Truth be told...

Denied boarding

2009-07-08T10:36:00.002-04:00

I’m always amazed when I travel by the number of people who think traveling by air is the equivalent of boarding a Greyhound bus. That they can saunter into the boarding lounge seconds before the scheduled departure time and expect that they will not only be allowed to embark, but that it is their right to do so.

This morning it was a man in a suit headed for Washington-Dulles. By my watch it was 5:59 a.m. The scheduled departure time for his flight, as it appeared on the departure screen, was 6:00 a.m. As he wandered up casually to the check-in counter, with a Starbucks grande bold in one hand and a Tim Horton’s toasted bagel with butter in the other, I could see from my vantage point that his flight had already pulled away from the gate.

I was devilishly amused by the combination of rage and bewilderment that crossed his face. Though I was not close enough to hear the entire conversation with the gate agent, his body language indicated his complete disbelief that the gate agent would not call the plane back so that he could board. The only words I did hear were “I’m sorry sir, but we have to cut the flight off at some point.”

I was able to sit smugly in my seat watching these events because I anally arrive long before any flight departure. Fresh out of university, my first real job was as a customer service representative for Canada 3000 Airlines. As a charter carrier, and it being the early 1990s, Canada 3000 performed a manual check-in (nary a computer system in sight at the ticket counter) and did not offer pre-assigned seating. Printed on every ticket and other piece of literature that got stuffed into the ticket wallet (remember those?), we advised passengers to arrive two hours prior to departure for domestic and US flights, and at least three hours prior to departure for international flights, particularly if they were seeking any kind of preferred seating. We also advised, rather sternly, that check-in for all flights would close 30 minutes prior to departure, after which time, without exception, passengers would be denied boarding. I can’t tell you the number of calls I received from passengers who arrived 20 minutes before, or 15 minutes after, a scheduled time and could not understand why they were denied boarding. But it was the calls from passengers who left their homes two hours prior to departure but ended up missing their flights because of a traffic accident that emboldened my paranoia about getting to the airport on time. After all, there were no refunds…without exception. My experience with Canada 3000 taught me to prepare for all contingencies and arrive three hours or more prior to departure.

Now that I am a frequent business traveller I’ve learned to relax a little bit. But not that much. In preparation for my 6:40 a.m. flight to Boston I rose at 4:00 a.m. I had a car pick me up at 4:45 a.m. and I was at the airport by 5:10 a.m. I did this despite having, by virtue of my Nexus card, the ability breeze by the staggering queues for passport control. I was through security, breakfast purchased and comfortably seated at gate 166 in Pearson’s Terminal 1 by 5:25 a.m. – more than an hour before my scheduled flight time. Which of course is how I was able to have a front row seat for the early morning performance of “Denied boarding.” I can only imagine the excuse denied boarding man gave for missing his meeting in Washington. “What can I say? I needed my Starbucks and my Timmy’s.”

I, on the other hand, arrived in Boston on time and two and a half hours prior to my first meeting. I am completely sleep deprived and can barely string two coherent sentences together, but at least I showed up.

Reprogramming my internal GPS is an exercise in futility

2009-04-27T15:49:00.000-04:00

Life is a funny thing. We may think we have clear control over the choices we make and the paths that we follow. But the more the years pass, the more I’m convinced that Fate and Destiny control my destination. Oh, I may appear to be the driver. I may sit behind the wheel, pressing accelerator and brake, steering in one direction or another. But like the old fashioned car ride at Toronto’s Center Island, I always get pulled back on track.

I’ll give you an example.

Two years ago I found myself in the funny predicament of being doggedly recruited for a job — a job I had already turned down once. I went through a series of pros and cons. Reasons to take the new job. Reasons to stay where I was. I drove my friends crazy with my agonizing vacillation. Ultimately, I boiled it down to what I wanted in my heart of hearts. I listened to the little voice within. I wanted to be a playwright. I wanted to pursue a life as a creative writer.

And so I turned the job down for the second time.

A scant two weeks later, after much hand-wringing over lost opportunity, I changed my mind and veered off course.

It wasn’t the right job for me. I knew that from the start. But my ego had swelled mightily at the thought of a Vice Chair recruiting me with such determination. There seemed no way of stopping it. My ego literally crushed my little voice within.

Fast forward to present. The Vice Chair has moved on to greener horizons within the company. And I’m still in the ill-fitting job. As a new Vice Chair enters and the company restructures, my value on the team becomes increasingly tenuous. The prospect of the company laying me off looms ever larger as each day passes.

And so, after a two-year detour, it would appear as though Fate and Destiny are pulling me back on track. Back to the path my little voice so wisely counselled me to choose, the path that sees me pursue a life as a creative writer.

It remains to be seen whether I will stay on track. I may once again attempt to blaze my own trail. But I feel that no matter how many country roads and laneways I explore, at some point I will have to rejoin the route that Fate and Destiny programmed into my internal GPS the day I was born.

Finding the road less traveled

2008-09-04T15:25:00.003-04:00

Have you ever felt as if you are living someone else’s life? That you are heading down a perfectly acceptable path that leads to prosperity and security, and yet it’s not your path to take?

That’s how I’m feeling right now. I live in a nice urban house. I have a good job that pays for that house. I even have a lovely partner to share it with. But is that really what I want? That is the nagging question haunting me these days.

At what point did I say, “sign me up for the middle-management job, white picket fence, two kids and a Buick please!” I don’t remember ever really thinking it. Not as a child. Not during my university days. Not through my twenties. And yet, somehow in my late thirties, minus the two kids and the Buick, that’s exactly what I’ve got. Is this the life I want to live? Honestly? Truthfully? NO. NO NO NO. That’s the answer that screams from the very depths of my being. But it is a reply that sticks silently in the back of my throat on its way out, not voiced and not heard as I continue to blithely speed along the five lane highway to mediocrity and boredom and away from whatever the alternative is.

So, what kind of life do I want to live?

Well, I’ve always been drawn to the theatre. From the time I was five I wanted to be an actor. In a haphazard way I actually pursued that childhood dream. I went to school for it. I majored in Drama…twice…at undergraduate and graduate levels. And for a short time, after earning my second degree, I even lived the dream. I was happy in many ways. But it offered me little in the way of financial security, which was hugely important to me. Playwriting, another love, has been similarly soul enriching, yet financially barren.

Then there’s the environment. I am a huge proponent of self-sustainability; of sourcing energy from the air and the sun rather than from the bowels of the earth; of growing the food that we eat right in our own backyard. Again, not very lucrative. In fact, it’s darned expensive to achieve. But it’s something about which I am passionate.

What kind of life am I living now?

If those are my passions, and they are, then it’s easy to see why the path that I’m on is leading me in the wrong direction. To feed my deeply entrenched need for financial security, I have honed my skills as a creative writer to suit the suits. That is, I am using my powers for evil rather than for good. I write proposals and thought leadership and technical white papers and nonsensical articles on ETFs and IFRS and, ironically, climate change and sustainability, all for Corporate America. It clothes my body, shelters my head and fills my belly, but it does not nourish my soul. In fact, it does the opposite. It sucks the life blood from me.

How do I get from where I am to where I want to be?

That’s the six million dollar question…or more. I’ve always wanted to take the road less traveled. So how do I find the off-ramp that gets me off the corporate superhighway and onto the county road that leads to the road named after a long-forgotten (or still remembered) pillar of the community that leads to the windy, potholed dirt road upon which I am destined to travel?

The first thing I need to do is embrace the idea of poverty. The road less traveled is not paved with bricks of gold. I’m a city girl, born and raised. I have a sense of entitlement and the luxury tastes that go with it. I like my designer wear, my couture hair cuts, my fancy toiletries. I like good food and good wine. Only the best of the best will do. I have champagne tastes on what will soon be a well-water budget. Beer will be a luxury item at the watering hole I next frequent. Can I be okay with that? Can I forego all the creature comforts to which I have become accustomed to pursue the passions that satiate me emotionally? To date, the answer has been no, which is why I’m on the road well-traveled, the stagnation highway.

Someone once said, “follow your dream and the money will come.” That may be true, but I need to prepare for the fallacy. That I follow the dream that leaves me poorer than dirt. I need to be okay with that.

The next thing I need is to have the courage to pull the rug out from under me. To wake up one morning, resign from my corporate job, sell my urban house, pack up my car (actually, we’ll be packing up my partner’s car) and go. People the world over dream every night of walking into their boss’s office and saying, “take this job and shove it.” Few have the nerve to do it. I’m heading to the gym to bench-press my way to nerves of steel.

Okay, so I’m poor, jobless and homeless. Now what?

Well, I may be poor and jobless and homeless, but I have a partner who loves me and I have exited off the corporate highway to hell. Have I found the off-ramp to the county road to the road named after the pillar of the community to the dirt road toward my destiny? I think the answer is yes. It may not be a mighty yes yet. Rather, it’s a soft yes with a booming voice in the background, at the ready to shout out to the world whenever I give the word.

It’s definitely a road less traveled. Or, at least, it’s a road that hasn’t been traveled in awhile. It’s a bit of a pioneering quest if you want to know the truth. To find out more you’ll have to stay tuned to the new blog I’m going to begin in the very near future about the two happy hoes of painted nickel farm.

In the cacophony of thumping election drums, can anyone hear the orchestra?

2008-08-28T15:25:00.006-04:00

An election is coming in Canada. There is little doubt about that. Stephen Harper says the government is dysfunctional and taking Canadians to the polls is the only remedy. Forget the blight of the fixed election law. He’s our surgeon general, our fearless leader, here to save us from the “lefty” plague out to ruin the country.

It’s a bit of a masterful stroke, his plan. Though no one is paying much attention to the larger picture it seems. More conductor than general, Mr. Harper plays the opposition parties, special interest groups and the media like a trio of finely tuned violins.

If his actions are any indication, he’s been carefully orchestrating a multi-pronged attack to bring down the government for months, survival of endless confidence votes notwithstanding.

First, he paints himself as the tough on crime guy (as every Conservative does). Then he becomes Canada’s saviour with his unwavering support of our military in Afghanistan. Now it’s protecting the Arctic waters from rogue countries and saying he’s the only guy who can steer Canada clear of a recession.

At the same time, Harper introduces Bill C-10, a seemingly logical and benign omnibus bill meant to tinker with a number of Income Tax Act measures, but in which the Conservatives bury in Section 120 a clause that would allow the Heritage Minister to withdraw tax credits from productions determined to be “contrary to public policy.” This roughly translates into, if it doesn’t support the Conservative agenda or ideology, no tax credit for you! The Conservatives then went ahead and slashed $45 million in arts funding. These acts, of course raised the ire of lefties everywhere.

Amidst all of this, Stephane Dion hands Harper a gift wrapped in a big green bow – the Green Shift plan. It’s a well-meaning pollution-based tax plan that focuses on raising taxes on high greenhouse gas emitters, while lowering personal and corporate income taxes to offset the inevitable rise in commodity costs. It’s a great and noble plan, but the Liberals have yet to find a way to explain it in a nano-second sound byte, which is all the time they have before Harper gets to label them as “tax and spend” Liberals. Today, Harper even invoked the ghost of Trudeau and suggested that Dion was more left-leaning than any Liberal leader since Trudeau or beyond.

As Stephen Harper taps his baton, his cheerful violinists give virtuoso performances. The opposition cries foul on the fixed election law, while practically ignoring the half-truths and outright lies Harper is discharging about their party policies – in carefully packaged sound bytes – at every opportunity. Special interest groups cry foul over funding cuts, making Harper look fiscally prudent in these ailing economic times. All the while, the media bobs and weaves, focusing on bits and bytes so as to avoid the dreaded media bias label.

If Mr. Harper’s former Chief of Staff, Tom Flanagan, is to be believed, Harper is reaching the climax of his destruction campaign against the Liberals. As the violins crescendo in unison, leaving the country enraptured by the performance and unable to hear the subtle concussive noise in the wings, Stephen Harper may well receive a standing ovation in October, giving him the much coveted power he seeks to convert the talented orchestra we call Canada into little more than a marching band.

"Sorry for the incontinence..."

2008-06-13T18:11:00.005-04:00

It’s been a stressful few months. Which is why the email that I received on Friday afternoon turned out to be a salve that healed the wounds of my chronically overworked spirit.

The email was sent from a company intern who had attended a project meeting earlier in the week and was tasked with writing and circulating the minutes. Being the over-achiever that only our organization would select, the intern diligently sent the minutes out to all participants the following day.

Alas, having only been on the job for little more than a week, she was not familiar with the myriad layers of reviews and approvals even a simple minutes document must endure before being blessed for distribution. And so I received a second email a scant three hours later with "slight" changes. Sadly, no one gave her the full list of reviewers, for today I received yet another version with still more "alterations and additions."

In this, the third email, she apologized for having to issue yet another version. "This is the final version," she wrote. "Sorry for the incontinence." Sorry for the incontinence. Poor thing.

I laughed so hard I nearly peed my pants. And then I sent it to all of my overworked colleagues, prompting such delightful responses as "I always apologize for incontinence," and "Sad to see that in someone so young." Yet others talked of one of the reviewers obviously having scared the crap out of her, and the need for a certain intestinal fortitude to work as an intern in our organization.

It’s mean, I know. I can only imagine the mortifying humiliation she will feel when she recognizes her malapropism. But that’s not going to stop me from sharing her email with a few more friends. To make amenities, I will remember to thank her for her rare form of verbal diarrhea that relieved so many constipated souls.

“Hi, my name is Jane…”

2007-06-22T14:02:00.000-04:00

I was propositioned by a cab driver the other day. His name was Biki. Apparently, he only works Sundays and Mondays, but I should feel free to call him anytime. "Anytime," he repeated. He offered to drive me anywhere I wanted to go "for free."

This happens to me on a fairly regular basis. I’m not bragging about it. In fact, my feelings are quite the contrary. It makes me feel uncomfortable. I have gotten used to neanderthals whistling and shouting out of car windows over the years, but the lusty cab drivers take it to a whole other level. A level that distorts my feelings of safety and in some ways defeats the entire purpose of hailing a cab on a quiet street, in the late evening hours.

To safeguard myself from repercussions that could result from these undesired advances, I have learned to take action on two fronts:

1) I rarely have the cab driver drop me off at my door. Rather, I have them drop me at the top of the street and I will walk the short distance home from there.

2) I never give them my real name. For all the cabbies who ask, my name is Jane. Jane Morgan. I’m happily married with two cute-as-a-button children -- River and Current. I was going through a water phase at the time.

It’s taken me several cab rides to perfect my story. The first time I told the truth and very nearly was not allowed out of the cab. Later, I adopted Jane as a pseudonym, but shortly realized I had to take it a step further when, several months later I hailed THE SAME CAB DRIVER that wouldn’t let me get out of the cab. He didn’t remember me -- though he told me I looked familiar -- but boy did I remember him. "Are you sure we haven’t met?" he kept asking. And then he propositioned me...again. I told him I was on my way to meet my boyfriend for a romantic dinner. He was cooking. But that wasn’t enough. He wanted to know how long I’d been dating him. Was it serious? Was I sure he was the right guy for me?

Someone asked me once why I didn’t tell them I was gay. But I know that in this situation that’s a can of worms best left sealed.

And so, anytime the question comes at me from the driver’s seat of the cab, I answer with confidence and conviction: "My name is Jane. Jane Morgan. Seafort and I are happily married, thank you very much."

How is it...

2007-05-26T10:38:00.000-04:00

...that with the plummeting popularity of George W. Bush in the U.S. for his ultra-right wing views, muddling of church and state, and appallingly bad foreign policy that includes the disaster in Iraq, right-wing pundits are still considered Gods in the media?

I do not watch ABC's The View and I'm not a huge Rosie O'Donnell fan, but as John Doyle's article in the Globe and Mail last month (which I am repeating below because it has been archived on the Globe and Mail website and can only be accessed as "pay-per-view"), the redneck republicans continue to revel in their 15 minutes, while Rosie and other left-leaning oddities with the courage to speak their minds are being further and further marginalized.

Culminating, of course, in the catfight that had Rosie leaving The View for good this week, a month before her contract expired.

Following 9/11, I swore that I would not set foot in the U.S. until George W. Bush was no longer at the helm. I have since reversed that decision. Reversed it to such a degree that I recently accepted a position within the firm I have been working for, and love, for the past three and a half years, that will have me reporting to the U.S. and traveling extensively south of the border. I am going to love my new job. I already am. I love the people on my new team. I am particularly thrilled to be working for the woman who leads that team. But I am left to wonder: as a left-leaning woman, and lesbian, who likes to speak her mind, will I receive the same treatment from right-wing redneck republicans off air that Rosie has received on air?

I thought the winds of change were afoot in the U.S. I never thought it was a gale force wind, but I was hoping for more than a gentle breeze.

Herewith, Mr. Doyle from the April 26, 2007 issue of the Globe and Mail...

It's unspeakably scary that Rosie O'Donnell is leaving The View

In the normal course of events, there is little reason to pay attention to The View, or its hosts.

The View (ABC, CTV 11 a.m., weekdays) is off the radar of most people reading this newspaper.

It airs in the morning, and it is usually as airheaded and silly as other morning TV programs. Most of you probably know as much about it as you know about The Bold and the Beautiful.

The program is officially described as "a daily gabfest that tackles the day's headlines from a female point of view, hosted by Rosie O'Donnell, Barbara Walters, Elisabeth Hasselbeck and Joy Behar. Topics covered on this Emmy-winning show also include food, fashion, Hollywood and health." There are many TV shows that fit that description. Only the name of Barbara Walters sets it apart.

Still, today, The View is both newsworthy and worth considering because something very weird and possibly emblematic of the culture in the U.S. has happened. A bunch of heavyweight, right-wing media figures have managed to silence an abrasive, left-leaning woman.

Oh, it's true that nobody has fired Rosie O'Donnell. The contract negotiations with ABC went awry. Yep, Rosie O'Donnell is leaving The View. She's not going away completely, or immediately. It's just that she's not going to be on TV every weekday morning.

This is big, big news inside the world of U.S. TV and the media in general there.

What's unnerving is the fact that, whatever might have happened with her ABC contract talks, the exit of O'Donnell seemed inevitable.

When O'Donnell failed to reach a new contract agreement with ABC to be part of The View, it was actually breaking news on CNN. O'Donnell is middling-famous in the U.S. as an actor and comedienne, and a lesbian, but mostly she's famous for speaking her mind. She doesn't always make sense, and some of her jokes have been mind-bogglingly crass, but she says things that are, for many, unsayable.

Yesterday morning on The View, after getting the news of her departure out of the way, O'Donnell launched into a tirade against various Republicans and called for the impeachment of George W. Bush and Dick Cheney, on the grounds that they misled the United States into a war in Iraq. She also called for the immediate withdrawal of U.S. troops from Iraq. Barbara Walters dismissed these ideas, but O'Donnell got plenty of applause from the studio audience.

O'Donnell raised the profile of The View and caused considerable controversy a few months ago when she mercilessly mocked Donald Trump and drew a vicious response from him. More recently, she pointed out that several members of the U.S. Supreme Court were Catholics and suggested this would influence a court decision on abortion. She launched into a tirade about the need to separate church and state. The other day, she mocked Rupert Murdoch and his entire media empire.

To judge by the reaction to most of what she has said, you'd think O'Donnell was a left-wing radical. (It's true that she also said she believed some of the conspiracy theories about the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks.) Over the past few months, it has become common for the hosts of shows on MSNBC and Fox News to attack O'Donnell. Bill O'Reilly never tires of it. His fellow Fox hosts also take glee in ridiculing her. MSNBC's Joe Scarborough has also joined in the lambasting.

Their point is essentially this - somebody should force O'Donnell to shut up. Anyone who has watched this circus unfold has been watching the rage of right-wing males aimed at a mouthy, unfettered female. And there's the fact that O'Donnell, short and stocky, doesn't fit anyone's idea of what a TV host should look like. She says some things that are simply outrageous and others that are simply the opinion of someone who is skeptical about the U.S. establishment. Those cranky, harrumphing pundits got their wish. And now the question that remains is this: Who's next?

Room Service Anyone?

2007-05-14T21:50:00.000-04:00

I ordered room service today for the first time since I was nine years old. Spicy green tomato soup with shrimp, rice wrapped salmon on soba, and a bottle of water at the Tutwiler in Birmingham. It’s a long way from pancakes, and tea with milk and lemon (which resulted in curdled milk tea) at the Harbour Castle in downtown Toronto.

When my parents first separated and my mother moved my brother and me back with her to Toronto from Calgary, my father spent the first year and a bit commuting to Toronto every other weekend to see us. He would rent two hotel rooms that adjoined at the Harbour Castle -- one for himself, and one for my brother and me. I remember breakfast arriving on a rolling table that was covered with a white linen table cloth. Dad would roll it up to the bed and we would each sit, my brother and I, on the end of the bed with our feet dangling over the edge, chomping away on buttermilk pancakes with real maple syrup.

I loved that time with my Dad. It was a time of adventure, of spoiling, of fun. Of course, no weekend at the Harbour Castle would be complete without a trip to the gift shop. I still have the first stuffed animal my father ever bought me from that gift shop. Leo, the lion cub. For years, he went everywhere with me. To the cottage in the summer. To university. To my various apartments. He now sits in a place of honour in my bedroom atop the cat house. He’s a bit scruffy, but is every bit as lovable as the day I rescued him from the shelves of that gift shop. I “freed” more than two dozen more stuffed animals from there over the course of our many stays at the Harbour Castle -- before my father switched hotels and we went and stayed instead at the Inn on the Park...which is no longer there. The Inn on the Park didn’t have the great gift shop of the Harbour Castle, but it did have a fun arcade, complete with pinball machines that we loved to play.

I cannot even begin to imagine how hard that time was for my father. Being separated from his children by such a great distance. Feeling displaced by the new man in my mother’s life. Struggling to keep the many demons at bay. It was far from idyllic for him, but it was the lap of luxury for my brother and me.

Tomorrow, following an order of buttermilk pancakes with maple syrup, and tea (no milk) that I will eat bedside in my Tutwiler hotel room, I may venture down in search of a gift shop to see if I can free one more stuffed animal in honour of my father -- the loving, generous, troubled man I adored.

Just Call Me Taffy

2007-05-03T21:24:00.000-04:00

I actually have a second cousin by that name. Taffy. And she has sisters -- Honey and Candy. My grandfather referred to them as the Bon Bon sisters. What my great aunt was thinking, I just don’t know.

Taffy, for me, is not so much a name but a state of being of late. I feel like a pile of heated molasses poured into snow being pulled by multiple people in a dozen different directions.

In the days of yore this kind of play would be an opportunity for young men and women to get to know each other -- a courtship ritual of sorts. I suppose in my current state there is little difference. It is something of a courtship, but not in a romantic sense. There is the pull of a team getting to know me, of their needs, and the multiple demands on my time. But there is also the pull from the other side. From the team that already knows me and doesn’t want to let me go.

With each pull, I am stretched into a thin rope, and then I am folded back…only to be pulled again…and again…and again.

The trick will be to get the work cut into bite size pieces and wrapped before I harden. Harden into a brittle lump of goo that the courting parties will throw onto an ever growing pile of broken toys. I will be pitied and mocked until the day I am auctioned off to less fortunate employers as a misshapen booby prize.

In the meantime, just call me Taffy and give me a pull while I'm still soft and sweet.

Finding a Mentor

2007-05-02T18:40:00.000-04:00

Everyone needs a mentor at one point or another. I firmly believe that. I, for example, would like to find a luscious lesbian who is good at relationships to teach me a thing or two. In the absence of that, or perhaps alongside, I will happily settle for a man I am working with in NYC who inspired me to change my perspective about the ability to balance work and personal pursuits.

Over the last six weeks I have been mulling over a job opportunity. A fabulous prospect from a work perspective, one that would take me to the next level in my career -– hell, this new job would give me a career –- but also one that would involve a heavier workload, greater intensity of effort, and a considerable amount of travel. Certainly it would take its toll on me. It would take more organization than I have been capable of in the past to maintain my friendships and other relationships, both established and burgeoning. It would also significantly curtail my ability to continue to pursue my passion for theatre –- specifically, my playwriting –- and any hope that remained within me to one day make it a full-time endeavour. It pained me to even think of giving up my theatre aspirations. That’s my dream. And so I said no to the career.

In my mind it was a firm no. I had made my decision. And I had made it from my gut, which is almost always right. But ultimately, I couldn’t live with the decision. The thought of the new job, especially in comparison to my existing job, which I love, but which no longer challenges me, became a constant presence in my mind. I realized as I was sitting in meetings that I was filtering the information I was absorbing through the lens of the new position rather than the old. I was seeing and understanding all the possibilities the new job would afford and it excited me. And so I changed my mind –- or rather, I reconsidered my position –- and said yes to the career, with the painful acknowledgement that my days as a playwright may very well have come to an end.

I thought I had to choose. One or the other. That I couldn't do both.

Enter Mentor Mike. MM isn’t just a partner of the firm for whom I work. He’s also a stand up comic. He’s married, with a daughter, has a hugely demanding job, and still he found the time to write a treatment for a TV sitcom –- that has caught the attention of a guy from a big Hollywood studio, and a major TV network executive. And so, in that one conversation, in which we randomly discovered a shared passion, my whole perspective changed.

Life is full of so many unexpected surprises that way. We make decisions everyday –- large and small –- never fully knowing where they may lead us, but also knowing on some level that just one of them could alter our lives forever...for good...or for bad. It could happen over the course of time. Or it could happen in a split second. But either way, we cannot know the purpose of our path unless we follow the direction that our decisions take us. It’s risky. It often takes us out of our comfort zones. It may lead us to somewhere we didn’t really want to go. But if we don’t try, take the risk, be uncomfortable, we may never go anywhere. And where is the value in that?

I still don’t know where the new job is going to take me, but already I’ve discovered something new and something of value along the path.

To grow, to learn about ourselves and what we are capable of in our lives, to see things from a different angle, sometimes we need a mentor. In that, I firmly believe.

My Waterloo Sits on the Corner of West 43rd and 8th

2007-05-01T22:10:00.000-04:00

I've met my Waterloo. How I didn't notice it the last time I was here, in NYC, staying at the very same hotel -- for two weeks no less -- I don't know. But now that I've seen it and had a sinfully delicious taste, I can't stop myself from thinking, dreaming, plotting my next fix.

I was so good the first time I stepped through its doors -- low fat fudge brownie frozen yoghurt in a small cup. Perhaps next time, as I am somnambulantly drawn through its doors once more I will be able to restrainedly order the lemon sorbet. But eventually, the others will begin to call. The creamy (read full fat) cinnamon ice cream with chocolate cookie dough. The butter pecan. The triple fudge cappuccino somethingorother. The cherry garcia.

It was cold the last time I was here. I didn't need ice cream. Now, no amount of riding the elliptical trainer in the hotel gym, or walking the streets of Manhattan is going to save me from the battlefield of Ben & Jerry's Dessert Emporium.

My Grandmother Lives in a Ziploc Bag

2007-04-22T12:10:00.000-04:00

My grandmother lives in a ziploc bag. Okay, it's not really a ziploc. It's an old-school plastic bag fastened with a twist tie. How do I know this you ask? I blame it on airport security.

My mother and I were taking my grandmother's ashes as carry on from Toronto to Victoria to attend my grandfather Perry's funeral. At my mother's insistence, I had checked the Air Canada website to ensure that we could take my grandmother on the plane. On the Air Canada website it said, and I quote: "...these items can be carried on and do not count towards your baggage allowance: outer garments, purses, assistive devices, strollers, urns containing human remains."

I printed the page and highlighted the relevant information, in case we had a problem when we got to the airport. Which we did.

As we proceeded through security, I placed my grandmother in a grey bucket and sent her through the x-ray machine with all my other stuff. When the security agent saw the urn on her little x-ray monitor, she asked in a rather officious tone: "What's this?", to which I replied that it was my grandmother's ashes. "Well, how do I know that?", she asked. "You need to have proper identification papers to prove what's in the urn." I explained with strained politeness that the Air Canada website did not indicate that I would require paperwork to travel with my grandmother, to which she asked again: "Well, how do I know what's in there?" And so I said: "Fine. You want to know what's in there? Open her up."

As the security agent's jaw dropped in shock, her supervisor came over and kindly explained that, in fact, we only needed paperwork if we wanted the urn to bypass the x-ray. I pointedly replied: "I don't care if she's x-rayed, as long as she gets on the plane."

However, that whole shimozzle did get me wondering whether the urn could even be opened. So I checked. The lid comes off quite easily. Within it sits my grandmother in a plastic bag.

Not Everyone Likes Surprises

2007-04-22T11:56:00.000-04:00

Note to anyone who is listening: don't spring an open casket on unsuspecting relatives.

The service for Perry was at ten o'clock in the morning. Family members had been asked to arrive by nine for the private viewing. Expecting that Perry had been cremated, we asked each other in the car on the way to the funeral home exactly what we would be viewing. Well, weren't we surprised -- shocked really -- to walk into the room next to the chapel and see Perry "lying in state."

Apart from noticing that he looked nothing like the man that I had known, I noticed that he was wearing a tie. Perry never wore ties. For as long as I had known him, he had always worn ascots.

My Aunt, who was standing next to me, was focusing on the logistics. My mother and I had brought my grandmother, in her hideous metal urn, on the plane from Toronto to Victoria, in part to be present for her husband's funeral, and in part so that we could mix some of Perry's ashes with my grandmother's so that a part of him could be with her while the rest of him was to be buried next to his first wife.

As my Aunt stood staring at Perry in the casket, she leaned over to me and whispered: "I don't know how this is going to work. He's never going to be cool in time."

Cremation while you wait. Who knew?

As it turns out, he's not being cremated until next week. As my grandmother will be coming back home with us on the plane, the co-mingling will have to take place another time.

As an aside, I text messaged my brother, who couldn't attend, with details about Perry "lying in state." His response: "egads!" My sentiments exactly.

Family

2007-04-22T10:43:00.000-04:00

It's been a family-filled weekend. Funerals will do that. Weddings and funerals. Bringing family together in the hope that it won't also tear them apart. Family members that in many ways are more like strangers. How is it that we can know each other our whole lives, and yet not know anything at all?

This was an astonishing revelation to me as I spent the day touring around Vancouver Island with my mother, my uncle and his soon to be fourth wife; as I engaged in a conversation with a step-uncle over a beer at the pub; as I sat in a pew as those close and not so close extolled virtues previously unheard of a man I had known since I was five years old. Or thought I had known. In reality, I had known so very little.

Perry Symington Millar, grandfather not by blood but by marriage and by love, was a man of so very many talents. A judge invited to join the Supreme Court not once, but twice -- both times declined. An accomplished musician who jammed with the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra in his livingroom, and built a violin, viola and cello, just to see if he could do it (for which he won first prize in an instrument building competition for his first creation). A studied theologin of both eastern and western religions and philosophies who was invited to study with a famous yogi in India four years ago. All of which I didn't know.

It brings me back to a conversation I had had only the night before with one of Perry's sons -- a conversation so very similar to the kind of conversation I would have had with Perry. And with a man whose mannerisms, vocal intonations and speech patterns were so eerily familiar.

Each of us nursing a beer, we discussed the idea of perception and the differing levels of consciousness through which each of us as individuals filters information such that no one perception will ever be the same as that of another. A theory or idea that played out exactly as described in celebrating the life of a man each of us had perceived so very differently based on what Perry had shown us, and based on what we had chosen to see.

He was a man with so many levels. A man who had seemingly lived nearly a half a dozen completely different lives -- or perhaps chapters in a single, extraordinarily accomplished, humbling life. Which is entirely fitting for a man who so fervently believed that our life here and now was but one of many in a much longer journey.

In many ways I wish I had known the whole man rather than just a part. But I don't think that could be -- not for any of us. Because there will always be a piece of ourselves that we will choose not to reveal and pieces of others we will simply refuse to see.

And so, I will have to take comfort in the part of Perry that I did know. The listener, the playmate, and the partner in crime. The story-teller, the tank commander, and the spy catcher. The unwavering supporter of dreams and aspirations. A man I so very much hope to meet again as we continue onward in our journeys.

I'm Facebook Obsessed

2007-04-09T16:34:00.000-04:00

I’ve found a new online obsession. Facebook. Always a half-step behind, I had heard of Facebook, but hadn’t really given it much thought until the weekend. The topic first arose over a friend’s birthday dinner on Saturday. Who was on it? What did it mean? What could it could be used for? How much privacy did it offer? Would your name show up in a Google search if you joined? And then on Sunday another friend randomly sent me a link asking me to join. And so I did.

Online communities are not entirely new to me. After all, I’m not a Luddite. I was once a member of the now long defunct Six Degrees online forum. Not that it did much for me. I think I got a date out of it -- with a guy who thought a fun night out on the town was to glue toonies to the sidewalk and then watch passersby stop and try to pick them up. One of many one date wonders. And people wonder why I gave up on the boys…

I have had a number of invitations since the Six Degrees experience, from one friend or another to join one online group or another, but I rarely subscribe. Not that long ago, my friend C persuaded me to join her online community -- a vastly different experience from anything I had known before. Rather than making random connections, this was a closely knit group of friends that had been communicating online, in many instances, for the better part of ten years. Some had met face to face. Others had not. But the lack of direct face to face interaction did not in any way inhibit them from forming close bonds. I lurked for awhile and jumped in occasionally, enjoying the daily threads where conversations about life, kids, books, and sex abounded apace, undeterred by work or other life obligations. It was/is a fabulous community full of fascinating people, but I found it was too fast paced for me and I couldn’t keep up.

And now, here I am, leaping into the Facebook fray. As least I can say that, to date, I have dodged the MySpace bullet. I am intrigued. And a little obsessed at the moment. Constantly checking to see how many friends I have…and how many I can recruit so I don’t look forlornly friendless. We’ll see how long that lasts.

At least this time I’m not looking to make any romantic connections through this forum…though, I guess you never know. For those who are interested, please take note: gluing a toonie to a sidewalk is NOT my idea of an excellent first date. It wasn’t at 26 and it certainly isn’t now.

Giving Myself Permission

2007-02-19T12:51:00.000-05:00

I went tobogganing this weekend. And I made snow angels. And I played on the ice on Grenadier Pond. And I enjoyed general silliness in a way I had not given myself permission to do in years. Literally, years.

I loved winter as a kid growing up. I would play in the snow for hours -- building forts and making snowmen (when they were called snowmen and not snowpeople), ice skating after school and downhill skiing on the weekends. I loved the sound my soggy mittens made as I placed them on the searing rad; and all of my hats bore singe marks from having sat on the rad, or in front of the fireplace, for too long at times. I still love that sound...though I have neither a rad nor a fireplace on which to place my soggy gloves.

Giving myself permission -- permission to live more fully into myself -- to unlock the doors to places I have not ventured for so very long -- seems to be a theme for me these days. Allowing the child still living within me to come out and play in a carefree way that only a feeling of safety can make possible. It is a gift...a gift that others are giving to me...but more importantly a gift I am giving to myself.

The Dead Dads Club

2007-01-19T00:06:00.000-05:00

George’s dad died on Grey’s Anatomy tonight. And Christina goes out to comfort him.

CHRISTINA: There’s a club. The dead dads club. And you’re not in it until you’re in it. You can try to understand, to sympathize, but until you feel that loss...my dad died when I was nine. George, I’m really sorry you had to join the club.

GEORGE: I don’t know how to exist in a world where my dad doesn’t.

CHRISTINA: Yeah, that never really changes.

My dad died when I was 11. Three weeks before my 12th birthday. 26 years ago today. Well, yesterday now -- January 18, 1981. In a fire. At a quarter past three in the morning. Actually, I don’t know the exact time, but that’s the time I wake up every year, and that’s the time all the smoke detectors went off in my house last year -- on the 25th anniversary of his death.

As my brother said to me in an email today, “no smoke detectors is ALWAYS a good thing.”

It has been 26 years. I am 37 years old. He has been dead for more than double the years that I knew him. And I still have days, like today...or yesterday...in which I don’t know how to exist in a world where my dad doesn’t. Christina was right. That never really changes.

The Stripper Boob Conundrum

2007-01-09T15:30:00.000-05:00

I HAVE STRIPPER BOOBS! No joke. They’re huge. Okay, well maybe not huge. Some would say well-proportioned to the rest of my body. Which is sort of saying I should lose some more weight. Which I have been doing. Which is why the enhanced size of my breasts is a such a strange and startling development. And NO, for the fourteenth time, I am not pregnant! No. Seriously. Statistically impossible. Two female komodo dragons may have figured out how to do it, but I have not.

It all began a couple of months ago, when I noticed that every bra I owned was straining to contain my breasts. Smaller breasted women everywhere would jump for joy over this phenomenon. (Actually, they would soon learn not to jump for joy too much, but that’s a learning curve I’ll leave to them.) Mostly, I was mystified. Initially, I thought it was a pre-menstrual thing and that they would retreat to their usual size within a week. But two cycles later there has been no retreat.

And so, thinking the bigger boobs were here to stay, last week I ventured out to Secrets from My Sister on Bloor to go bra shopping. (Okay, I’ll admit it. I didn’t just want new bras. I could have gone to The Bay for that. I wanted sexy bras.) I placed myself in the hands of a lovely sales woman who took my measurements and brought me a 36DD to try on. 36DD!! I stood there in utter disbelief. I suggested that she had brought me the wrong size. I’m a 38C. I’ve been a 38C for years. But she assured me in very calming tones to counter the alarmingly high-pitched squeak of my own voice that the size was correct. She then proceeded to prove her point by showing me how to determine that it was, in fact, the correct size for me.

Now, I will admit that I have never had an official bra fitting, BUT, there is no way that I could have been so very wrong about my bra size all of these years. How could this be? How could this possibly be? Truthfully, it remains a mystery. All I know is that several hundred dollars later I have three new sexy bras to support my new stripper boobage.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not exactly complaining about having larger breasts...though I do think they were just fine the size they were before. A friend of smaller boobage said that if she had breasts this size she would play with them all the time. I happen to prefer smaller breasts, but to each her own I suppose.

Another friend recounted the story of Pamela Anderson, who, known for her extreme boobage, had her breast implants removed a few years ago thinking that they would have no bearing on her public image. After much hue and cry from men everywhere, and a significant drop in her earning capital in Hollywood, she discovered that her breasts “have a career of their own and I’m just tagging along.” I don’t pretend to be Pamela Anderson, but it does beg an interesting question or two: will people notice, and if people notice, how will it impact how they perceive me? Will they still respect me for my mind? Or will all of the focus shift a little further south?

I think the more important question, however, is how this new development will impact how I perceive myself. Right now, I’m feeling pretty sexy. But that could just be the bra.

Mainlining High-Speed Beneath My Parents Desk

2006-12-25T01:01:00.000-05:00

Okay, it’s official. I am addicted to the Internet. It is the wee hours between Christmas eve and Christmas day. Everyone else is in bed. The house is quiet. And I have surreptitiously sneaked out of my room at my parents house to tap into their Internet connection so that I can check my email. It feels completely illicit. Like sneaking a smoke, or a swig of the good scotch from the well-stocked liquor cabinet, or a quick peak at the porn channel. On the naughty or nice scale…I’m thinking naughty. Good thing Santa’s already crammed my stocking full of goodies. Otherwise I think I’d be finding a big lump of coal in the morning!

Should I even begin to evaluate the fact that my brother and I both brought our laptops for a 24 hour visit to the parentals? I’m thinking not. Because come New Year’s day I’d then have to search for two 12-step programs -- one for my unnatural attachment to my laptop, and one for my out-of-control, dismantle my parents office to find the Ethernet cable, willing to roam the grounds of a gated community in my pyjamas to find a wifi hotspot, addiction to email and the world-wide web as a whole. My brother has Bluetooth. He’s one 12-step program ahead of me…

I’m hoping the mountain of gifts that sit piled beneath the tree in the living room will sufficiently distract me from my compulsion tomorrow. Else I’ll be conducting a daylight heist of the Ethernet cable to get another fix. Much more dangerous…oh, but what an adrenalin rush! Kind of like coming in past my curfew and trying to sneak up a set of creaky old stairs without waking a light sleeping parent. I’m giddy just thinking about my next high-speed hit…even as I still sit connected, hiding beneath the desk.

I really need help. Anybody know the number of the local chapter of Internet Addicts Anonymous?

Hand Me Broken Eggs and I’m Going to Make Eggnog

2006-12-20T17:00:00.000-05:00

I tend to be haunted by the ghosts of Christmas past.

There was the year my brother and I -- four and eight at the time -- sat and ate Christmas dinner alone at the long mahogany dining room table at my grandfather's farm because my father and grandfather, having consumed a bottle of Johnny Walker Red between them had passed out upstairs, and my mother, distraught by the behaviour of the two men in her life and the disintigration of her marriage, had taken to her bed.

There was the year my brother and I had food thrown at us from across the room as we sat at the kitchen counter at my uncle's chalet because there wasn't enough room at the dining room table -- what with my grandfather's mistress, her lecherous husband, her children and grandchildren all in attendance. To be fair, my uncle was trying to hit the sink, which was behind us, but he wasn't a very good shot.

There was the year my uncle's third ex-wife, who came with her third ex-husband, spent most of the night with her hand in my brother's lap making not so subtle passes at him. And my grandfather passed out in his plate of turkey and mashed potatoes after a heinously offensive drunken tirade. No, wait. The drunken tirade took place at Easter. Never mind.

And then there was last year when a parent who shall remain nameless took to her bed for most of the day because she "wasn’t feeling well." Well, who's going to feel well after drinking a bottle of white wine with a vodka chaser?

This year, however, I'm determined not to let past events overshadow the joy of the season. Hand me broken eggs and I’m going to make eggnog. That's my new mantra for the holidays.

If certain family members are rude, crude and obnoxious, I'm going to respond with grace and style. If I'm tasked with cooking Christmas dinner again, I'm going to do it with a creative flair. And if others decide to pass out in their food at the dinner table, or take to their beds, or whine about how awful these events always are (which, until yesterday included me), I'm going to simply take a breath and smile and carry on with my own merriment.

My brother has been telling me for weeks now that this season is what we make of it. That it doesn't have to focus on just one or two days. That we have every opportunity to create our own traditions while still meeting our familial obligations. And he is right. So, on Monday night he and I began a new tradition of attending the Christmas carol service at St. James Cathedral, and on Boxing Day I'm going to host what I intend to be an annual dinner for my friends -- the family that I choose.

Hand me broken eggs and I'm going to make eggnog. I won't even spike it.

Cheating on My Barista

2006-11-30T13:20:00.000-05:00

I’m cheating on my Barista. What can I say? When it comes to coffee I like playing the field. I’ve got three on the go and one on the side. Of course, I don’t tell them about the others. It might make them jealous. And who wants to be in the middle of a Barista fight?

Timothy’s is my main bean. Convenient, comfortable and always there for me.

I see Starbucks on my sinful days. The days when the ordinary just won’t do; when I’m seeking to indulge, to spice things up with that extra little jolt only a Tall Mild with a dash of cinnamon can give me.

Second Cup and I have an on again, off again kind of a thing. And she knows it, as I was reminded today. "I haven’t seen you in so long. Where have you been? Welcome back." She’s so darn nice about it. It’s the genuine niceness -- the attentiveness and soft touch -- that keeps me going back.

And then there’s Van Houtte. My bit on the side. No frills. A bit of self-serve. And I’m in and out in a flash.

Maybe I just haven’t found the right one for me yet. A bean to fall in love with. Perhaps I never will. But if I do, I promise to be monogamous and loyal to the core. I'm a simple girl. Is a Barista with a bean that fulfills my every java need too much too much to ask for?

Railing Against Injustice...Again

2006-11-29T15:01:00.000-05:00

I am so angry I want to sue. I seethe and I curse and I rail against the injustice, but to no avail. Nothing, it seems, will satiate my fury. It was such a long time ago. It seems completely irrational to maintain an iron fisted grip upon it. Yet I cannot seem to let it go. And so I bottle and I squish and I experience phantom tingling where a case of shingles some ten years ago damaged the nerve endings in my face and ear.

“What would happen if you let it out?” someone asked me earlier this week. I likened it to falling. To standing on the precipice of a cliff, and then falling. Free falling into a lightless cavern of infinite depth. “What about a net?” she asked. And so I conjured a net that could arrest my fall, and then a ladder up which I could climb. And then I stopped playing the game because it didn’t help. For if I allow myself to fall and be caught and climb up the ladder, I am not yet ready to see what awaits me when I resurface. I am not yet ready to forgive.

Swiss-born psychiatrist Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross developed a model for people confronted with catastrophic personal loss -- a framework that breaks grief down into five discrete stages: 1) Denial, 2) Anger, 3) Bartering, 4) Depression, 5) Acceptance. She initially suggested that most people experience each of these stages in sequence. However, she later revised her theory to counter that these steps do not necessarily come in order, nor are they all experienced by all patients, but that a person will always experience at least two.

This experience of which I speak here is not about the loss of a loved one, though I have experienced that too. It is a different sort of loss, but in some ways I believe the theory applies. And so, if I were to apply Kubler-Ross’ theory to the railing injustice of which I speak, it would look like this:

1) Denial: I have never denied the experience. Others have. I have not. I have been very clear about the injustice from the beginning. Though I have, in various ways, isolated myself in response to it.

2) Anger: Self-evident and ongoing. If I am experiencing the stages in sequence, this is where I am stuck. Standing on the precipice, unwilling to go budge.

3) Bartering: I have no intention of bartering with God or anyone else to make this better. Deal or no deal? No deal. But maybe that’s just the anger talking.

4) Depression: Depression just isn’t really my thing. Not in the clinical sense anyway. I’ve never thought of not carrying on, of not continuing to slog through the muck until I reach more solid ground. Oh, I get tired of it sometimes, but I continue to push forward just the same. Of course, there are days when I do ask in a rather pitying tone "why me?". Maybe I'm just in denial about my depression. Crap. Back to stage one.

5) Acceptance: Clearly a stage I will reach eventually. Just not yet. For to accept is to forgive and I’m not ready to let those responsible off the hook just yet.

In truth, I think the only attainable form of acceptance I can reach for now is to forgive myself for not being more magnanimous and charitable. For the others I have but one response. Sue the bastards.

The Subtext of Silence

2006-11-23T13:30:00.000-05:00

Harold Pinter once said: "I think that we communicate only too well, in our silence, in what is unsaid, and that what takes place is continual evasion, desperate rearguard attempts to keep ourselves to ourselves. Communication is too alarming. To enter into someone else’s life is too frightening. To disclose to others the poverty within us it too fearsome a possibility."

I have long been fascinated by the subtext of what goes unsaid as people communicate with one another. My friend Gillian calls me the Queen of the Subtext. And she is right. Initially, it was a survival mechanism in a childhood Alice in Wonderland world where no one ever said what they meant or meant what they said, and too fearsome subjects continually pushed the boundaries of an ever expanding silence.

I have since elevated subtext to an art form. Ever diplomatic in most of my communication with others, ever seeking to avoid confrontation, I often select my words as a surgeon would a scalpel, carving my meaning with such delicacy so as not to leave a scar. Conversely, when others speak I listen, not just to what they say, but to the spaces in between.

In my playwriting I am continually exploring the subtext that skims beneath the surface of the words my characters speak. And I am continually playing with rhythm and pauses and beats to emphasize the truth of the unsaid.

In silence lies the truth. There is no subtext in that.

A Life Left Undone

2006-11-22T11:38:00.000-05:00

Davies: If only I could get down to Sidcup! I’ve
been waiting for the weather to break.
He’s got my papers, this man I left them with,
it’s got it all down there, I could prove
everything.
Aston: How long’s he had them then?
Davies: What?
Aston: How long’s he had them then?
Davies: Oh, must be…it was in the war…must be…
about near on fifteen years ago.

++++++++++

Aston: You said you wanted me to get you up.
Davies: What for?
Aston: You said you were thinking of going to Sidcup.
Davies: Ay, that’d be a good thing, if I got there.
Aston: Doesn’t look much of a day.
Davies: Ay, well, that’s shot it, en’t it?

++++++++++

Davies: You haven’t come across that pair of shoes you
was going to look out for me for, have you?
Aston: Oh. No. I’ll see if I can pick some up today.
Davies: I can’t go out with these, can I? I can’t even go out
and get a cup of tea.

++++++++++

Aston: Pair of shoes.
Davies: What?
Aston: I picked them up. They might do you.
Davies: Shoes. What sort?
Aston: They might do you.
Davies: No, they’re not right.
Aston: Aren’t they?
Davies: No, they don’t fit.
Pause
Davies: Well, I’ll tell you what, they might do…
until I can get another pair…Maybe they’ll
get me down to Sidcup tomorrow. If I get down
there I’ll be able to sort myself out.

This is just one of the themes I’ve been chewing on since I saw Harold Pinter’s The Caretaker at Soulpepper Theatre on Monday night. It is a familiar refrain for so many of us stumbling our way through each day, trying to solidify our identities and our places in the world. The manufactured obstacles we throw up for ourselves to avoid getting on with our lives, and the inherent lack of self-discipline that inhibits us from achieving the lofty, or even not so lofty goals we set for ourselves.

I have a goal of getting up in the morning to go to the gym. But each day my alarm goes off, I find yet another obstacle that keeps me in my bed.

I have a goal of writing more plays -- or more specifically, of finishing them. But somehow, each time I set aside time to write, something always distracts me from my task, and if I do manage to sit down and words find their way to the page, I cannot seem to find my way to the end of the story, and so abandon my effort..."just for a time", I say, "while I process my thoughts."

Perhaps if I can get down to Sidcup, I will be able to sort myself out. To get to the gym. To finish a play. To get on with the life that I dream for myself. To defy the myth of the impossible journey and the self-deception that propels us through our days.

Throw the Bums Out

2006-11-21T13:41:00.000-05:00

I'm about to make myself a lightning rod for partisan comments from those who lean right, but I'm about at the end of my rope.

"Canada's New Government" is driving me crazy! First, they want to penalize me for being gay by repealing same-sex marriage legislation -– without using the notwithstanding clause. (Heh, go ahead and try you buggers.) Now, they want to penalize me again because I’m single by introducing income splitting, which would allow couples to reduce what they pay in taxes by averaging out their income.

Abroad, they talk sternly to Vietnam and China about human rights and freedom of the press, but petulantly refuse to communicate with Canadian journalists because they aren’t asking questions the government has approved or wants to hear.

At home, they speak of transparency and accountability, but won’t tell anyone what they’re doing, and want to ram through some loophole in their Accountability Act bill to get them out of the pickle they’re in with Elections Canada regarding party convention fees being counted as political contributions.

If that's not enough, I read an article yesterday co-authored by former Reform leader Preston Manning, and the illustrious former Ontario Premier Mike Harris suggesting that our right-wing conservative government is not right-wing enough.

I recognize that none of our political parties is beyond reproach. But I firmly believe that this Harper-led conservative experiment has run its course. It’s time for the AdScam scandal-tainted Liberals to select a new leader and wrest control from the bumbling buffoons that are currently running our country. Throw the bums out, I say. Throw the bums out!

Raising the Family Flag

2006-11-19T14:04:00.000-05:00

My grandmother was a woman full of contradictions. She believed that children were to be seen but not heard; that we must respect our elders (whether they deserved it or not); that we must always use a fork and a spoon for dessert because it was a sign of good manners; and that embarrassing issues such as alcoholism or the lecherous family friend with a penchant for fondling little girls were simply not to be discussed.

However, when it came to sex, my grandmother was conveniently able to free herself of her corseted Victorian sensibilities to wax poetic about her affairs with men not my grandfather. I learned more about sex from my grandmother at Easter dinner than from my sex ed classes at school.

I was reminded of this last night when my brother told the tale of driving my 85+ year old grandmother and step-grandfather up to the cottage for Thanksgiving. Somehow the conversation veered to the affair that her first husband -– our grandfather -- had had some 30 years before…the one that ultimately was the last straw in their tempestuous, unhappy marriage. In the most graphic detail, she told my brother of having to sit in the witness stand during the divorce proceedings and describe the horror of walking in on her husband with her friend. Of finding him “at full mast”, “at full mast!” she repeated…as her second husband sat deafly oblivious in the back seat and my brother did everything he could not to run the car off the road from the shock of being forced to visualize our grandfather AT FULL MAST.

Our family swept a lot of secrets under the rug. But sex? Sex was hoisted to full mast for all the world to see.

One Missing Eyebrow...Who Can I Blame?

2006-11-08T11:15:00.000-05:00

I shaved my left eyebrow off this morning. Well, not all of it. But part of it. I REALLY REALLY know better than to operate electric gadgets first thing in the morning. They are dangerous tools in my hands under any circumstances. But near my face? Before coffee? Disaster!

My multi-purpose shaver has an eyebrow attachment with multiple settings. But in my morning fog, I didn’t feel one setting was achieving the desired effect I was seeking. So, I cranked it up a notch. And then I took the safety guard off entirely. And voila! I lost a chunk of eyebrow.

I have never shaved my eyebrows before, and I can tell you THAT was NOT the look I was going for. I was attempting to trim, to shape, to contour an area of my face I generally neglect because I hate to pluck. After today, I’m going to LOVE plucking.

I considered changing the part in my hair from left to right to obscure my faux pas, but my hair, like me, does not react well to change.

I considered shaving the whole brow off and telling people that I did it to raise money for the United Way. It's that time of year, after all. But I couldn’t figure out how much it was worth to me to do that to myself, even for a charitable cause...which would be a lie anyway. I would, of course, have donated whatever amount I came up with -- does $100 seem reasonable? -- to assuage the guilt of my lie.

I even thought of blaming it on one of my nieces; suggesting it was some harmless horseplay gone horribly wrong. But anyone who knows me knows that really, apart from the cottage in summer I only see my nieces at holiday time, so I knew that lame excuse would not fly.

In the end, I decided to simply tell the truth to anyone with the guts to ask. My cats have learned to use power tools.

Halloween Funny...

2006-10-31T14:05:00.000-05:00

A little Halloween humour from my co-workers out east. I love the maritimes :)

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

A bald man with a wooden leg gets invited to a Halloween party. He doesn't know what costume to wear to hide his head and his leg so he writes to a costume company to explain his problem.

A few days later he received a parcel with the following note:

Dear Sir,

Please find enclosed a pirate's outfit. The spotted handkerchief will cover your bald head and, with your wooden leg, you will be just right as a pirate.

Very truly yours,
Acme Costume Co.

The man thinks this is terrible because they have just emphasized his wooden leg and so he writes a letter of complaint. A week goes by and he receives another parcel and a note, which says:

Dear Sir,

Please find enclosed a monk's habit. The long robe will cover your wooden leg and, with your bald head, you will really look the part.

Very truly yours,
Acme Costume Co.

Now the man is really upset since they have gone from emphasizing his wooden leg to emphasizing his bald head so again he writes the company another nasty letter of complaint. The next week he gets a small parcel and a note, which reads:

Dear Sir,

Please find the enclosed bottle of molasses. Pour the molasses over your bald head, stick your wooden leg up your ass and go as a caramel apple.

Very truly yours,
Acme Costume Co.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Ending Black Thumb's Reign of Terror

2006-10-18T16:04:00.000-04:00

I love Dwayne. I haven't met him yet, but I love him anyway. He's my mother's landscaping dude and he's agreed to rescue the eyesore (my tenant's term) that is my front garden.

To say that I am horticulturally challenged would be an understatement of rather gargantuan proportions. I am known among close friends, former roommates, and people for whom I have housesat as...Black Thumb. If it is green and contains chlorophyll I can kill it. I don't even have to touch it. I only need look in its general leafy direction and it withers. Since I moved into my house nearly a year an a half ago, I have managed to kill four plants. Even the plant my friend's mother bravely gave me as a house warming gift, with a tag that read "almost unkillable", is dying a slow and painful death in my care. Rest assured, if ever you hear your plants whispering of a phantom menace that is systematically murdering their friends -- an assassin known only as Black Thumb -- they are speaking of me.

Recognizing my involuntary penchant for horticultural devastation, I tend to become paralyzed to the point of inaction when it comes to gardening. I am of the firm belief that if I do nothing my garden has a better chance of survival. Regrettably, over this past summer, my theory of benign neglect fostered both frustration and resentment in those who live within eyesight of my front yard.

I should have taken more heed, when, home one weekday in late June, I caught my next door neighbour surreptitiously trimming back the raggedy bushes along the front of my yard. Oh, she was very polite when I went out to speak with her about it, saying I must be very busy with work, and she was trimming the hedges in her garden anyway...but I knew she was seething inside. I could see it in her eyes. And then there was my downstairs tenant, normally a very quiet, unassuming individual who tends to keep her opinions to herself. But on the topic of the front garden she could not refrain. Repeatedly over the course of the summer she would ask me what EXACTLY I had planned for the front yard, and WHEN was I going to be doing something about it because she was TIRED of looking at such an EYESORE every time she left her apartment. I made blithering noises about digging things up, and spouted a few nonsensical phrases that I picked up from Curb Appeal or some other terrible HGTV gardening show that I had watched just to torture myself. But still I did nothing.

It should have come as no surprise to me then that one of these ordinarily genial and polite people, when pushed to the brink, would feel forced to take it upon herself to act.

As summer stretched into fall, my front garden continued to deteriorate. Not that it bothered me. I barely had time to look at it, what with my godparents visiting and the Toronto International Film Festival and my vacation abroad. And so, on the Thanksgiving weekend, I thought nothing of leaving for my parents' cottage without a whisper of concern for my garden.

As I said, I should have taken more heed. I should have been more attentive to the underlying tension that had been building around me, for when I returned on Thanksgiving Monday, I found that someone had taken machete or scythe (okay, maybe just pruning shears) and eviscerated the bushes in my front yard, leaving only stubby stalks, scraggly patches of dead grass, and a swath of parched dirt.

I hang my head in shame that it had to come to this -- that my inaction resulted in the untimely death of so many leaves, the remnants of which remain in a bag, as a taunting reminder, on my front porch.

I have high hopes for Dwayne. I am looking to him with besotted eyes to design a garden that will somehow be immune to my plant killing ways, and that by doing so, he will restore peace in my neighbourhood, and end the unspeakable violence my Black Thumb has wrought.

Recalibrating My Compass

2006-10-16T23:40:00.000-04:00

I am not writing. Okay, perhaps I need to qualify that since I write for a living and not writing AT ALL lo these past months would have resulted in me, and a small box of personal belongings, exiting with or without escort from a tall black tower of a building within which there is a job that I actually quite enjoy. So, let me rephrase. I am not writing creatively. Not here on my blog. Not on either one of the two plays I have now left to languish in limbo for months. Not even at work, though fortunately that’s not a requirement most days. Oh, I could come up with a dozen perfectly rational explanations for why I haven't been writing, but they all sound like pathetic, unconvincing excuses, even to me. It seems, for reasons I have yet to fully comprehend, I’ve lost my creative mojo.

For years creativity was my compass, my driver in life -- a function of being driven almost exclusively by my heart versus my head. Over time, partly by desire and partly by necessity, I have learned to bring more balance to head and heart. But in following that path I fear I may have overcompensated. And so, in recent days, I have been listening to my gut again, which has always been my best and truest guide. I do not always understand it. In fact, at times it can cause me considerable consternation. But it has never steered me wrong. And as my source of inspiration, I am hopeful that with a shift that places my heart back at the helm my creative mojo may soon return.

Two paragraphs. Not very creative. But not a bad start.

Bee, Meet Bonnet

2006-08-23T10:56:00.000-04:00

I have a bee in my bonnet, as my brother would say. It is an idiomatic expression more appropriate for my grandmother’s generation, but I embrace it as fitting in my case.

I had a bee in my bonnet last week over the injustice of the Delawana Inn (resort in Honey Harbour) allowing cottagers to pamper themselves at their spa facilities, or eat at the waterfront café, but refusing us entry to drink at their bar on the basis that...well...we are cottagers. It’s not a great bar, and I don’t have a driven desire to spend every Saturday night there, but every once in awhile, when we are entertaining guests, it would be nice to have somewhere in the Harbour to go for a drink. We used to be welcome in the bar, and so, I did not know that the resort had changed its policy until my cousins went two Saturdays ago and were refused entry. My feeling is that if they are going to take our money at the spa and the restaurant, they bloody well better take our money at the bar too. That is the argument I am going to make to the General Manager when I am in Honey Harbour next. I am a frequent visitor of the spa, but on principle alone, if the resort does not change its policy, I will not give one more cent to the Delawana Inn. Bee, meet Bonnet.

This morning, the issue was photographic copyright. I went into Black’s Photography to have more than two dozen family photos that my cousins wanted copies of scanned onto disk. Which was fine. No problem. "How many copies would you like?" was the response. I then presented three photos, two of my father, one of my mother, taken over 30 years ago. I wanted them enlarged to an 8" x 10" size so that I could frame them and hang them on my wall. However, because they were deemed by the nature of the photograph to have been commissioned by a professional photographer, they refused my request on the basis of copyright infringement.

Don’t get me wrong. I am all for copyright laws. I believe in an artist’s right to own, manage and profit from the blood, sweat and tears that go into creating that which s/he bestows on a humble public to hang on our walls, listen to on the radio, read on a rainy day, or sit in uncomfortable seats to watch. I’m all for the protection copyright laws afford to artists all over the world.

BUT...when a photograph is taken over 30 years ago, there is no stamp on the back of it to indicate the origin of the photograph or the identity of the photographer, and the subject of the photograph is long since dead, severing any tenuous connection that may have existed between subject and photographer, is it really reasonable, as Black’s Photography suggested, for me to seek permission from the photographer so that I may enlarge one of the few photos I have left of my father? Is there room for the reasonableness of obtaining permission from the artist in the copyright debate?

It’s not pretty when I have a bee in my bonnet...as the Black’s representative discovered this morning. He received a stinging rebuke as I railed against the ridiculousness of his offer to provide me with a permission form to submit to a photographer that I have no hope in hell of finding.

Bee in my bonnet. A most fitting idiom indeed.

Is It Over Yet?

2006-07-10T00:08:00.000-04:00

As the revellers continue to honk their horns and wave their flags and shout late into the night, I find myself asking with a weary bah humbug tone…“is it over yet?” By IT, I am of course referring to the World Cup. I am tremendously happy that there are so many enthusiastic fans in the city. I just don’t happen to be one of them. Though, given the neighbourhood I live in, I may have to find a way of adopting their passion and hullabaloo four years from now if I have any hope of surviving.

I knew, for example, the exact moment time ran out and Italy claimed victory against France this afternoon. The drone of the Indy engines rumbling in the distance, which I had acknowledged, but was able to absorb into my afternoon solitude on the couch in my living room, was abruptly, shatteringly overwhelmed by a cacophony of sound roaring through my closed windows from Davenport Road. I live in Little Portugal, but the line between here and Little Italy seems to blur during the World Cup.

I’ve never understood the attraction of soccer (football if you’d prefer), or basketball or hockey for that matter. The latter being so very unpatriotic of me. Baseball, football (North American style), tennis and golf. Those are the sports that I know, have played on occasion, have sat in a stadium to cheer, and will watch on TV on a lazy Sunday afternoon. These are the sports I absorbed as a child -- they are my step-father’s sports. My father was not an organized sports fan. Hunting and fishing were more his thing. He made valiant attempts at feigning interest in sports, buying me my first baseball glove (which I still have, a smoky odour still locked, ever so faintly now, within the pores of the leather), and playing catch in the park behind the townhouse complex he lived…and died in.

When I was very young, I begged my father to take me hunting. It is now a sport I find utterly abhorrent. But as a young girl, I couldn’t think of anything more joyous than waking before dawn, dressing in a child-size version of his camouflage attire, driving whatever distance to a field or marsh, and walking quietly behind him as he tracked his feathered prey. Instead, I would lie tearfully in my bed, listening as he would slip out the door without me.

While hunting was off limits, fishing was not. I can bait a hook like nobody’s business, though I do not fish anymore. Somehow I can kill a worm to put on a hook, but I cannot bring myself to kill the fish it entices.

The sports of my father are lost to me now, yet the sports of my step-father remain. I remember watching them as a child and young adult, partly as a way of bonding with my step-father, and partly because I did not have control of the remote. My motives for engaging, in attempting to understand, and even appreciate these sports aside, I continue to follow teams and players of the step-father nurtured sports with a similar level of interest.

Perhaps what I need to fully appreciate the favourite sport of my neighbourhood is someone passionate about soccer to hog my television remote so that I can find peace within the exuberance of my soccer-loving neighbours. Or maybe I should make my way to the local sports bar and drink copious amounts of beer...a more realistic scenario given that I have no intention of relinquishing control of my remote for another wretched sport. BAH HUMBUG!

My Summer in a Tent

2006-07-07T16:20:00.000-04:00

In reminiscing about my cottage youth, I am reminded of my summer in a tent. I was 20 and working as a waitress at the Delawana Inn, a summer resort in the picturesque cottage region of Honey Harbour. For reasons that seem self-evident, the resort was affectionately known by staff and cottagers alike as the “Doyawanna Inn”, Honey Harbour as “Horny Harbour”. Highway 69 was how you got there. Made legendary through stories told from one generation to the next by locals and cottagers alike, it was a bastion of summer love and experimentation, and a Mecca for teenagers wanting to escape the city, and their parents.

My family’s history in Honey Harbour is as long as the history of the Delawana Inn, originally known as Victoria House, built and operated by one Nathan Nickerson (no relation) in the early 1920s. Three Delawana structures have burned to the ground and been resurrected, the Royal Hotel, built on the island adjacent to the Del, constructed, operated, abandoned and razed, in the time my family has been there.

My grandmother’s family owned the first cottage on Breakfast Island, south of the Delawana Inn. The cottage was ordered from the Eaton’s catalogue, arriving prefabricated and ready for assembly on a barge from Midland. As there was no road to Honey Harbour at the time, everything arrived by boat from Midland. The ferry would come in several times a week carrying passengers, groceries and mail. My grandmother would tell the most wonderful stories of rowing from their cottage to the Royal Hotel docks, waiting with giddy anticipation for the arrival of the Midland City.

Courtesy of the Maritime History of the Great Lakes

Indicative of a happenstance that afflicts all families from time to time, following the death of my great-grandfather there was a falling out over the Breakfast Island cottage. My grandmother was married by this time, and so she and my grandfather set off to purchase a cottage of their own, a creosote-stained muskoka-style cottage with a gingerbread awning in Big Dog channel, directly across from the Delawana Inn. In big bold letters, written in silver metallic paint, my grandparents christened their little piece of heaven on Robert’s Island, Jackson’s Folly.

It remained the family cottage from the time my mother was nine, until the time I was 12. It was the cottage I knew best, and the one I loved most. In the intervening years, however, my grandparents divorced -- not so amicably -- and my grandfather, citing reasons of estate planning, deeded Jackson’s Folly to his only son (a folly indeed)...from which there ensued another falling out. My mother and my step-father left the family cottage for one of their own on Deer Island. My grandfather, feeling unwelcome, wandered off to buy High Rock in Cousineau Bay, and my grandmother, returning to Honey Harbour following a lengthy absence, purchased a cottage of her own on Mermaid Island…leaving the family scattered throughout Honey Harbour, and my uncle with Jackson’s Folly all to himself.

Four family cottages…and I found myself in a tent.

Unwelcome to stay at the cottage on Deer Island with my mother and step-father for reasons I cannot recall (a falling out of some sort), unwanted by my playboy uncle, and unwilling to stay with my grandfather, I negotiated a deal with my grandmother so that I would not have to live in the less than savoury quarters that the Delawana rented to its staff. She did not want me taking up residence in one of the guest bedrooms in case she had guests, but she was happy to let me live on her property.

Enter the tent. It was a mustard yellow canvas behemoth (by tent standards), purchased second hand at an army surplus store. It smelled of wet dog and 12 men who were not fond of showering, and it became my home sweet home. My step-grandfather lovingly helped me to construct a platform from scrap two by fours and pressed plywood, upon which the tent would rest. He carefully designed, sketched, measured and sawed; I hammered in the nails. Inside, I created an improvised luxury suite -- two thick double-bed size foam mattresses served as my bed; shelving built from more scrap material housed my clothing and my books; a donated plastic table and chair, situated under the awning outside the door, served as my dining room; an orange extension cord, plugged into an exterior outlet at the cottage brought me power for lighting and sound. For cooking and showering (so that I would not perpetuate the odour of wet dog and 12 unwashed men), I had full access to the main cottage. It was a peaceful respite, 15 feet from the cottage, and it was all my own. I revelled in my feeling of independence, my sense of space for 12 whole days.

And then it rained. And it rained. And it rained some more.

Canvas does not wick the way the newer, synthetic tents do. And the tent did not come with a rain fly…which I learned in hindsight was a crucial element for sustained dryness. A seeming 40 days of rain, and my ark was sinking. In a desperate fit of improvisation, my step-grandfather and I rigged up a nifty make-shift fly from a blue plastic tarpaulin, which seemed to stem the flow of water seeping into the tent. I left for work with a feeling of relative comfort that I would not return to a flood. Several hours later, run off my feet by frazzled parents, cranky children and a bastard chef, I returned to my home sweet home, looking forward to flopping into my cozy foam bed with a Bonnie Raitt tape playing in my ghetto blaster and a good Sydney Sheldon book in my hands. As I ventured around to the back of the cottage in the dark, tired and wet, with flashlight in hand, my heart sank as I surveyed the scene before me. My yellow canvas tent, still smelling of wet dog and 12 unwashed men, with its blue tarpaulin fly, lay crushed beneath a deluge of water. A rain fly is crucial for synthetic tents…but a very BAD idea for those made of canvas.

A mop of tears and crushed dreams, I rescued what I could and took refuge in my grandmother’s guest bedroom for the night. The following day, as the trees still glistened and the sun shone brightly, my step-grandfather and I retrieved my clothes and books, rolled up the mattresses, packed up the bedding and dismantled the tent. With poles bent beyond repair, there would be no resurrection of my own little bastion of exploration. It was off to the Delawana dormitories for me.

When I mention that time to my mother, she cringes at the memory. But I will always remember fondly my summer in a tent.

Lessons Not Well Learned

2006-07-06T13:18:00.000-04:00

Some lessons I only need to learn once. Others, it seems, take more time. Take, for instance, my long weekend at the cottage. My family has been cottaging in a region north of Toronto, on the southern tip of Georgian Bay, for nearly 100 years. My maternal great-grandfather, in search of a summer retreat, chose the area because it bore the same name as my great-grandmother. Ah love! Since that time, the family has owned, and still owns, several cottages in the area -- learning to share was not a lesson well learned in my family.

Almost every cottage is on an island or is on mainland that is inaccessible by car, so traveling by boat is the only way to get from point A to point B...or, more importantly, to get from cocktail party A to cocktail party B, C, D...well, you get the idea.

Weather has never been a deterrent for travel. If there is a party scheduled, we’ll climb into an open aluminium boat in hurricane-like conditions to get there. We just make sure that we’re wearing rubber soled shoes and have a cushion between our bottom and the metal seats so that we don’t light up like a Christmas tree if lightning strikes. (A bit of a fallacy on our part really, because if lightning does strike, rubber soles and protected bottoms or not, we'll light up like the tree at Rockefeller Center.)

It was with this kind of fortitude (or stupidity) that on a slightly rainy Saturday afternoon, three generations (in years past it has been four generations) of my family traveled by boat -- or more accurately, by two boats -- to attend a cocktail party that has been a signature long weekend event for more than 20 years. My parents and the grandchildren wisely elected to take the covered boat, while the rest of our motley crew got stuck with the big-ass Stanley -- an open barge of a boat meant more for hauling construction material than we dainty party-goers: my brother in his bright orange ankle length slicker that he had “borrowed” during one youthful summer as a parking attendant at the Ex and that made him look like a road pylon; my step-sister-in-law in a cottage-donated neon blue poncho purchased when neon blue poncho raincoats were all the rage (80s?); me in a sporty black, “rain resistant” (aka NOT waterproof) jacket; and my step-brother in his banana yellow waist length slicker that he chose to sit on rather than wear (priorities you know). We were a frightful sight when we arrived at our destination, but we were in good company.

During the early years, this annual island cocktail party was wild. Invitations were loosely issued, encouraging large numbers of cottagers and their guests to arrive. Penis pasta salad, skinny dips in the lake and midnight trysts in the sleeping cabin were de rigueur. Inspired by its reputation, exuberant guests came to include those not acquainted with the hosts -- wait staff from the local resort, boaters, hangers-on -- who would beg, borrow and steal a ride, often traveling from several kilometres away, to attend. It was not unheard of for revellers of all ages to be dancing up a storm on the unfinished plywood floored living room until the sun came up. I remember as a teenager kicking my heels up with my mother on one side and my grandmother on the other until the wee hours of the morning.

As the years passed, the festive tone of the celebration began to mellow. The hosts finished and furnished the cottage -- open studded walls were covered with drywall; plywood floors were covered with white carpet; rooms were filled with ornate period furniture. And cottagers began to age. The younger generation (my generation) got married and had children with bedtimes. The older generation (my parents), once wild and fearless, acquired a need to navigate home before dark. The eldest generation (my grandparents) who taught us all a thing or two about kicking up our heels, now partied in another realm.

And so it was that as dusk began to fall on Saturday night, and the party began to wind down, those of us without spouses, without children, lamenting the passing of that wilder time, resisted the urge to leave. There were only a handful of us, but a handful was all that we needed...or so we thought. Try as we might to recreate that time of our youth, our efforts somehow fell flat. Not to be confused with those who fell flat from drink, which happened in one case. Recognizing our failure, the remaining stragglers (my brother and a few friends included) took our leave -- after dark, but long before midnight -- out into what had become an ominous night.

The rain had stopped, but the wind had come up, which made getting our beached barge of a boat off the shore and into the shoal infested waters that surrounded the cottage something of a feat...particularly as my two passengers, fortified with a number of pomtini cocktails (I was the designated driver), had forgotten how to paddle. It was at this point we also came to realize that we had forgotten to bring a flashlight to aid us in finding the channel markers, and that a friend who was following us home did not have working running lights on her boat. More lessons not well learned, despite years of experience.

In the confusion of launching the boat, we noticed only the wind, and not the sky. But as we rounded the point, navigating our way atop the black water with a barely visible tree-line as our map, the foreboding weather made a startling appearance. It was not the first time I had navigated an aluminium boat home in a lightning storm -- as my friends so delightfully remind me on a periodic basis -- and I’m sure it will not be the last, but there is a disquiet that I feel, a creeping fear that surfaces each and every time I do it.

We watched in awe at the spectacular display appearing every few minutes above us. And with each bolt of electricity that coursed through the sky, lighting our way through the channel, we slowly made our way home -- a better torch than any spotlight or flashlight money could buy.

Soundly tucked into my assigned, child-sized bunk bed, with all friends safely returned to their respective cottages, and our aluminium boat securely fastened to our dock, I thought about the series of lessons not well learned in my lifetime, and I came to the realization that there are some lessons I may never learn. For far stronger than the fear of death is the exhilaration of successfully navigating the electrified, shoal-filled obstacles of life -- an addiction that will have me repeating the risk, in my own small rebellious way, time and time again.

The Acts of Seven Ages

2006-06-29T17:29:00.000-04:00

“All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts…”

Shakespeare -- through Jacques in “As You Like It” -- goes on to talk of “the acts of seven ages.” But within those acts, how many scenes, and how many roles within each scene do we play? How many entrances and exits do we have from the stage?

I feel as if I play so many roles in my life -- trying to be so many things to so many people, always trying to please -- that I wonder who it is I am sometimes. My mother always worried when I expressed my desire to become an actor that my intent was to lose myself in a character. Rather, my intent was to somehow, through the characters I sought to play, find myself…and where I fit in the world.

Child, sibling, caregiver, lover, friend, colleague, peer…protagonist, antagonist, villain, hero, ingénue…we inhabit all of these roles and more at one point or another in our lives. But it goes beyond that when we add the layers that influence how we construct those roles -- what in actor speak would be termed “back story”: religious upbringing; social and cultural constructs; family dynamics (or dysfunction); community mores; sexual preference; random events or other environmental factors that shade how we see and interact in the world.

At various periods in my life, I have found myself with my nose pressed up against the glass of the world I longed to inhabit; of peering in but never finding a key to unlock the door. I now inhabit that world, walk its stage, making my entrances and exits in the various roles that I play. It is a small world -- familiar and comfortable in many ways -- but confining. Only from the inside can I understand its limitations. And so, I once again find myself with my nose pressed up against a window pane, peering out to see what other worlds hold; what other roles I may play.

There is a world in which I fit. A role above all others that I am meant to play. And if it does not exist as yet, then I will create it for myself. I am a playwright afterall.

Little Brown Berry

2006-06-26T18:02:00.000-04:00

I love having a tan. Not the spray-on kind, or the lotion kind, but the good old fashioned spent time in the sun kind that until recently was adamantly discouraged by medical professionals everywhere.

I used to love it when my father would call me his “little brown berry” after a summer of swimming and sunning myself on the warm lichen-covered rocks at the family cottage on Georgian Bay. I knew nothing of ozone depletion or skin cancer or sun screen. I knew only of the painful first week burn that would soften to a golden brown and then deepen over time. My friends and I would compare our tan lines. As teenagers, we would slather ourselves in baby oil to achieve better results. And then the alarm bells began to sound from medical experts who had earlier decried the cancer causing effects of butter and bacon. “NO MORE SUN” they shouted. People fled indoors in fright. Rebels and risk-takers stood their ground, but not without their long sleeves, floppy hats, and SPF 45 or 50 or 75 for protection against those evil UVA and UVB rays the sun was emitting.

Imagine, then, my sheer and utter joy upon reading an article last week that had the medical experts reversing their position. Now they are saying that 10 to 20 minutes a day in the sun WITHOUT sunscreen is actually GOOD for us -- even necessary in attaining appropriate levels of vitamin D -- and that the benefits of this exposure outweigh the risks of skin cancer. Oh, what music to my ears! I did a little hoppy one-footed dance for joy.

And then I did what those who have been confined for far too long have a tendency to do -- I spent two hours out in the sun, at the height of the day, without sunscreen. My intentions were good. I had meant to stay out only 20 minutes, but then I got to talking and time passed and I turned red.

I do not diminish the risks of skin cancer. That reality hit very close to home recently. And I will continue to slather myself in SPF 30. But as my burn softens to a golden brown, I will no longer feel guilty for my tan. I will embrace it and love it as fully as I did when I was a child.

I Am My Own Obstacle

2006-06-22T00:35:00.000-04:00

I fell off my shoe. Not a curb or a step, just my wedgy-heeled sandal. In fact, there was not a single obstacle anywhere in the vicinity when I fell and sprained my ankle. I am my own obstacle. I take after my grandmother in this regard.

In her lifetime, I think my grandmother broke one toe or another no fewer than 25 times. Chairs. Tables. Rocks. You name an obstacle and her toes would find it. It was a special talent that took years to cultivate. Though if you asked my mother, she would say it is in the genes. And that it skips a generation.

I am now obsessed with tracking down the wedgy-heel designer…a man I’m sure…so that I can trip him. It seems fitting. I am plotting to become his obstacle. Of course, he’d probably sue me, and then tell me to learn how to walk. I mean, who falls of their shoe?

Blanche DuBois I am Not

2006-06-18T23:59:00.000-04:00

“…I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.” Maybe it’s a southern thing, though I think more than likely it’s a Blanche thing –- a fragile, fading southern belle, worn out from the cruel blows life has dealt her, depending on the kindness of strangers to fill her emptiness, and to lead her, in the end, away from her pain.

Following my fall the other day, that has me in a rather unsavory state of crutch dependent mobility, I did rely on the kindness of a stranger to help me hobble to my house. I have since found myself depending on the kindness of not-so-strangers -- my brother and friends -- for myriad levels of assistance. And I don’t like it. It’s not that I am not grateful for the help. I am –- eternally so. Rather, I loathe the helplessness of it all. Friends and family are there to help you when you need it most. It’s in their job description (a good thing to know if ever you are seeking to hire new friends or family). They do it willingly and without complaint. As I would do, and have done, when others have needed my help. And yet, I struggle. I struggle to ask for help, and I awkwardly receive it, insisting that if it’s any trouble, I’ll just figure something else out. I could be having a heart attack and still I would say, “Now I don’t want you going to any trouble. If it’s a problem to rush me to the hospital, just let me know. I’ll walk. It’s not that far.”

It’s ridiculous I know. But Blanche DuBois I am not.

It's All a Matter of Perspective

2006-06-17T23:30:00.000-04:00

As I sit here with my ankle encased in a high-tech fiberglass splint, unable to venture, well, anywhere, I feel that now is as good a time as any to begin that blog I’ve been contemplating. I could be all pissed and cranky about my immobility…all the plans I’m having to change, all of the chores from laundry to vacuuming to dashing across the street for a bag of potato chips (my comfort food) left undone. Or, I could look upon this twist of fate as a sign…a sign to slow down, to take stock, to rethink the too rapid pace at which my life has been traveling of late. It’s all a matter of perspective.

Perspective is a funny thing. For every shared moment of time, there is a perspective --- a separate and distinct point of view from which the truth takes shape. Take my fall in the intersection at the top of my street yesterday. At the point at which I fell, there was my perspective as victim, splayed with groceries akimbo; there was the Good Samaritan, who saw me fall and rushed to help; the shopkeeper whose store I had just exited; and each of the drivers who remained stopped, though the light had turned green, as the Good Samaritan helped me up, and supported me as I hobbled the short distance to my house. Every one of us who shared that experience went home with a perspective, a version of the truth of events that unfolded. No version wrong…simply incomplete.

The idea of perspective has been on my mind since my return from Arizona two weeks ago. I was in Sedona, or rather the Village of Oak Creek, just outside of Sedona, to join in the celebration of my godparents’ golden wedding anniversary. My godparents had been planning for this momentous occasion for more than a year. They had four days of events planned, the lawn was decorated, the pavilion constructed, the caterers hired, the cake decorated, not to mention invitations sent out to more than two hundred of their closest friends and family. We arrived on Thursday. As we neared my godparents’ house, we encountered a road block. There was a fire in the La Barranca subdivision not half a mile away. Explaining our destination, we were allowed to pass. We spent the evening with my godparents and a few of their “out of town” friends as a thick smoke filled the air, as tanker planes dropped flame retardant, and as helicopters with massive buckets dipped into nearby pools and golf course ponds in an attempt to control what had by then turned into a raging forest fire. At the end of the evening, as we headed to our rented casita, we could see the hill a short distance away aglow in the night. As we discovered the next day, the blaze began with a careless spark from a welder’s torch at the site of an unfinished home.

From those with whom I spoke emerged three distinct perspectives on the events that had transpired. My first thought was for my godparents who had worked so hard for the celebration at hand; concern that a slight shift in wind could result not only in their evacuation, but the loss of their dream home. My mother worried for those whose homes were destroyed. Though many were second homes or seasonal retreats, and though the firefighters fought valiantly to save all but five of the houses in the subdivision before the fire moved up into the canyon, my mother thought of those whose properties were destroyed. A third view came from someone from home to whom I had described the events in an email. Her sympathy was directed toward the welder who had started the fire, and the guilt he must be feeling for the destruction he had wrought.

As I said, it’s all a matter of perspective. There is your view, and my view, and together, we find the truth…or a version of it anyway.