would turn out to be. Better, worse or indifferent. And do I really want my MAJOR crush of grades nine through twelve to see a picture of me washing dishes with a towel on my head at eight months pregnant? You decide…
Cyber Dating Tips for Men
First off, let me remind everyone that I am no dater. Even when I was considered slightly more dateable I still wasn’t really a dater. But that isn’t to say I’m not aware of certain dating practices, certain customs that need to be adhered to. Certain products that generally need to be purchased and/or applied before the thing itself can be embarked upon. Like aftershave and body sprays. Perhaps a stick of gum to help one’s garlic breath in a pinch.
So there it is - I’m fairly in tune with what need and needn’t be considered on a date. Plus I’ve half-heartedly thrown my hat into the ring at least a dozen times or so in x-amount of years so I’m up to snuff on all of the latest and greatest in the art of seduction (or at least the art of the second call). I may not be considered an expert, but let’s just say I could well be considered an expert observer. And lately I’ve been expertly observing…cyber-dating.
I’ve come to discover it’s not really for me honestly. Not that I’ve ever really tried it, of course (I’m a liar) but I have this friend of mine (no I don’t) and she told me all about it so that’s how I know (I know because I went on two horrendous dates and worse, received more than enough horrendous emails and searched through some rather sketchy profiles, more than enough to last me a lifetime). Not enough to have me ironing any of the better blouses, in the end.
I do think one of the greatest benefits of cyber-dating is the chance it affords all of the best people. You know who I mean - the fellas out there who are shy, or quiet or don’t really know how to carry a tune and therefore feel a little out of sorts in social situations. To me, I feel like these men could really shine on the internet. If they could just figure out the age-old Freudian question of what women want... Or even figure out how to fit the best bits of modest, sweet, kind them within the 200 word paramenter set forth by the Cyber-dating Gods. Cause I’m telling you, fellas - from what I’ve seen, you could use a little help. I was looking through some profiles the other night for ‘research’ (and also on the off chance that Russell Crowe is single and living within 50 miles of the Owen Sound area) and they all started to blend together. A lot of the same catch phrases were being regurgitated - “No head games”, “Loves to travel”, “Long walks on the beach”, “Looking for Cameron Diaz look-alike”. Couple that with the slightly menacing mug shot of you staring unsmilingly into the camera, frequently wearing an ill chosen top (or even worse, no top at all…even if you are Gerard Butler, you still need to wear a top otherwise you seem like a bit of a braggart)…it’s not enough to make a woman - a quality woman - want to send out a smile or nudge or pinch or whatever.
So here you go fellas. A little advice to take or leave from a professional observer. This ones for you - a few tips on what to write, what not to mention, and why a picture of you alone with a great big smile is best (preferably outside and during the day - although I don’t know why).
First off, never -I mean NEVER - mention any sort of ex-girlfriend, good bad or indifferent. Here’s a little secret about us women - we all appreciate a certain skill, or prowess if you will - in the, umm…boudoir. But we’d prefer to think you were born with that skill than imagine your having perfected it with scads of practice.
Be specific about the things you love to do - biking, movies or otherwise - and for God’s sake don’t brag about all of the travelling you’ve done! It’s like one of those people who brags about having a small nose. If you’re secretly hoping for a Cameron Diaz look-alike, don’t ask for one. You’ll put off all the best gals. Even the non-Cameron Diaz ones.
Don’t dumb yourself down or try to sound any smarter than you really are. If you’re terrible at programming the dvd player, admit it - nothing is more attractive than a man who can laugh at himself. If you have kids…this could be split decision but in my opinion don’t bring them up. If you’re a great dad, that’s great - but shouldn’t really be used as a selling point.
Most importantly, though, just keep it light. I would imagine that treating your little advertisement as a first date would be a great jumping point. So remember - you don’t walk into a restaurant on your first date and blurt out “I’m still trying to get over my last relationship, I’m looking for something long-term with an active, thin woman who loves deep sea fishing and I’ve been through years of therapy due to some unresolved issues with my absentee dad.”, do you?
So there it is - I’m fairly in tune with what need and needn’t be considered on a date. Plus I’ve half-heartedly thrown my hat into the ring at least a dozen times or so in x-amount of years so I’m up to snuff on all of the latest and greatest in the art of seduction (or at least the art of the second call). I may not be considered an expert, but let’s just say I could well be considered an expert observer. And lately I’ve been expertly observing…cyber-dating.
I’ve come to discover it’s not really for me honestly. Not that I’ve ever really tried it, of course (I’m a liar) but I have this friend of mine (no I don’t) and she told me all about it so that’s how I know (I know because I went on two horrendous dates and worse, received more than enough horrendous emails and searched through some rather sketchy profiles, more than enough to last me a lifetime). Not enough to have me ironing any of the better blouses, in the end.
I do think one of the greatest benefits of cyber-dating is the chance it affords all of the best people. You know who I mean - the fellas out there who are shy, or quiet or don’t really know how to carry a tune and therefore feel a little out of sorts in social situations. To me, I feel like these men could really shine on the internet. If they could just figure out the age-old Freudian question of what women want... Or even figure out how to fit the best bits of modest, sweet, kind them within the 200 word paramenter set forth by the Cyber-dating Gods. Cause I’m telling you, fellas - from what I’ve seen, you could use a little help. I was looking through some profiles the other night for ‘research’ (and also on the off chance that Russell Crowe is single and living within 50 miles of the Owen Sound area) and they all started to blend together. A lot of the same catch phrases were being regurgitated - “No head games”, “Loves to travel”, “Long walks on the beach”, “Looking for Cameron Diaz look-alike”. Couple that with the slightly menacing mug shot of you staring unsmilingly into the camera, frequently wearing an ill chosen top (or even worse, no top at all…even if you are Gerard Butler, you still need to wear a top otherwise you seem like a bit of a braggart)…it’s not enough to make a woman - a quality woman - want to send out a smile or nudge or pinch or whatever.
So here you go fellas. A little advice to take or leave from a professional observer. This ones for you - a few tips on what to write, what not to mention, and why a picture of you alone with a great big smile is best (preferably outside and during the day - although I don’t know why).
First off, never -I mean NEVER - mention any sort of ex-girlfriend, good bad or indifferent. Here’s a little secret about us women - we all appreciate a certain skill, or prowess if you will - in the, umm…boudoir. But we’d prefer to think you were born with that skill than imagine your having perfected it with scads of practice.
Be specific about the things you love to do - biking, movies or otherwise - and for God’s sake don’t brag about all of the travelling you’ve done! It’s like one of those people who brags about having a small nose. If you’re secretly hoping for a Cameron Diaz look-alike, don’t ask for one. You’ll put off all the best gals. Even the non-Cameron Diaz ones.
Don’t dumb yourself down or try to sound any smarter than you really are. If you’re terrible at programming the dvd player, admit it - nothing is more attractive than a man who can laugh at himself. If you have kids…this could be split decision but in my opinion don’t bring them up. If you’re a great dad, that’s great - but shouldn’t really be used as a selling point.
Most importantly, though, just keep it light. I would imagine that treating your little advertisement as a first date would be a great jumping point. So remember - you don’t walk into a restaurant on your first date and blurt out “I’m still trying to get over my last relationship, I’m looking for something long-term with an active, thin woman who loves deep sea fishing and I’ve been through years of therapy due to some unresolved issues with my absentee dad.”, do you?
My Dog Lily
I have a dog named Lily. She is named Lily because I failed to produce a daughter, and my sons thought a dog named Lily was really the next best thing. Lily is one of those dogs that cost around $35 at the Humane Society rather than $1000 from a dog breeder. I hadn’t really been looking forward to a dog - especially considering I had already managed to kill off a few beta fish and a turtle (which are notoriously difficult to kill, by the way) - but the boys had begged so there I was. Stuck. When we got to the Humane Society there were about a dozen huge, snarling barking dogs who were making it perfectly clear they weren’t fond of this pretend doggy jail. I had a feeling one or two in particular had been in real doggy jail, by the looks of their scarred snouts and world-weary eyes. The nice thing to do would have been to adopt one of those dogs. But…there lay Lily. Silent in her little cage, staring up at us with those big sad eyes - eyes which I now know she uses to manipulate me at will. We were all goners.
Lily will be turning 4 tomorrow when Ben turns 12 (we consider her to be born on the day we found her - don’t try to wrap your heads around the mechanics of that one). Which means that she is 28. My problem is that I think she might be looking to start dating. Twenty-eight may seem a little old to just be getting started, but that’s our Lily. She’s very chaste, I must admit. A careful girl. Plus, she’s had a volatile 2 year relationship with Mattie (our cat) that can be quite violent and emotionally draining at times, so you can see why it’s taken her awhile. I don’t want to come right out and say Mattie is physically abusive, but…I don’t think he’s quite right in the head, if you know what I mean. I myself live in almost constant fear that he will suffocate me in my sleep.
I’ve started to notice that Lily gets quite a few looks from the other dogs when we’re out on our morning walks, from both the males and the females. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I can’t blame them really - Lily is quite good-looking. And I think she knows it. She’s slender with curvy legs, a fabulous black and tan coat and a great looking tail. She’s a half breed, our Lily, at the very least. I would say she’s got around six breeds going on there. I tried to explain to her that being a mixed-breed is cool and exotic, like Cher, but then people ask me what breed of dog she is (right in front of her!) - and there she goes, sleeping on my bed in the middle of the afternoon. Which can only mean depression. She seems to have gotten over it, though, and I think it’s because of all the canine attention she’s been getting on the street. She’s very unique looking - sort of like the Catherine Zeta Jones of dogs amongst a bunch of Britney Spears. A head-turner. The other dog-walkers are having difficulty getting their dogs to ‘heel’ properly - Lily is just too much of a temptation.
I’d like to see her go on a few doggy dates at the park or something. Get out there a bit and have a little fun. Maybe it would help her with her unnatural fixation on not just one, but all four of my boys. I personally think it’s the ‘forbidden fruit’ complex. She knows they’re from a different species but - well, they’re just so darn cute! I wonder if she makes up little revenge scenarios in her head like “Oh, you just wait and see! One of these days I will have grown up past your knee and then it will just be too darn late! I will have found myself a Great Dane - PURE BRED, mind you - and I won’t have any time for you anymore!”
So I think my plan of action will be to get her out for a walk early mornings, around 6:30 which seems to be the ‘happy hour’ of dogs. Certainly the quality seems to improve greatly at that hour for whatever reason. Yes, despite my earlier reservations, I think Lily dating is a fine idea, really fine. After all, one of the women of the house should be going on dates - better her than me!
Lily will be turning 4 tomorrow when Ben turns 12 (we consider her to be born on the day we found her - don’t try to wrap your heads around the mechanics of that one). Which means that she is 28. My problem is that I think she might be looking to start dating. Twenty-eight may seem a little old to just be getting started, but that’s our Lily. She’s very chaste, I must admit. A careful girl. Plus, she’s had a volatile 2 year relationship with Mattie (our cat) that can be quite violent and emotionally draining at times, so you can see why it’s taken her awhile. I don’t want to come right out and say Mattie is physically abusive, but…I don’t think he’s quite right in the head, if you know what I mean. I myself live in almost constant fear that he will suffocate me in my sleep.
I’ve started to notice that Lily gets quite a few looks from the other dogs when we’re out on our morning walks, from both the males and the females. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I can’t blame them really - Lily is quite good-looking. And I think she knows it. She’s slender with curvy legs, a fabulous black and tan coat and a great looking tail. She’s a half breed, our Lily, at the very least. I would say she’s got around six breeds going on there. I tried to explain to her that being a mixed-breed is cool and exotic, like Cher, but then people ask me what breed of dog she is (right in front of her!) - and there she goes, sleeping on my bed in the middle of the afternoon. Which can only mean depression. She seems to have gotten over it, though, and I think it’s because of all the canine attention she’s been getting on the street. She’s very unique looking - sort of like the Catherine Zeta Jones of dogs amongst a bunch of Britney Spears. A head-turner. The other dog-walkers are having difficulty getting their dogs to ‘heel’ properly - Lily is just too much of a temptation.
I’d like to see her go on a few doggy dates at the park or something. Get out there a bit and have a little fun. Maybe it would help her with her unnatural fixation on not just one, but all four of my boys. I personally think it’s the ‘forbidden fruit’ complex. She knows they’re from a different species but - well, they’re just so darn cute! I wonder if she makes up little revenge scenarios in her head like “Oh, you just wait and see! One of these days I will have grown up past your knee and then it will just be too darn late! I will have found myself a Great Dane - PURE BRED, mind you - and I won’t have any time for you anymore!”
So I think my plan of action will be to get her out for a walk early mornings, around 6:30 which seems to be the ‘happy hour’ of dogs. Certainly the quality seems to improve greatly at that hour for whatever reason. Yes, despite my earlier reservations, I think Lily dating is a fine idea, really fine. After all, one of the women of the house should be going on dates - better her than me!
Jack
My son Jack is eight years old now. He is the tallest boy in his class. He is the only one of my sons who manages to be serious and funny at the same time almost all of the time. Jack is a thinker and a watcher. If he doesn’t like you after the first five minutes of knowing you - well then, I’m sorry my friend but he’s never going to like you. Luckily for Jack he is also a surprisingly good judge of character.
There are a million and a half wonderful things I can see in Jack’s future. Things like being loved, being successful, owning a house filled with seventeen cats, twelve dogs and three turtles. Plus the odd bird thrown in here and there because he can never have a pet bird when he’s living in my house - they are wholly unsettling creatures, I must tell you. Menacing. Predatory. It’s the price Jack must pay for having me as a Mom. And not the only price, I’m sure.
So Jack‘s page is very much a blank page of uncomplicated promise in my eyes. But it‘s not the way he looks to me that worries me these days. It‘s the way he looks at himself. Already. You see, Jack is an average-sized boy, which means he is not skinny. He doesn’t have a ’weight issue’ at all. He’s not obese, not hefty, not out of shape. He’s pretty much just not skinny. Normally I wouldn’t think anything of this - after all, four boys mean four very different little builds and anyways, boys don’t care about that stuff at all, do they? Oh, they sure as heck fire do. Now Jack is an exhaustingly active boy, he loves life and is exuberant and good-natured - really I can say without a word of conceit that he is one of the easiest children in the entire world to love. But he can’t seem to get past this idea, this little seed being re-planted daily in his mind that there is something changing about him and not in a good way. A seed I can never seem to dig up or kill or bury someplace else. “Wow, Jack has gotten really BIG.”, one of our family friends will comment. “He’s going to be a really BIG guy, isn’t he?” “He’s not built like the other boys at all.”
I’ll generally try to shrug these comments off on his behalf, say something like “Yeah, he’s a pretty tall kid, I don’t know where he got that from because his father and I are both such shorties.”, but usually people will persist. “No - I don’t mean tall...”, they’ll sometimes elaborate - and I don’t hear much past that point because I’m busy visualizing myself stabbing them in the eye with my nail clippers (the only weapon I ever seem to have at the ready). It seems to come at him from all ends these days - he came home from his Dad’s house one weekend, embarrassed and sullen and refused to tell me why. He turned down his ice cream sundae for dessert - a precedent of earth-shattering proportions for anyone in our house - and went out to the front yard after dinner to run some laps around the driveway. These crazy, driven, silent, angry laps that scared me with their red-faced intensity. Finally he confessed (not to me but to his brothers who, I might add with no small amount of pride, were just as concerned). His new nickname at his Dad’s house was ‘chubs’ and he thought he should ‘stop eating ice cream and try to exercise more because I think my belly is too wide’. If only his Dad had been there…I had my nail clippers poised and at the ready for a fight.
For the most part, I must admit Jack’s mind is elsewhere. There are still matters far more pressing than this for him, thank goodness. Who’s turn on the wii being at the forefront, naturally. And there are big things to be done every day, firecrackers to be let off in the living room (another story for another day) and snowballs to save in the freezer. Especially on the weekend when it’s just us and we lull ourselves into a false sense of complacency and he wanders the house comfortable in his own skin.
But then he’s back at school. And it’s Wednesday and he’s grown out of an old pair of jeans. And then there it is again - that look. Of humiliation, of panic. Of anger. I’ve given him too much oatmeal for breakfast, he says, why did I do that? So we lose that morning, I suppose. A bit of the battle gone. Lost. But I promise you…we are going to win that war.
There are a million and a half wonderful things I can see in Jack’s future. Things like being loved, being successful, owning a house filled with seventeen cats, twelve dogs and three turtles. Plus the odd bird thrown in here and there because he can never have a pet bird when he’s living in my house - they are wholly unsettling creatures, I must tell you. Menacing. Predatory. It’s the price Jack must pay for having me as a Mom. And not the only price, I’m sure.
So Jack‘s page is very much a blank page of uncomplicated promise in my eyes. But it‘s not the way he looks to me that worries me these days. It‘s the way he looks at himself. Already. You see, Jack is an average-sized boy, which means he is not skinny. He doesn’t have a ’weight issue’ at all. He’s not obese, not hefty, not out of shape. He’s pretty much just not skinny. Normally I wouldn’t think anything of this - after all, four boys mean four very different little builds and anyways, boys don’t care about that stuff at all, do they? Oh, they sure as heck fire do. Now Jack is an exhaustingly active boy, he loves life and is exuberant and good-natured - really I can say without a word of conceit that he is one of the easiest children in the entire world to love. But he can’t seem to get past this idea, this little seed being re-planted daily in his mind that there is something changing about him and not in a good way. A seed I can never seem to dig up or kill or bury someplace else. “Wow, Jack has gotten really BIG.”, one of our family friends will comment. “He’s going to be a really BIG guy, isn’t he?” “He’s not built like the other boys at all.”
I’ll generally try to shrug these comments off on his behalf, say something like “Yeah, he’s a pretty tall kid, I don’t know where he got that from because his father and I are both such shorties.”, but usually people will persist. “No - I don’t mean tall...”, they’ll sometimes elaborate - and I don’t hear much past that point because I’m busy visualizing myself stabbing them in the eye with my nail clippers (the only weapon I ever seem to have at the ready). It seems to come at him from all ends these days - he came home from his Dad’s house one weekend, embarrassed and sullen and refused to tell me why. He turned down his ice cream sundae for dessert - a precedent of earth-shattering proportions for anyone in our house - and went out to the front yard after dinner to run some laps around the driveway. These crazy, driven, silent, angry laps that scared me with their red-faced intensity. Finally he confessed (not to me but to his brothers who, I might add with no small amount of pride, were just as concerned). His new nickname at his Dad’s house was ‘chubs’ and he thought he should ‘stop eating ice cream and try to exercise more because I think my belly is too wide’. If only his Dad had been there…I had my nail clippers poised and at the ready for a fight.
For the most part, I must admit Jack’s mind is elsewhere. There are still matters far more pressing than this for him, thank goodness. Who’s turn on the wii being at the forefront, naturally. And there are big things to be done every day, firecrackers to be let off in the living room (another story for another day) and snowballs to save in the freezer. Especially on the weekend when it’s just us and we lull ourselves into a false sense of complacency and he wanders the house comfortable in his own skin.
But then he’s back at school. And it’s Wednesday and he’s grown out of an old pair of jeans. And then there it is again - that look. Of humiliation, of panic. Of anger. I’ve given him too much oatmeal for breakfast, he says, why did I do that? So we lose that morning, I suppose. A bit of the battle gone. Lost. But I promise you…we are going to win that war.
Monday, September 3, 2007
At the Movies
Do people really like to be known as avid ‘film-goers’? Well, maybe ‘film-goers’ are alright because films sound so fancy - not like ‘movies’ at all really. And I think ‘films’ are considered to be on a different level, aren’t they? Sort of in the same way being an ‘adult’ (pronounced ah-DULT, of course) is not really the same thing as being a ‘grown-up’. Ah-DULT’s enjoy films as a brief respite from reading thick dusty novels, drinking brandy from warm snifters or smoking a pipe while playing the cello. It’s not really their main scene, as such, but if there’s something good on at the ‘cinema’ (read, Cineplex), something with subtitles and obscure symbolism then…Well, alright, old boy. Just this once, tut, tut!
I’m all for the high end movies as well - in fact here in Owen Sound we’re lucky enough to have a gallery that brings us to the cinema for some really thought-provoking films. They always seem to be available on a rainy Sunday afternoon, too, which sets the scene nicely. Through them I’ve seen some of my favourite movies - Hotel Rwanda, The Painted Veil, Dear Frankie (you really need to see this one, I promise you) - all alone in the dark and munching on chocolate almonds. Pure bliss. My only complaint is that the other ah-DULTs never seem to get snacks - who watches movies without snacks, I ask you?
So yes, I do enjoy ‘films’. But I really, really enjoy ‘movies’ too. Just as much as I enjoy books and music and warm brandy. Actually, I detest warm brandy, but you get my drift. There’s a certain artistic snobbery attached to film these days. It’s still not quite as bad as television, I hear, but it’s getting worse. Nobody wants to admit that their children watch television - which is what mine are doing right now, by the way - and if they do watch television it’s only PBS. Or the Discovery channel. Never more than 20 minutes a day at most. And never the Simpson’s. EVER!! I myself took the kids to see the Simpson’s movie. Read from that what you will.
A lot of people associate certain smells with their past, or certain music. I do that as well (oranges and sweet almonds make me think of my room in Switzerland; Danny Boy brings me back to my Grandpa’s funeral) - but there are also certain movies that evoke instant memories for me. Like ’Bridget Jones’ Diary’. It may sound cliché, but the first weekend my husband had taken the kids and I was completely alone for the first time in about 7 years, Bridget helped me. I watched it over and over again, (I think I even perfected her ‘All By Myself’ solo from the opening credits) not feeling any better or worse about my situation, just focused on where I was. Sitting on a couch that was now mine and mine alone, huddled under a quilt my Nana had bought me for my birthday. And watching Bridget finally find her Mr. Darcy at 33 or whatever. It made me feel - safe. And sort of strong.
Back further, when Callum was 2 and Ben was a newborn. Every morning at around 5 o’clock Callum would wake me up to go downstairs and watch 101 Dalmations. It was winter, the floors were cold and Callum was wearing his Winnie the Pooh slippers. Little Ben was curled up asleep, fleecy warm under our mutual blanket asleep. A light snow was falling and I was so tired I didn’t think I could carry on. But then I would hear Callum warble “Cruella Da Bil! Cruella Da Bil!” with his little lisp. And I could indeed carry on.
So many memories of mine come with a movie soundtrack - such as all of the women in my family sobbing wildly during “Steel Magnolias” (there’s that inexplicable sense of comraderie that comes from twenty women with snotty noses), or watching “Hallowe’en” with my boyfriend at 18 in the dark in my parent’s rec room (for obvious reasons) and the first time I watched “Stepmom” after my kids had a Stepmom. To see all of my un-named, slightly selfish fears acted out by Miss Susan Sarandon was…maybe not fun but noteworthy. The movies didn’t change anything for me, but they seemed to help me earmark moments I wanted for later. Moments like being a 15 year old girl who’s fighting with her step father. For the 10 000th time and she’s tired and misunderstood and a little lonely. But later, when she’s watching Out of Africa alone, her stepfather finds her. She knows he hates this movie, but he stays for the whole four hours. Just with her. To get to know what she likes, to let her know all that she is becoming to him without saying a word. That, right there, is show biz, folks.
I’m all for the high end movies as well - in fact here in Owen Sound we’re lucky enough to have a gallery that brings us to the cinema for some really thought-provoking films. They always seem to be available on a rainy Sunday afternoon, too, which sets the scene nicely. Through them I’ve seen some of my favourite movies - Hotel Rwanda, The Painted Veil, Dear Frankie (you really need to see this one, I promise you) - all alone in the dark and munching on chocolate almonds. Pure bliss. My only complaint is that the other ah-DULTs never seem to get snacks - who watches movies without snacks, I ask you?
So yes, I do enjoy ‘films’. But I really, really enjoy ‘movies’ too. Just as much as I enjoy books and music and warm brandy. Actually, I detest warm brandy, but you get my drift. There’s a certain artistic snobbery attached to film these days. It’s still not quite as bad as television, I hear, but it’s getting worse. Nobody wants to admit that their children watch television - which is what mine are doing right now, by the way - and if they do watch television it’s only PBS. Or the Discovery channel. Never more than 20 minutes a day at most. And never the Simpson’s. EVER!! I myself took the kids to see the Simpson’s movie. Read from that what you will.
A lot of people associate certain smells with their past, or certain music. I do that as well (oranges and sweet almonds make me think of my room in Switzerland; Danny Boy brings me back to my Grandpa’s funeral) - but there are also certain movies that evoke instant memories for me. Like ’Bridget Jones’ Diary’. It may sound cliché, but the first weekend my husband had taken the kids and I was completely alone for the first time in about 7 years, Bridget helped me. I watched it over and over again, (I think I even perfected her ‘All By Myself’ solo from the opening credits) not feeling any better or worse about my situation, just focused on where I was. Sitting on a couch that was now mine and mine alone, huddled under a quilt my Nana had bought me for my birthday. And watching Bridget finally find her Mr. Darcy at 33 or whatever. It made me feel - safe. And sort of strong.
Back further, when Callum was 2 and Ben was a newborn. Every morning at around 5 o’clock Callum would wake me up to go downstairs and watch 101 Dalmations. It was winter, the floors were cold and Callum was wearing his Winnie the Pooh slippers. Little Ben was curled up asleep, fleecy warm under our mutual blanket asleep. A light snow was falling and I was so tired I didn’t think I could carry on. But then I would hear Callum warble “Cruella Da Bil! Cruella Da Bil!” with his little lisp. And I could indeed carry on.
So many memories of mine come with a movie soundtrack - such as all of the women in my family sobbing wildly during “Steel Magnolias” (there’s that inexplicable sense of comraderie that comes from twenty women with snotty noses), or watching “Hallowe’en” with my boyfriend at 18 in the dark in my parent’s rec room (for obvious reasons) and the first time I watched “Stepmom” after my kids had a Stepmom. To see all of my un-named, slightly selfish fears acted out by Miss Susan Sarandon was…maybe not fun but noteworthy. The movies didn’t change anything for me, but they seemed to help me earmark moments I wanted for later. Moments like being a 15 year old girl who’s fighting with her step father. For the 10 000th time and she’s tired and misunderstood and a little lonely. But later, when she’s watching Out of Africa alone, her stepfather finds her. She knows he hates this movie, but he stays for the whole four hours. Just with her. To get to know what she likes, to let her know all that she is becoming to him without saying a word. That, right there, is show biz, folks.
Homecoming
When I was a little girl, we lived with my Nana and Grandpa. We’re good old Irish stock (read, incredibly prolific) who liked to host as many people as possible as often as possible. Nana was a baker, and she generally started on the pies, cakes, cookies and biscuits around Monday night. Apparently, the idea was that people always feel welcome if you‘ve baked them a pie - makes good sense to me. I loved that buzzing sensation running through the house before ‘the visitors’ descended. The excitement, the sense of ceremony attached to even the most mundane, the attention to detail. Changing of sheets, washing of floors, folding of laundry, mowing of lawn. We wanted to put our best foot forward for the visitors, only give them a glimpse of the shiniest part of our lives so that we could go back to eating off of t.v. trays in front of the television on Monday.
That’s the feeling our entire town has been experiencing for the last few weeks - longer if you’re a decent citizen. Which I’m not really. The gussying up of our entire town. I think we look quite pretty, don’t you? Our flowers are in full bloom, our lawns are mowed, our streets are clean. I didn’t get a chance to head down to the Farmer’s Market on Saturday, but I was half-expecting, half-hoping the vendors would all be wearing pink and blue bowties. In fact, I have half a mind to start baking a few pies for our visitors - it seems only cordial, don’t you think? Because we want to give these visitors - or ‘ the leavers’ as I like to call them - a great impression of our fair city. Or town, whatever we are. Rather like a jilted lover whose ex-boyfriend has come to town - you better get out the big guns, right? You’d better look your best, paste on a smile that says; “Really, we’re all doing just fine without you!” or “Go ahead - move to the big city! See if you like it any better there!” By the way, these were my suggestions for slogans rather than “The Sound is Calling You Home.” Not bad, eh? Apparently not the red carpet treatment we want to convey, though.
It’s funny, having all of these people coming home has made me think about my homecoming five years ago. How scared I was, how alone I felt, the strange sense of déjà vu that comes from things changing only slightly from your girlhood. But - it felt right. And warm. It’s been a while now, and the city (Seriously, is it a city? I can never remember.) and I have grown into a comfortable sort of marriage. The honeymoon period is over -the first rotten winter ended that phase - but I’m past the ‘seven year itch’ point. I no longer consider up and leaving at every bad turn, because this is where I’m supposed to be. Despite the rotten winters, the feeling of isolation that comes with every January 1st, the crippling absence of either a Gap or an Ikea…
Okay, before I scare ‘the leavers’ away again, I have a few ideas about some activities that have helped me settle in here. The may not be on the official itinerary, but they’ve certainly made me fall into a pretty deep and lasting love with the area - which for me is nothing short of a miracle (I’m not much of a settler). Here goes -
Head down to the River Café and sit in the window, drink a Chai latte and eat a toblerone shortbread cookie. Or any of our other fine cafes, actually; I just really like those cookies. Go for a walk early in the morning through the Mill Dam and past the Jubilee Bridge - be sure to go early enough that the dew is still fresh on the grass. I don’t know why it makes a difference but it does. Visit my curtains at Homeology - you see, I’ve been waiting for these particular curtains to go on sale for awhile now (front window, great floral pattern on a sort of creamy background) and I like to visit them. This is also a warning to let people know those particular curtains are spoken for! If you have children take them to the old-wishing-well-that’s-not-a-well at Harrison Park. Tell them that a troll lives at the bottom, and when they approach it to check (because they will) make distinct growling noises behind them. My Grandpa told me that thirty years ago and I believed him for twenty.
Mostly though, the one thing ‘the leavers’ should do is remember. Remember what it was like to live here, remember what you loved about it and why you still come home. And then you can head back to your big fancy city because we’re fine, just fine!!
That’s the feeling our entire town has been experiencing for the last few weeks - longer if you’re a decent citizen. Which I’m not really. The gussying up of our entire town. I think we look quite pretty, don’t you? Our flowers are in full bloom, our lawns are mowed, our streets are clean. I didn’t get a chance to head down to the Farmer’s Market on Saturday, but I was half-expecting, half-hoping the vendors would all be wearing pink and blue bowties. In fact, I have half a mind to start baking a few pies for our visitors - it seems only cordial, don’t you think? Because we want to give these visitors - or ‘ the leavers’ as I like to call them - a great impression of our fair city. Or town, whatever we are. Rather like a jilted lover whose ex-boyfriend has come to town - you better get out the big guns, right? You’d better look your best, paste on a smile that says; “Really, we’re all doing just fine without you!” or “Go ahead - move to the big city! See if you like it any better there!” By the way, these were my suggestions for slogans rather than “The Sound is Calling You Home.” Not bad, eh? Apparently not the red carpet treatment we want to convey, though.
It’s funny, having all of these people coming home has made me think about my homecoming five years ago. How scared I was, how alone I felt, the strange sense of déjà vu that comes from things changing only slightly from your girlhood. But - it felt right. And warm. It’s been a while now, and the city (Seriously, is it a city? I can never remember.) and I have grown into a comfortable sort of marriage. The honeymoon period is over -the first rotten winter ended that phase - but I’m past the ‘seven year itch’ point. I no longer consider up and leaving at every bad turn, because this is where I’m supposed to be. Despite the rotten winters, the feeling of isolation that comes with every January 1st, the crippling absence of either a Gap or an Ikea…
Okay, before I scare ‘the leavers’ away again, I have a few ideas about some activities that have helped me settle in here. The may not be on the official itinerary, but they’ve certainly made me fall into a pretty deep and lasting love with the area - which for me is nothing short of a miracle (I’m not much of a settler). Here goes -
Head down to the River Café and sit in the window, drink a Chai latte and eat a toblerone shortbread cookie. Or any of our other fine cafes, actually; I just really like those cookies. Go for a walk early in the morning through the Mill Dam and past the Jubilee Bridge - be sure to go early enough that the dew is still fresh on the grass. I don’t know why it makes a difference but it does. Visit my curtains at Homeology - you see, I’ve been waiting for these particular curtains to go on sale for awhile now (front window, great floral pattern on a sort of creamy background) and I like to visit them. This is also a warning to let people know those particular curtains are spoken for! If you have children take them to the old-wishing-well-that’s-not-a-well at Harrison Park. Tell them that a troll lives at the bottom, and when they approach it to check (because they will) make distinct growling noises behind them. My Grandpa told me that thirty years ago and I believed him for twenty.
Mostly though, the one thing ‘the leavers’ should do is remember. Remember what it was like to live here, remember what you loved about it and why you still come home. And then you can head back to your big fancy city because we’re fine, just fine!!
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