Sai Arigala

The most wonderful thing about the time I spent living overseas was making friends with amazing people from all over the world.  The most difficult thing is having to say good-bye.  Last week, I learned of the untimely death of one of my dearest friends from India. 

Sai traveled all the time for work (and sometimes for pleasure), so we were seldom in the same country, let alone the same city at the same time.  This was true for all of Sai’s friends all over the world.  But Sai had the knack of friendship, and making the time he did have with people count.

He mixed easily with all different kinds of people, was generous to a fault, funny, and genuinely caring of all his many, many friends.  There was no pretence or façade with Sai – he was thoroughly himself with everyone he met.  He didn’t suffer fools gladly, and he did have a temper that he lost on occasion too.  He was smart and curious about everything, not to mention a good talker, and listener. 

We traveled to Peru together in the summer of 2009.  Sai was great fun to travel with, being both easy-going and interested in people and places.  He struck up conversations with all kinds of people, learning quirky facts about frozen sacrificial Inca mummies, Peruvian hairless dogs, and he even got a group of strolling minstrels (wearing 16^th century doublet and hose) to give us an impromptu, personal concert one night in the square in Arequipa. He laughed like Bevis and Butthead every time the name of Lake Titicaca came up. 

Sai packed a lot into his forty two years, and I’m glad I had the chance to be there for part of his journey.  Rest in peace, Sai.  I love you dearly and I will miss you more than words can say.

"Nevermore"

Kerala Raven calmly not attacking anyone!

The other day on the way home from work, I had an Alfred Hitchcock moment. 

There I was on the Byron Pathway, minding my own business, listening to my iPod,  grooving along when suddenly – Whack!!! 

Someone whapped me upside the back of my head.

I turned around, half expecting to see one of my colleagues.  But no one was there. No one human, that is.  There was, however, a dizzy looking raven staggering to the lowest branch of a nearby tree. 

Apparently the bird had flown into the back of my head, nearly knocking both of us out. Call me Tippi Hedren.  It was like The Birds had come to Ottawa.

Was it an accident?  Was the bird old, disoriented or drunk? Is the back of my head transparent like a window? 

Or did the bird to it on purpose? Did I walk too close to its nest or get in between it and its dinner?  Or did I offend it in some mysterious way?  Was it trying to warn me about something in the manner of Poe’s immortal bird?

I will never know.

I have always thought birds were too smart and good at flying to bash into people.  But it seems that run-ins between humans and our fine feathered friends are not as uncommon as I had thought. 

My sister’s workplace has an annual problem with seagulls nesting on the roof and then dive-bombing people as they go to work.  Seagulls are notoriously swoopy birds, as anyone who has ever tried to eat French fries on the beach knows well. 

On the beaches in Goa and Kerala, there are no seagulls – but there are lots of crows racketing around, especially early in the morning.  Unlike their gull cousins, they seem to be satisfied with scavenging dead fish, and leave people alone.

In the UK a few years ago, flocks of ravens began attacking livestock in the same manner as Hitchcock’s avian thugs in The Birds.  No wonder the collective noun for these impressively aggressive birds is a “murder” or a “conspiracy.”

There are scads of superstitions about ravens from all over the world, with camps divided pretty equally on whether they are good luck or bad luck omens. 

I’m going with the camp that calls them tricksters – and agents of transformation or change because I believe that people are responsible for their own “luck”.  And aren't we all always in the process of change and transformation?

Gonna Catch Me Some Vermin

My sister, an avid gardener, went into her shed the other day and had the strangest sensation that she wasn’t alone. 

Turns out there was a Mama Racoon and five babies living under (or in?) the shed.  Since she already hosts quite the menagerie, Anne decided against letting her visitors make the backyard their permanent home, and she put in a call to the pest control folks.  They brought over a live trap which was baited with stinky fish and left overnight, much to the indignation of Anne’s cats who had to be kept in the house that night.

In the morning, the wild animal control crew discovered that the black and white critter they had successfully trapped was not, in fact, a raccoon, but a skunk.  And yes, there was some spraying involved. Peee-yew!  Oh what a fun job those guys must have!    

The raccoon family seems to have moved out voluntarily.  Whether it was the disturbing chaos of clanging traps, small yapping dogs and hunting cats, or the smelly neighbour sharing their shed, we may never know. 

There must be something in our family’s vibe that attracts pest.  The story of Anne’s unwanted furry friends brought back some all-too vivid memories from my life in Bangalore last year around this time. 

I didn’t know I had a rat at first.  For one thing, I didn’t leave any rat-buffets lying around, keeping all my food either in the fridge or in sealed containers.  And I didn’t see any evidence – i.e. rat poo anywhere. 

The first thing that happened was my washing machine stopped working one day.  (I know, it doesn’t sound very ratty, but stick with me.) I called the handyman/miracle worker from school to come and fix it and he discovered that some of the wires were mysteriously broken. 

A few days after he’d spliced the wires, I had to call Ranganath again because my washing machine was broken again.  And guess what he found – the wires were frayed again. 

"That's great, it starts with an earthquake, birds, snakes, an aeroplane - Lenny Bruce is not afraid!"

I can't find a picture of the end of the world,
but here's a nice Goan sunset.

I can’t believe I forgot to watch the end of the world. 

On Tuesday, when everyone at work is comparing notes on “Where were you during the Rapture?” I will have to sheepishly admit that I forgot all about it until it was over.  I think I was in the middle of a long walk along the canal, enjoying the sunshine, tulips, lilacs and blossoms, completely oblivious that Armageddon was creeping up on me. 

And a disappointing Armageddon it was too, after all.  I mean, Harold Camping promised Major Cataclysmic Events and Disasters didn’t he? 

I first became aware of the Impending Doom last summer when I was in Toronto.  Somewhere around St. Clair West or Dupont, a gaggle of people got on the subway all wearing the same t-shirts with the date May 21, 2011 written in big letters across the chest.  Most of the folks in the group were youngish, clean-cut, professional-looking, and they were all laughing and smiling and having a good time.  Rather than prophets of Doom, they looked like an office baseball team out to celebrate a win. 

My curiosity got the better of me somewhere around Osgoode Station, and I sidled over to ask what the date on their shirts meant.  I was handed a pamphlet explaining all about how I could be saved and zoom up to heaven on the express route on May 21, 2011 if I joined their group. 

The pamphlet went on to explain about all of the natural and unnatural disasters that would occur, and the chaos and anarchy that would reign.  Sounds pretty exciting, doesn’t it?  But so far, nothing has happened. 

Discourse of Fools?

Have you ever noticed that Talking About The Weather gets a really bad rap?

Everyone talks about it, but when we talk about talking about it, we are so disparaging, as if talking about the weather is somehow demeaning or trivial. Why are we so mean about the idea of Talking About The Weather?

Is it really so different from discussing politics, the economy, religion or terrorism?

Politics affects all people in a given region. We individually can’t do much about it.  People have different preferences regarding it.  Some like to make predictions about it, or analyze what’s gone on after the fact.

Economy – ditto.

Religion – even more so!

Terrorism – same.

How is “Weather” any different from these big topics as a conversational gambit?

Some might say that it’s banal.  But I have to challenge that. The weather affects me much more personally than politics, the economy, religion and terrorism on a day to day basis – in that sense, it’s more real.  When you have to wake up half an hour early in January to shovel the driveway and clear snow off the car, it feels like a lot of things, but “banal” isn’t it. 

The weather has a bigger impact on my mood, my choice of clothing, how long it takes to get to work, what I want to eat….  I’ve never felt like singing out loud as I walk down the street just because the dollar has gone up a few cents.  But a sunny day in May will make me belt show tunes all the way down Bank Street.  The desire to curl up with a good book and a cup of tea will have more to do with rain or sleet pounding on the windows than anything that’s happening in Question Period. 

I have been metaphorically biting my lip, trying not to write (moan) about the weather but this morning I finally cracked.

I think it was the sight of the guy from the Coast Guard marching past me on Somerset that set me off. I mean, apparently we’ve had so much rain this spring, the Coast Guard now has a special detachment patrolling the streets of Ottawa. 

If ever there was a year for rain boots to become a fashion statement this has been the year! Though, I must admit, I am not convinced that galoshes with pink pandas or green froggies are equally fetching on 5 year olds and 50 year olds alike. 

We all know the old saw about April showers and May flowers etc. etc.  What about when the rain continues to dump down through out May, though?  With all the rain deluging us this month, those poor May flowers will soon be drowning.  Will they have to put teensy life jackets on the tulips for this year’s edition of the Ottawa Tulip Festival?

But wouldn’t you know it? No sooner had I decided that Talking About The Weather is perfectly valid, than the rain stopped, the sun came out, and everything in the garden was lovely.  Quite literally, by the way, thanks to all the rain!

It reminded me of the words of a small child spoken to me (about 963 years ago), when I was working at Centreville (an amusement park for small kids on Toronto’s Centre Island).  I was talking to one of the scads of 5-year old customers on the pony ride on a bright, sunny perfect July day in the middle of a long stretch of days just like it. 

            “How do you like the weather we’ve been having lately?” I asked. 

            The boy looked at me like I was a moron before saying, “But we haven’t HAD any weather lately!”

Ahoy!!

There be pirates in Lagos, Portugal!

Aaaaaaaaar!   I be needin’ to tie down the jib with a worthy buccaneer! (In English, that would be “I need to marry a pirate!”)

Just think of the life we could have together --  all the travel and adventure!  Think of all the tropical islands we could hide out on!  Think of all the rum-based drinks he would know how to whip up.  And think of all the ruffle-y shirts I could borrow from him! 

Pirates are just so sexy in that unwashed, swash-buckling way.  No other straight guys can carry off the lace, the puffy shirts and the thigh high boots.  Or lack of personal hygiene.

I admit that my fascination with pirates does have a tiny bit to do with my crush on Johnny Depp, but really, it started well before any of the Pirates of the Caribbean movies came out.  It dates back to early days of the century, when I was conducting some internet “research” into the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster (i.e. surfing the net – undoubtedly while being paid to do something else entirely!) 

Graph

This research led to the subsequent discovery of the relationship between the rise in global temperature and the decrease in the number of pirates worldwide.  See graph.

Now, this begs the question, “Would an increase in the number of pirates slow or reverse global warming?”

Don’t we owe it to Science to at least try an experiment?  It wouldn’t do the world any harm if we all adopted a goofy accent, eye patches and some spectacular clothing to match.  At the very least, it would liven things up at the office.

Vote Early and Vote Often!

Elephants Carrying EVM

Vote.

Go vote.

Really – go vote now.

If you haven’t done it yet, stop reading right now and go vote. 

I don’t care who you vote for, just vote.

Well, yes, I do – I really, really hope you’ve got your Orange Crush on and you’re going to vote NDP.

But even more than that, I hope that you are going to just go vote.  If you don’t like any of your choices, go to the polling station and spoil your ballot if you must, but please, please Exercise Your Democratic Right and GO VOTE!

I wish voting day had been yesterday here in Ottawa.  Yesterday was warm and almost summery.  People were out and active and optimistic about life, as only a Canadian in springtime can be. 

Today it’s drizzling and cooler and it feels like the perfect day to curl up with a cup of tea and a good book.  Not the type of day to schlep out to the local school gym and stand in line inhaling the scent of old sweat socks and deflated basketballs while you you’re your turn to mark your X.

Whenever I think about elections, I remember a photo from the Times of India a few years ago of an elephant swaying through the forest with an EVM (electronic voting machine) on its back, bringing the right to vote to remote villagers in India. 

Sounds like a logistical nightmare doesn’t it?  But that’s how important voting is. 

Now, I’m off to take my own advice, fire up the old pachyderm and exercise my democratic right and duty.

Up Close and Personals



"His feet look really small.  What does that mean?
Should I be concerned?"



Everybody’s doing it.  Or not, as the case may be.  But chances are, if you have been single at any point in the last few years, you have probably at least flirted with online dating.  In fact, I know several committed couples who met each other on line and who are now married with kids or buying houses and investment plans together. 

I think online dating can be a great way to meet people.  It beats being thrown out of Loblaws for stalking fellow customers.  (This has not actually happened to me, of course. I just have an active imagination.  No, really.)

I have had several dates as a result of online dating, and the men I met were generally decent, normal guys.  Ok, there were also a couple socially stunted guys who were a little too fond of their video games, superheroes and Star Wars action figures.  But they were still nice enough guys. 

Did you know there are dating sites for every possible special interest?  For example Cougar Life is a site specifically tailored for older women looking to meet younger men.  Sugar Daddy/Sugar Baby is where you can meet someone who is just dying to fund your Manolo Blahnik collection.  There are dating sites for every religion – and even for atheist singles, and sites for special interest groups.  And – I’m not making this up --there’s even a site particularly for Vegan Atheist Singles.  Now that sounds like a fun place to meet some one for a light-hearted evening!

Recently, a few women I know have been trawling the dating waters of a site for oldsters.  There really is no other way to put it.  I mean, the site calls itself “Senior People Date” or something like that. 

The Middle Aged Sage

 “I’m going to kill myself when I’m 39.” 

“Why is that, Tiffany?”

“So I don’t have to be old.”

I’ve never forgotten that conversation, held between myself and a girl in my Grade 11 Basic English class during my first year of teaching. 

I was only about 27 myself, but I was already ancient in the eyes of 15 year old Tiffany. (They were all named Tiffany, Brittany or Courtenay that year.)  I quickly gave up trying to convince her that 40 wasn’t exactly old, feeling pretty confident that she would probably revise her plans well before the due date. 

Far from being a reason to jump off a bridge, middle age has perks that young’uns can’t imagine.  Perks like lower car insurance, and – um…. well, I’m sure there’s other stuff too, but I can’t remember exactly what at the moment.  Improved memory is clearly not one of those perks. 

The great thing about middle age is that you no longer have to care about how you are perceived by others in public.  This is very freeing for the individual, if potentially embarrassing to love ones, acquaintances and others who possibly don’t appreciate the new found feeling of freedom.

I was revisiting these thoughts today.  It began with the trip my sister and I took to Shopper’s Drug Mart Beauty Boutique. We spent a good 45 minutes trawling through the mind-boggling assortment of make-up and beauty products.  Some of these products sound like they actually belong in a hardware store.  Did you know that primer is not just for house paint anymore?  And surely “microderm abrasion pads” are really just “sandpaper”.  Pretty pink rounds of sandpaper, but sandpaper none the less.

 

The Joys of Shopping for Jeans!

 
The only shopping task I hate more than shopping for jeans is shopping for bathing suits. I’m sure you will agree with me.  If you don’t agree because you happen look great in all jeans or all bathing suits, I don’t want to hear about it.  And we can no longer be friends.  Just to let you know.

First there is the size 00 salesclerk who tries to convince me to buy something called “Dangerously Low Cut” jeans… Does she not see the wrinkles on my face? Does she not see my generous backside, the likes of which those dangerous jeans won’t even go half way to covering?

“Here’s an idea,” suggests 00. (I suspect that this may be more than just her size; possibly it’s also her IQ)  “These will stretch to fit anyone.”   Is it just me, or did that sound vaguely insulting? I don’t think salesclerks work on commission anymore, because if they do, 00 will also be this girl’s income.

Anyway, she hands me a pair of “Jeggings” … the hideous cross over garment that can’t decide if it’s a pair of jeans or a pair of leggings. 

Titicaca

Titicaca.  My friend Sai laughed like Beavis and Butthead every time he heard the name of the world’s highest navigable lake.  Can you blame him?  Obviously, it was an absolute must on our whirlwind trip to Peru.

To tell the truth, I think it was partly the name.  For a pair of supposedly mature adults, we spent an inordinate amount of time laughing over it and coming up with alternatives (Boobypoopoo comes to mind.)  (Come on, tell me you weren’t thinking exactly the same thing!)

The lake itself is a deep beautiful blue, perfectly reflecting the clear sky above and stretching away to the horizon where the snow caps of Bolivia looked like distant, unchanging cloud formations.

The first stop on our tour was probably the weirdest place on Earth.  Isla Flotante Uros Balsero is one of a cluster of 42 artificial floating islands made of reeds.  Home of the Uros people.  “Home” as in they permanently live on these massive rafts and have apparently been doing so for many generations – according to our guide, since they took to the lake to hide out from the Spanish Conquistadors.  That’s a long time to hang out on a raft. 

Have no plans, will travel anyway!

You might think that, having reached an age where backpacking and sleeping in creepy hostels are no longer my preferred mode of travel, I would have stumbled upon the benefits of Planning Ahead. 

You might think that, but you would be wrong.  Nowadays I want certain creature comforts like clean sheets and flushing toilets when I travel, but I still strike out without much planning ahead.  I will book a flight to my destination country but nothing else.  Yet I am always confident that I will figure it out when I get there, and everything will work out all right.  

This lax approach to holiday planning has driven certain people I know quite crazy, even when they are not going to be travelling with me. 

When I went to Peru a while back, I was asked the question, “Have you booked your hotels?” so many times in the weeks leading up to my trip that I finally gave in and made a reservation at a Lima pensione for the day of my arrival, just to get everyone off my back.

The friend I was traveling with and I had discussed a rough itinerary, but he is even more last-minute than I am, so of course we hadn’t booked any of our internal flights or any more hotels. 

 

Anne, the Dance Mother

Today's blog is courtesy of my sister, Anne.  You can see from this that our organizational methods are apparently genetic..... Take it away, Anne!

The Dance Mother Test and How I Failed – Miserably

Once upon a time there was a mother whose daughter was dancing in her first competition and

this is her story. ..

Somehow Kathleen did not communicate to us that she was involved in a MAJOR dance

competition until the last moment and then it was only in a piecemeal sort of a way. It took no

fewer than four phone calls to the dance studio to get the details - which I imagine now, given the magnitude of the event, had been sent home in some written form; handed out on a night that Kathleen missed dance. It was huge, a four day extravaganza of competitions involving about twenty studios, a huge expensive program, paid admission, big panel of adjudicators, start bells, the stuff of real competitions! And I had assumed it was just one of those little local things!

Among the details we managed to cobble together was the need for tights from Wal-Mart (yikes!) and her hair in a bun. Thursday night I found myself in Wal-Mart calling husband to inquire – was it pink or white? He called back to say with great certainty, it was white - so I got the last pair in her size. I then spent the better part of the next two hours trying to find some means by which to create a bun. In desperation I called another mom (a real pro) only to find out it was bobby pins and lots of them that I needed.

WWJD?

Efficiency, thy name is Jan. 

My friend Jan is my role model for Getting Things Done.  She gets more done in one day than I can accomplish in a week.  Jan can rise before her alarm clock in the morning, bake muffins from scratch, weed the garden, paint the stairs, repair the crumbling foundation, decorate the dining room and post her facebook status all before her kids and husband wake up.  Talk about six impossible things before breakfast!!!!

My morning routine is somewhat less efficient.  A typical day begins at six when I hit “snooze” for the first time. I’ve perfected the art of snoozing; I can wake up, hit snooze and return to R.E.M. sleep a good five times before I give in to the inevitable and grudgingly throw back the duvet.

This is followed by an astonishing number of trips up and down the stairs as I attempt to organize coffee, showering, dressing, breakfasting and trying to get out the door by 7:15.  Which I never do.  Ever. 

“How is that possible?” asked Jan, last night, when I was moaning about my mornings. This is a good question.  How IS it possible for one adult person to take so long to get going in the morning? 

Jan asked a few more probing questions about why I’m up and down the stairs so many times instead of just sensibly showering, dressing and making-up before going down for breakfast.  Instead of confessing the obvious truth (i.e. Clearly, I'm not “just sensible”), I blamed it on the Harry Potter Bathroom. 

"No Comment"

First of all, I want to thank everyone who has sent me messages and emails of encouragement Your support means more to me than you can know!

I know that some of you have tried to make comments on the blog and they weren’t showing up. 

I’m not exactly a techy wizard.  i.e. I have almost no idea what I’m doing here – which, coupled with a complete inability to read the nerdspeak in the optimistically named “Help” section, means that I have to figure things out by playing around. 

So, I played around with the settings and I think I’ve got it figured out.  At least partially.  Now, instead of all comments going directly to oblivion there are three possible outcomes. 

Option A: The comment will appear on my blog right away.  In which case – yay!

Option B: The comment will go to a secret compartment on my blog where I have to “moderate” it.  Oh the power!!! Ha ha ha.  Ok, really, it means I just have to press ok, and it will appear on my blog.

Option C: The comment will go to the Mysterious Land of Dryer Socks.  In which case, no one can help us.

Thanks again for your comments sent via FB and email, etc.  Love ya!

Have camel, will travel.

The sun was sliding over the horizon of the silent desert when, like a mirage, the short, bandy legged man in a lunghi materialized out of nowhere, trudging up the side of the sand dune.  He raised the bulging burlap sack in his hand and said, “You would like to buy some Kingfisher?”

It was New Year’s Eve, not one of us had thought to bring any alcohol to ring in the New Year.  Not to mention we’d spent a hot, dusty day on camel back.  The only answer was – “Of course we want it!”  We bought the lot and toasted the enterprising beer-wallah and the end of another year with warm swigs of Vijay Mallya’s finest.

Welcome!

The other day I got a piece of mail from Revenue Canada. Not just any piece of mail, but a total shocker, advising me that I owed them an ENORMOUS sum of cash equal to roughly all my life’s blood.

During the tooth-gnashing melt down that ensued, one of the things I said, no wailed, was that I had absolutely nothing to show for my life. And when I said that I really really believed it.

Because judging by certain yardsticks, I don’t have much. No house, no car, no kids, no husband, not much in the way of income at the moment…I don’t even have a TV!!! (Not that I want one) Sounds kind of dire and rock-bottomish, doesn’t it?