My fight against literary progress ...

I have had a lifelong love affair with books. I was read to by my parents, as are most children; later, I sat at Miss Gilpin's feet during story time in my kindergarten class. Learning to read on my own was having a door open to endless adventures in limitless worlds. I read during every waking moment; if it included a printed word, I read it. Shampoo bottles while I was in the bath, cereal boxes during breakfast, signs in store windows on my way to school, billboards as my parents drove me around. The end of the school year meant a trip to the local library to load up with enough books to last the summer, although they never did. The time spent looking over the many shelves full of choices, finally making my decisions, watching my library card being stamped before carrying the armload of books to the car are memories I still hold dear. Not being able to wait to reach our destination, I would read in the car, much to my parents' chagrin. 'Put that book down! You'll ruin your eyes reading in the car! Look at the scenery instead!'

I still have a few of those books from my childhood, along with a lot of others I haven't been able to part with. The rest have been donated to schools, hospitals or given away to friends or family - a chance to entertain others after their work with me was done. I have thrown away 4 books in my lifetime. I pained me greatly at the time, but they had somehow become wet and developed mold, making it impossible to pass them along to anyone.

I still get a rush when I walk into a library or a bookstore. The possibilities that stretch out in all those rows of books is exciting! I can spend hours roaming the aisles of Chapter's, poring over the the laden shelves, switching my attention from fiction to autobiographies to cookbooks to travel to the classics to children's books ... well, most every subject available, frankly. Then, arms laden with my choices, I stand in line, much as I did years before as a child, waiting to get home and start reading.

A while back, I met a really special guy who is perfect in every way. We agree on everything. Wellllllll ... almost everything. This guy is green. He recycles, has e-subscriptions to all his periodicals, and is a huge proponent of reading books off his iPad.

Ewwwwww! Ick ick ick!!! Phooey! Blech and boooooooooooo!!!

To my mind, part of the pleasure I take out of reading is the feeling of holding the book, the tactile sensation of turning the pages, the auditory sensation of hearing the pages turn, the olfactory sensation of either that new book ink smell or that slightly musty old book smell. Nothing can replace the heft of a hardcover book and no tablet, while certainly able to replicate the sound of a turning page, will convince me that brushing my fingertip against a pane of cold glass is the same as the feel of a real page under that same fingertip.

So we have an ongoing dispute that comes up every so often, usually brought up when he whips out his iPad or when I dig into my carry on for a real book. We have accepted that neither person's opinion is likely to change, even though he still believes that I will buckle and convert. (Don't hold your breath, m'love!)

So, how do you prefer your written word? Old school or the new fangled way? Leave your comments below and hopefully, I will be able to prove to him that technology hasn't won over on this subject!

... and none for me either!

Bygones ...

I never thought that I would be giving this subject more than a passing thought, much less take the time to blog about it but frankly, I’m getting fed up. I really think that it’s time to get off the ‘Let’s bash Chris Brown’ wagon, people. Yes, he did a bad. He did a very very bad. In the three years since, he has displayed remorse and submitted himself to court ordered punishment. So when is enough enough? His recent win at the Grammys has been decried by both his peers and those outside the business. Having listened to the CD more than once (thanks to my daughter being an ardent CB fan), I personally think he was deserving of the award. Everyone is also up in arms at his having been allowed to perform twice during the Grammy show. Obviously, the show’s organizers believe it’s time he return. And if you watched his performance, it is hard to deny that the boy is talented.

Again, I am not condoning his actions. I believe any man who raises his hand to a woman is a coward and a real dick and should have the crap beaten out of him by any male friends or family of the female victim. But should Chris Brown be denied a career as a result of being stoopid in that moment? I don’t believe he should. If you do, perhaps a reminder of these following incidents will show how easy the public is to forgive some for the perpetrators' trespasses …

R Kelly starred in a sex tape with a 14 yr old, Since the 2002 incident, his career has continued and he has garnered several awards.

Sean Penn assaulted his then wife, Madonna. Today, he’s a respected actor, director, screenwriter and activist.

Roman Polanski drugged and raped a 13 year old, fled the US in 1978 before he was sentenced and has continued to sustain his career from afar, continuing to win awards for his work.

Sugar Ray Leonard beat his wife but was still recently chosen to appear on Dancing with the Stars.

Jerry Lee Lewis was 22 when he married his 13 year old cousin (although he insisted she was 15, because THAT made it better!) but went on to have a huge rock ‘n roll career, garnering several accolades.

Jimmy Page was 28 while having an affair with a 14 year old but sustained his fame as Led Zeppelin’s guitarist.

Tupak Shakur spent time behind bars for his part in a gang-rape but his estate continues to make money years after his death.

Michael Jackson, accused pedophile who avoided prosecution by paying off the families of his young victims, is still revered as the King of Pop.

Whitney Houston, known drug abuser, is being honoured worldwide since her death.

Eminem, accused of domestic abuse, sings about murdering his wife and violence against gays and yet continues a very lucrative career.

James Brown was convicted of battering TWO of his wives but was still presented with Kennedy Center honours.

Kobe Bryant, accused of rape, settled the civil suit out of court and is still continues to play professional basketball.

Steven Tyler had an affair with a 15 yr old, has sustained a rock career and embarked on a reality show career.

And the list goes on, but I'm thinking my point is made. 

Southern Hospitality

I hate winter. I hate the bitter cold, the dirty slush, the wind whipping up the snow, the added weight and girth of outdoor winter wear, the time involved in donning all said outdoor winter wear, the bare trees, the dirty cars, hazardous road conditions, the racing around involved in avoiding the sub-zero temps and the sheer length of the all around nasty season.

Yeah, I hate winter. So give me a chance to escape it and I'm all in. Add my honey to the mix and I'm even more in, if that is even possible. Time in Atlanta? Sign me up. (And he did!) I left my winter jacket behind with Julia after she dropped me off at Dorval and headed off to some much needed warmth, relatively speaking. After my sweetie's flight arrived, we headed to the hotel; once there, he decided we should do room service, so we settled in to a fantastic indoor picnic. The next day, I was treated to a most excellent surprise - plans had been made for me to enjoy an hour long facial and hour and a half long massage at the hotel's on site spa. Holy smackamoly! I was SO spoiled and drifted back to my room on a sea of complete and utter bliss! The intimate spa is just divine, uses organic products and the service is both warm and professional. If you go, ask for Pamela - she is exceptional at her craft and if I ever win the lottery, I will fly her out to wherever I am weekly! Later that evening, we made our way to the movies and caught a showing of The Artist, a silent, black & white wonder. If you have already seen it, I don't need to explain how good it is. If you haven't yet, you are truly missing a pure gem! Go see it - you will quickly forget that there is no dialogue and be taken in by the story and talent with which it is presented. (Look for the stairway scene - it was our fave!) Later, we enjoyed a late dinner at Rain, a terrific Thai restaurant. We devoured the kai satay and then made our way through their steamed sea bass with ginger, pad thai, and a chicken dish that I cannot remember the name of, prolly due to the raspberry martinis and bottle of wine we also enjoyed! We popped in to the hotel bar for a nightcap before heading upstairs ... and thus ended a truly spectacular day. Thank you, baby!  ❤ 

The following day, after finally hauling out of bed, I ventured out into what the locals dubbed as 'the cold'. (I found that to be really amusing as the whole time we were there, it never got below +7C!) I walked around and explored the area and reveled in 'the cold' of Atlanta. That evening, we decked ourselves out for our traditional 'dress up date', dining at Ruth's Chris Steak House. While I learned that this is a chain of over 120 restaurants located across the US and some international locations, it feels nothing like a link in a chain. Rather, it has the feel of an older, well established steak house. Posh and lowly lit, the place was filled with chattering diners. Once seated, we were treated to a jumbo shrimp starter. The shrimp, almost as big as my head, was breaded and fried crisp; light and perfectly cooked, it was a great beginning to a great meal and a really nice touch on behalf of the restaurant. I then sank myself into a Key Lime martini, sighing happily with every sip. So incredibly rich and delicious, I could have easily saved this to enjoy as a dessert replacement. While sipping on our drinks, we shared an appetizer - two jumbo lump blue crab cakes, sizzling in lemon butter. We then slowly made our way through succulent filet mignon, some fresh asparagus with creamy hollandaise, and an au gratin potato casserole with three cheese sauce. Frank, our server, was both attentive and completely unobtrusive. When we were finally finished with our wine, we decided to share a warm bread pudding with whiskey sauce, which Frank graciously offered us on the house! It was heavenly - light and not overly sweet; the whiskey sauce silky and warm. The restaurant really hit it out of the park and I would highly recommend it!

Sizzlin' Blue Crab Cakes / Bread Pudding with Whiskey Sauce

Friday, there was more more exploring, a lil shopping and s'more enjoying of the Atlanta 'winter'. I have said it before and I will say it again - there is nothing like the friendliness of the people of the south. Where else can you find joggers who smile and say 'hi' as they pass you on the sidewalk? I stopped at a red light, waiting to cross the street (yeah, they do that there! Imagine!) ... the people already waiting at the same light turn and smile, 'Hey, how y'all doin'?' You cannot set foot outside anywhere without getting a warm, fuzzy feeling from everyone around you! Dinner that night was at Maggiano's. Pomegranate martinis (ok, so I'm on a kick!), Italian sausage flat bread, Salmon Oscar for me (think salmon on a bed of orzo that has been studded with sun dried tomatoes and asparagus, all topped with a lemon-basil sauce that includes crab meat. Decadently delicious!) and stuffed jumbo shells crammed with crab, goat cheese, spinach and more deliciousness for him. We crowned the evening's meal with their mini dessert sampler - Tiramisu, Crème Brulée, Apple Crostada, New York-style Cheesecake and Chocolate Zuccotto.

Salmon Oscar

All good things must come to an end, they say (Hmm ... what do they say about marvelously fantastic things?) and this one ended much too quickly. We had our traditional stop at Chipotle before heading to the airport to catch our flights. It was an interesting airport experience - the terminal was bursting at the seams with Mary Kay reps, who had just spent 4 days at a convention in the city. Everywhere you looked, there were women made up to the nines and coiffed to the heavens, decked out in black and pink outfits and carrying matching black and pink makeup bags (which were more the size of carry on luggage). 10,000 of them ... everywhere! It was like being on another planet ... a professionally made up, tweezed, and hair sprayed planet! Arriving at Dorval, I was welcomed back into the bosom of a good ol' Quebec January, complete with howling winds, sloppy 'sloche' and the remnants of a snowfall from the days before my return.

Did I happen to mention how much I hate winter?

Sucky Santa ...

Think back to the bestest Christmas present you ever received. Everyone has at least one memory like that - I am lucky enough to have several. My childhood was filled with practical gifts like slippers and pj's but there was always that one gift that had danced through my dreams and into my letters to Santa. My treasured Thumbelina doll, my beloved horse statue, new ballet slippers ... all appeared under the tree to thrill me one Christmas after another. When the kids came along, I was rewarded with the most intricately made presents, thanks to their teachers in Switzerland, who had marvelous ideas and school budgets to match! One Christmas, 10-year old Jordan sneaked off to the neighborhood jeweler's with a friend of mine and emptied all but 10 bucks out of his bank account to buy me a gold ring. (I know because he proudly announced the cost to me before I had even torn through the wrapping.) It has never once left my finger in the decade since. A couple of years back, Julia bought me a Swarovski 'Thumper' bunny. She wanted to add to my crystal collection but she also knows how much I adore bunnies. The point here is not about the amount spent; rather, it is about the thought put into the gift. Nothing is worse than the person who pesters you on the day (week, month) before Christmas (birthday, anniversary) to know what you want to receive as a gift. To me, the most thoughtful of gifts is the one that has you wondering, 'How did they know I wanted that?' There is an art in listening to someone, the subtle clues they drop about what they like, collect, saw and drooled over, have wanted but never bought for themselves, etc. People are forever dropping clues, a lot of the time without realizing they are doing just that. The art is in listening and disciphering clues, or just plain noticing what they like.

The opposite side to this coin are the bad gifts. This being the real world, I have received a few doozies in my time. The most recent that jumps to mind is the first Christmas with an ex-boyfriend. He bought me a book and a throw (a blankie). Nice gestures when you consider that I love to read and am usually cold. Not so nice when you consider that he spent a great deal of time at the bookstore buying glorified comics and prolly only saw these items whilst he stood in line to pay for his purchases (yeah, the throw also came from the bookstore). Ok, so maybe I'm being cynical. Let's give him the benefit of the doubt and fast forward to our second Christmas together. He bought me a book and a throw. Ok, so it was a different book and a different coloured throw. It still made me feel like an afterthought and vastly lessened the appeal of the gift.

Here is a golden rule: unless she has specifically asked for it, no woman wants to receive a household appliance. I will repeat this because so many guys just don't get it: unless your wife (fiancée, girlfriend, mom, etc) actually come out and tell you that they want a Cuisinart, panini maker, blender, vacuum cleaner or anything else that will require them to expend energy to actually enjoy the 'gift', do not buy it. By extension, anything that is subtlely disguised as a gift for you - a snazzy dazzy shiny BBQ, tickets to a concert to see your favorite artist, massage oil (when everyone knows you will be receiving and not giving!), or anything that eventually gets housed in the workshop (again, unless she specifically asks you for a jigsaw, do not do it!) is not a gift, it is a sad excuse for a gift. And if you're paused at the beauty counter and wondering whether to splurge on some creams, serums, drops and stuff of the like? Two words: 'anti-ageing' guarantees another two words: death wish!

The grey area here is lingerie. Chances are good that we want some. Chances are also good that we will not wear the stuff you want us to wear, since it (more often than not) comes from Frederick's of Hollywood. (And no, the addition of 'Hollywood' doesn't make it classy lingerie, guys!) While I'm no huge fan of gift cards, if this is the route you insist on embarking upon, you might be best to make up a basket with a Visa gift card, a Luther CD, a bottle of wine and a card that suggests that she spend the money on some naughty underbits that the two of you could later appreciate together. But I still maintain that you venture forth at your own peril!

The lesson here? To a woman, it is not the wrapping, the store it came from or even the cost. It is how special your gift makes her feel. It is knowing that you put some thought into it, spent some time thinking about what she would like (and hopefully love), actually listened to what she has said ... and even some of the things she hasn't said. In the end, it is the thought that counts, after all.

So, what is the best and/or worst gift you have ever received? Post your comment below and make me green with envy .... or cringe right along with you!

Things I've learned (so far) today ...

1.  It IS possible to hit your own self with a shopping cart. And then to ram your forearm into the shopping cart later. Twice. With the same arm.

(1a.  The biggest threat to me ... is ME!)

2.  It would seem that the posted 30 kms/hr in a school zone applies to everyone but the police. The one I was following whizzed through it doing over 50 kms/hr. (Yeah, so I paced him for a lil while!)

3.  The postman doesn't always ring once (much less twice!) before leaving you a notice of a parcel on your front doorknob. I know this because when I went to pick up the item at the post office, the Canada Post employee there told me that they don't. Nice.

4.  I've also learned that Jack is a canine rock star judging from the attention he gathers wherever we go. I take him on almost all my errands. It's a muggy day today so I have the back windows cranked open all the way. Coming out of the post office, I find him flirting with a two older ladies, who immediately start gushing at what a handsome dog he is, the whole while stroking him under the chin and behind the ears. One even bends down and goes nose to nose with my dog! I accept the compliments on his behalf and start talking to him in English. Both ladies immediately express amazement that he can understand English! *eyeroll* I tell you, if I could train him to sign autographs, I could retire on the profits!

And the day's not over yet ...

I'll take what's in the box, Monty . . .

Take something beautiful. A glowing woman swollen with life ... 

 ... the subsequent miracle of birth ... 

... culminating in the arrival of a beautiful newborn.

Now, taint it all with the ever so quaint, recently made popular expression, 'push present'. Just brings a tear to your eye, don't it? A push present, for those of you with inquiring minds (and who haven't already figured this one out for yourselves), is a prezzie that one parent gives the other for birthing the new addition to their family. So, that would be you husbands, boyfriends and significant others of either gender. Now, me being a tad on the dédaigneuse side, I find the expression cringe-worthy. Frankly, I prefer the alternate expression, 'baby bauble'. Besides feeding into my love of alliterations, it clearly spells out what the non-baby-pushing-out parent should be shopping for (which, after popping out three people myself, is the LEAST you should receive by way of thanks, if you ask me!).

There are sites dedicated to the browsing and purchasing of these gifts - Gifts.com have a large assortment and even the parental bible, Parents.com are part of the revolution, offering the baubles no woman would turn down but also smashing ideas like spa treatments and trips! It's almost enough to make me want another baby ... I said ALMOST!

So, welcome to the world of  'push presents', where actress Jessica Alba has requested a $54,000 gold and diamond Frank Muller watch for the  upcoming birth of her second child, stylist Rachel Zoe received a 10-carat (10!) diamond ring and  Marc-Anthony gifted J-Lo with a pair of $2.5 million earrings. (Sure, you're saying, but she had twins! Well, you'd be wrong because he also gave her a $300,000 canary diamond ring! Yowsah!)

What did I get? *snicker* Let's see ... that would be nothing for the births of Kevin and Jordan. When Julia came along, I turned to her father and demanded flowers. I reminded him that this was my third (and last) ride on the delivery table merry-go-round. I reminded him that he had always wanted a daughter and now had one. I reminded him that every other woman on the floor had flowers and by gawd, I was not leaving the hospital until I had MY freakin' bouquet. He came through and in the 14 years we were together, that marked the second (and last) time he ever brought me flowers. But that's a whole other posting for a whole other day! So ... what did YOU get?

More, yes . . . but is it really better?

I had a great childhood. True, there were lots of hand-me-downs, but still a great childhood. Coming from a family with three girls, we had no shortage of dolls in our home. Dolls of all shapes and sizes, different hair colours, different facial expressions but most had the same underlying theme. They did nothing. Not a blessed thing. A few dolls closed their eyes when you would lay them down but that was about it. Apart from my older sister owning a Chatty Cathy doll (and if that commercial doesn't creep you out, not much else will!) and me having a much treasured Thumbelina doll (I didn't realize until just now how much that doll moving looks like a slow motion epileptic fit!), our dolls were totally dependent on our own imaginations. We did a lot of pretending back then - little boys as well as little girls. Play tanks and plastic soldiers didn't shoot so there was a lot of 'pow pow pow!' noises made; we positioned our dolls around little tables and had make believe tea parties. The toys we played with encouraged our imaginations to flourish as we came up with elaborate scenarios where the toys were mere props.

Fast forward to the present day. Nowadays, you can find a doll that will do just about anything. Walking and talking? How passé! Try peeing and pooping - the pooping doll even comes in a diaper or poppy version! (Hmm ... disposable diapers. Tsk tsk tsk!) Then again, what would you expect when the dolls eat and drink? When you gotta go, you gotta go! Even Mattel jumped on the badwagon, pimping our beloved Barbie and Ken - she gets preggers and he shaves! But it seems I can still be amazed after all this time. Introducing ... *insert drumroll sound here* ... the Breastfeeding Doll! Yup, it seems our children aren't growing up fast enough - we now need to have lil girls, who aren't old enough to have breasts of their own, pretending to breastfeed their dolls.

And thus continues the crumbling of civilization ...

Welcome one and all . . . NOT!

Today's math lesson:  A night out on the town + screaming babies ≠ music to my ears.

McDain's Restaurant in Monroeville, PA is doing what a great many of us are in total agreement with. This 'fine casual dining' establishment has decided to ban any and all children under the age of 6. To this, I say 'Yes!' and wonder why more restaurants haven't already done the same.

When my family and I moved to Switzerland in 1996, my kids were (almost) 3, 5 and 7. For an entire month while we waited for a boat to deliver all our furniture and other belongings, we ate in restaurants three times a day. And not McDonald's either. Regular sit-down-spend-a-couple-of-hours-eating-and-talking-type restaurants. Thankfully, I had patient kids but I always made sure my purse was loaded with crayons, colouring books, mini games, books and anything else that might entertain my lil ones while we waited for our meals. My kids' butts stayed firmly planted in their seats and no one hollered or in any way disrupted diners around us. Many a time, people actually stopped by the table to comment on how well behaved the kids were despite being so young. But not everyone's kids were the same. I have seen parents gabbing away to each other while their kids literally race from one end of the dining room to the other, screaming at the top of their lungs. Then there are the babies being brought into a restaurant in a baby carrier; the parents eat with one hand while rocking the carrier with the other - the whole while, the baby screams, barely pausing to take a breath. Not exactly Muzak!

True, there are restaurants that will allow orders to be phoned in; you then show up and while you are being seated, your meal is actually being set in front of you. Nice idea but what are you teaching your kids about patience? Life is not delivered to you when you want it and sometimes, you actually have to wait your turn. It's also important to remember that restaurant hostesses are not meant to tend to your kids while you relax at your table. Neither is it a good idea to have your kid crawling on the floor while the wait staff is hauling a tray of piping hot food above his or her head. C'mon, Mom and Dad ... time to connect those brain cells!

I totally understand the idea of going out 'en famille'. But if your family dinners look like Romper Room on steroids, do us all a favour and stay home. Order the restaurant meal as take out. Hire a babysitter. Go to Chucky Cheese or Mickey Dee's. When you consider the price of restaurant meals nowadays, I think we diners have paid the price of admission and do not want to have our nerves frazzled by the fruit of your looms. Try to remember that some of us actually went out to get away from the very thing that you are subjecting us to!

You should . . .

People, there is a distinct difference between giving someone advice and giving someone an order. Advice is a suggestion and does not have to be taken. Especially when no one asked you for your lousy and let me repeat, u-n-s-o-l-i-c-i-t-e-d advice!

I pull into a parking spot at IGA to dash in for some sugar. Opening up the back door, I start to roll up the window while Jack waits for me to clip on his leash. I hear a woman's voice; straightening up, I look over the roof of my car. A woman is calling out to me from her car. Crossing the two empty spots between us, I come to her car where she tells me that I had better move MY car because she also has a dog in her car. Errr ... huh?!? (Two empty spots between us, remember?) Because I don't even want to try to figure of what the hell she's talking about, I explain that I'm taking the dog with me. 'Your dog is much too big to bring into IGA!' I look down at what I'm wearing, wondering if I left the house wearing a t-shirt that might say 'STOOPID' or something of that nature and for reasons that I can't explain, I continue the exchange with this deranged woman. 'I'm not taking him into IGA, I'm going to tie him up in the shade outside IGA,' I explain slowly, enunciating every word. 'You shouldn't do that if you're only going in for a short while - just leave him in the car and roll down all your windows,' she commands. I look up at the blazing sun and back down at her. 'It's too hot to leave a dog in the car on a day like today!' I walk back to my car and retrieve Jack, lock up the car and head to the store. Looking back, I notice she's glaring at me, as though I'd made her eat shit or something. She was still there, still glaring at me when I walked Jack back to the car after making my purchase. (Oh, she must make someone's life SO happy!)  For the record, the high today was 24°C (75°F). Then, factor in the humidity. Then, multiply all that by a hot, stinking car. And that's how I do dog math, stoopid lady!

I was reminded of my children's grandmother, who after bottle feeding 5 children of her own, thought she would teach me how to breastfeed Jordan (the second child I was nursing), who howled incessantly when we would visit every Sunday. She wasn't all too impressed when I didn't take her 'advice'. (For the record, he had a world record setting case of colic that lasted a blessed 5 1/2 month period and it wasn't 'my milk' making him cry. So there, Grandmaman!)

So, to summarize: go easy with the advice, people. It's nice to wait until yours is asked for, and then, be nice about how you offer it. But in the end, it's still advice ... and this being a free world, no one is obliged to take it. If you want to order someone around, get married. (Just make sure you're the wife!  *smirk*)

Time - a healer of nothing . . .

Today is the day my mother would have celebrated her 75th birthday. I say 'would have' because my mom passed away back when she was 48. I too am 48 now and cannot imagine leaving the world at this point in my life.

Back in 1999, I wrote about my mom, sharing it with very few people. I re-read it last night and realized that my sentiments haven't changed. I also decided to share it with you all. Happy Birthday, Mummy ...

I mourn my mother almost every day.

Reading that sentence, you would think her passing had only recently happened. The fact is my mother died way back 15 years ago. Still, there are days when it is as fresh as though it had happened only yesterday.

My mother was an amazing woman. I know most children believe that of their mothers but as an adult, I have come to realize the extent to which she truly was amazing. She was a wonderful daughter, wife, mother and a friend to many. Her involvement in her children's lives went beyond what I saw my friends' mothers do - bake sales, chaperoning all our school trips, helping with hair and make up at my ballet recitals, organizing wonderfully detailed birthday parties - the list goes on and on. My mother taught me a great many things that I have carried on into my adulthood, both through her words and her actions.

My mom was very demonstrative in her love and never needed an excuse to pass along a quick hug or kiss. A hand around your shoulders as she helped with homework or brushing a stray lock of hair from your eyes as she listened to you speak - her touch was everywhere. She was never too busy to help, listen or get involved in whatever required her attention; my mother was a firm believer in leaving the rest of the world to get along on its own because her kids would not be young and around the house forever.

My mother was the one who convinced my father that I was old enough to date and worked out a better curfew for me when my dad thought I should be in earlier than I wanted to be. Never was there a moment when I did not feel as though she was in my corner. Often, I would joke about becoming a mother myself and moving back home with 12 children in tow. My mom would laugh and say she would love it – and somehow I just knew she would have.

Then came the winter my mom was scheduled to be operated on - a routine procedure. My father and sisters and I sat and waited and finally, the doctor came. The news was completely unexpected and horrendous. My father insisted my mother not be told and my sisters and I numbly agreed with him. All the while, I wondered how my mom would look into my eyes and not know the truth.

The medical treatments came and went and my mom only got more and more sick. I went through a stage where I found any excuse to be away from the house - I could not bear to see her that way. Racing out of the house one day, I passed her on the front balcony and bent down for a quick kiss. She smiled and told me it was good that I was going out; that people my age did not need to be hanging around the house all the time. I stopped and our eyes met. I knew at that moment that she knew ... and that she knew that I knew. Nothing more was ever mentioned about it between the two of us.

Despite her illness, she managed to plan my older sister's bridal shower and wedding pretty much single-handedly. Everyone marveled at my mother but I was not surprised. This was my mom doing what my mom always did best, keeping things running smoothly for the rest of us. A good time was had by all and my mother was elated.

In the weeks following the wedding, my mother weakened considerably. Friends paraded through her room, saying their good-byes and my mom consoled each and every one of them. Finally, my father insisted she be allowed to leave the hospital and after obtaining the doctor's consent, she came home. Her final two days are almost a blur to me now - my sisters, father and I slept in shifts because although my mom was semi-comatose, we wanted someone to always be there for her. We did our crying elsewhere in the house, never near my mother. At one point, I lay down beside her - just to be near her as I had so many times before. I watched her sleep, thinking of happier times and without meaning to, I quietly began to cry. Her eyes suddenly opened - clear, focused and alert like they had not been in days. Her arm reached out and with strength I thought she no longer possessed, she pulled me close to her, soothing me as I wept. I fell asleep in her arms and when I awoke, my mom had returned to the way she had earlier been - curled up and seemingly no longer aware of any us.

I was the only one awake the morning she died. As my father lay sleeping at her side, I checked on her, taking her temperature and monitoring her pulse. Noting it was erratic, I pressed my ear to her chest and listened to her heartbeat as it faded, the sound seeming to sink deeper into her chest and farther away from me, until I could hear it no more. In a way, my mother and I had come full circle - she was there for my entrance into the world; I was there for her departure from it. She was finally gone and never before or since have I felt more alone.

With the passing of the years, I have been reminded of her on an almost constant basis - the yearly parade of birthdays, Mother's Days and Christmases all stream by, highlighting her absence; the sharp pang of envy I feel at seeing my friends with their own mothers. I wonder what my mom would think of the woman I’ve become - whether she would be proud, whether she would approve. I watch my own children and have moments of such frustration that my mother never lived to see their faces - especially the granddaughter who carries her name and looks startlingly like my mother.

Life goes on and it is said that time heals. Time heals nothing. Time is simply a space where you try to learn to deal with your pain, your sadness and the gaping hole in your heart. In the years since my mother's passing, I haven't healed from the loss. Instead, I have learned to accept the part of my heart that lies empty and will forever yearn for a few moments more with my best friend.

Oh Canada, our home and native land???

On the night of June 23rd, the eve of 'la St-Jean' (Quebec's national holiday), I was home and listening to the boom of fireworks being set off at various parks and backyards in the neighborhood. The following night, more of the same. This is Repentigny, after all - a city where I can't speak English to my kid at the local IGA without at least a couple of heads turning. Fast forward to the night of June 30th, eve of Canada Day. Silence. The following night, a total of 6 feeble pops. Yeah. Six. Yeah. I counted.

Here's my message to Repentignites (or whatever the hell we're called here): Yes, you're Quebecers. Celebrate it, by all means. But then look around. You're still a part of Canada. You get the freaking day off from work, for pity's sake! That alone should be worth more than a measly 6 lousy pops!!!

My friend, André Seiffert, was right. I should have come up to Parliament Hill to see the show he and his gang put on. I told him it was on my bucket list and after the woeful presentation I was barely privy to this week, I'm thinking next year, he and I will have a date ... well, so to speak! (Hi Leanne!) And the next year, maybe I'll do la St-Jean in Quebec City. In the meantime, belated Happy 24th and 1st (and Happy 4th to my 'merican buds). Happy (and safe!) holidays to everyone  :)

Dis, dat and dee udder ting . . .

Preface: Considering the subject of this posting, I feel I need to say that I, Elaine P Sawchuk, do NOT hate French Quebecers. As it is said, some of my best friends are Québecois! My 'first' (*wink*) boyfriend was Québecois, I spent 14 years with the Québecois father of my three children and as such, they are also 1/2 French Quebecers. Oh, and the fact that I'm blogging on this subject today, 'la St-Jean' is purely coincidental, I assure you!

This being said, watching reports submitted by Stéphane Giroux on CTV Montreal (the old CFCF-12) drives me up the freakin' wall!!! When he was first hired by this major English speaking station back in 1994, I remember being surprised that an anglophone station would hire a francophone with such a thick French accent. I listened to him stammer his way through reports, mispronouncing words throughout and replacing every 'th' sound with the letter 'd', as all French speaking Quebecers learning English do. Two years later, I moved to Europe and upon my return in 2000, I was really surprised to see he was still employed at the station.

Well, here we are 17 years into his on air appearances. I'll agree that Monsieur Giroux's pronunciation of the English language has improved. The man still can't pronounce 'th' though, a staple of the language. I wince when the newscaster hands off to Stéphane Giroux, knowing what is to come. The subsequent report is a teeth-grinding and nails-on-the-blackboard experience for me. Could I leave the room or change channels? Surely! Unfortunately, Monsieur Giroux's reports are usually about topics of interest to me - crime and criminal trials.

So shoot me. I happen to believe that an English speaking channel should have reporters who are not abrasive to their viewers. I find having to deal with Monsieur Giroux's accent to be abrasive. What irks me to no end is that NO WHERE on any major French speaking station in Quebec will you find an anglophone reporter 'maganaying' the French language.

So, how has this guy lasted on this station this long? Who IS this Stéphane Giroux anyhow ... the secret love child of Lloyd Robertson and Bill Haugland?!?

PS In trying to find a pic of Stéphane Giroux to accompany this posting, I found one. ONE! The one from his online bio. My gawd, there are more pics of ME online (excluding Facebook, I mean) and I'm a nobody! YouTube the guy and there's nothing either. NOTHING! 17 years on a major station and he's transparent! Hmmm ... is der a story to dis???

Dude ! Where are your manners ? ! ?

Alright, I admit it - I have ranted and raved about this subject before back when I was Laynee (on my previous blog). For those of you who read it, feel free to move along, nothing new to see here. I was compelled to reblog about it, however, because sadly the situation still exits ...

Back last week when I was headed home following Jordan's skydiving adventure (see previous posting), I decided I would take the scenic route. It was a stunningly beautiful day - hot, bright and sunny. Jack was hanging out an open window and Van Halen was pounding out of the speakers. I came around a slight curve and saw an old man walking on the road up ahead. Naturally, I slowed down and gave the man a very wide berth. Checking my rear view mirror, I start to slide back into my lane only to notice the old man is still hugging the side of the road. I keep watching the rear view mirror and to my amazement, he whips it out. Yes. IT! He did! Once again, yet another man has decided to take a whiz in the great outdoors. While this is hardly the first time that I have been privy subjected to seeing a guy take a leak outside, I am still shocked when it happens. That particular day, once I got over my initial amazement, I tried to rationalize this stranger's behaviour. He's an old man, I thought, maybe he couldn't wait until he got home. Then Logical Elaine kicked in (she always does!). When, I asked myself, was the last time I saw an old woman hiking up her dress and squatting to void her bladder roadside? NEVER! For some reason, women have come to realize that the world is not our toilet, a fact that seems to escape a great many of the male gender. I have no problem with the idea of stopping on the side of the highway to hustle a young child out of a vehicle so they can pee; I have done it on occasion when my own kids were small. The point is, kids have not yet mastered the art of self-control. Adults, on the other hand, are supposed to have achieved that level of physical and social development. Yet all over the planet, there are scads and scads of men who apparently still need their mom, girlfriend, wife, fiancée, roommate, best bud, boss or whoever to ask them if they remembered to go pee pee before they head out. C'mon guys! Go tinkle BEFORE you go out. And if the urge hits while you're out, find a bathroom or gee, I don't know ... try holding it? (Umm, for those of you who can't, they have bladder control that looks like underwear these days, ya know!) Failing all that, you risk grossing out women everywhere ... and descending a rung or two down the evolutionary ladder ... not to mention, a hefty $365 fine!

Now, if you'll pardon me, I'm off to the powder room ... to, umm, powder my nose!  ;-)

This Old Heart of Mine . . .

I headed back to the hospital this morning to have the holter monitor removed and have an ECG performed. Coincidentally, I was matched up with the same Romanian tech as yesterday. After relieving me of my eight electrodes, he applied a new set for the ECG. Then, he adjusted them. And readjusted them. Checking the machine, he readjusted them again. I swear, I'm certain that after all that manhandling, he and I would be considered as married in most third world countries!

The lesson of the past two days is this: if you're going to need a test performed in a hospital, have it performed at the MGH's cardiology clinic. On both occasions, I barely had time to sit myself down before being called. The walk up the hill to the hospital took longer than the test itself! I have no idea how they manage to deal with their patients as quickly as they do, but I sure wish other departments took a lesson from this one. (That would be directed to Julia's back surgeon's clinic, where we spent 6 hours for her last appointment!)

So now I wait for my doctor's appointment to come along and give me (hopefully!) the good news. In the meantime, I have my trip to LA to keep my heart pitter pattering. I CAN'T WAIT!!!

*thumpTHUMPthumpTHUMPthumpTHUMPthumpTHUMPthumpTHUMPthump*

ｷⓤ¢ズ you, zombies . . . I'm an Anteater!

All this freakin' talk of the 'Rapture' has pissed me off. Mightily so! 6pm California time, they say. 2% of the population will immediately ascend to heaven, they say. The remaining 98% will be consumed by zombie-roaming beings and then everyone goes to hell, they say. Well, CRAP! Now, I won't even pretend to think that I'm going to be part of the 2% headed skyward *pausing to snicker*. So, here I am, 48 years old. I've been scoping out the opposite sex since I was about 11. If you ask me, I've dealt with more than my share of scuzzy personalities. Finally (FINALLY!) after about 37 years of men who excelled at the age old game of 'bait and switch', men who by the leanest of standards didn't even come close to being worthy of my time, I finally (FINALLY!) begin to have my faith instilled in the male gender of the species (yeah, you know who you are!), I begin to have some semblance of happiness take up residence in my life and now I have to worry about all that (and more!) coming to an end AND having to worry about starring in my own version of the Thriller video on top of everything else?!? All I know for sure is if I'm going to be carried off by a zombie, he'd better look like Rick Genest or I'll kick and scream for all I'm worth.

So, to all the undead who may or may not show up at some point this evening, I wave my ticket to LA at you and say ｷⓤ¢ズ you, zombies ... I'm an Anteater

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times . . .

1.  The bad guys don't always wear black and the good guys don't always wear white.
2.  You can't always get what you want.
3.  In the end, we always get what we all deserve.

Do you have anything to declare?

My last birthday saw me turning 48. I had long been dreading that number, fearful of it really. To me, it represented my mother's age at her passing and it freaked me out to think of being the age she was when she died. It was a shitty birthday, literally spent alone ... just me and my gloomy thoughts ...

I've spent a great deal of time since then taking stock of things. Myself, my life, where I've been, where I am, where I want to be. One glaring fact leaps out to me.

I let my bar slip.

By that, I mean what I was willing to accept of myself. What I was willing to accept of others. What I was willing to accept in a relationship. I forgot the rule that says no one can make you feel like crap unless you let them. And I let them.

With the coming of the new year, I resolved to change my luck. I chose to surround myself with the positive and rid myself of the negative. People, thoughts, situations - if they weren't positive, then to the curb! My only surprise has to do with the speed with which my life has shifted. And my bar? It's hoisted high again, back where it should be.

My latest revelation is about location. I've come to realize that I'm not where I belong. While I'm not quite sure where that place is, I know it's not here. So yesterday, I headed to the passport office in Laval to renew mine after almost 10 years. I've been inspired. I have a feeling I might need it and I want to be prepared. Who knows? Maybe I'll finally discover the place I truly belong ...

Eff you, 2010

I had such hope for you ... what you had for me was a screwing over.

You taxed me, made me work so hard for every happy moment but there were so few of them. You fooled me, promised things that you never delivered on. You strung me along and kept me hopeful, but only disappointed in the end.

It would be easy to say that I will remember you for the piece 'o crap that you were but it's about six and a half hours until your demise and I'm already working on forgetting you ever existed.

All in all, you were a waste of time and a sheer and utter let down. I won't be sad to see you go and won't miss you once you're gone.

Eff you, 2010 ... eff you.

I ponder as I wander . . . *

Ok, so you caught me in a lil white one ... I'm not wandering, but I am pondering. It's a deep ponder. I'm pondering about disillusion. And not the German metal band either (but if you want to, ponder Disillusion here). Mainly because I'm disillusioned. About what, you ask? Ahh, the list is a long one and covers a few categories. If I had to melt it down, I guess I'm disillusioned about people. People who say they will and then don't ... or worse, won't. See through people - one minute, they're full of substance and then the next minute, totally void and transparent. The list goes on, but I won't.

I think I'll go watch some German metal band videos ...

* My nod to Barbra's 'I wonder as I wander' ... only one of the bestest Christmas songs ever when she sings it ...