Kate's Place

Just Putting It Out There...

2011-07-04T22:15:00.001-04:00

Children at a Government School in Bangalore,
near CIS the international school where I taught.

It’s amazing. After writing the blog about the apartment I was looking for, I found one that checked almost all of the boxes – and it did actually check the boxes that I was truly serious about.

Maybe it was the power of writing the blog, putting it out there, so to speak. So I’m going to put it out there again…. I want to win the lottery – one of those gigantic jackpots. And I actually know what I will do with it.

(Well, I will do with it after having a ginormous party with everyone I know, putting aside money for my niece and nephews and generally taking care of my family.)

I would like to invest in education in India for kids whose families can’t afford to pay for them to finish high school or college. I’m not sure if that would mean creating a school/schools or some kind of scholarship fund. But I know who I would ask to do some research into that question for me. And if it means starting a school, I have some people I would definitely want on board for a school. I know a few teachers, you see….

When I was in India I was able to help a few kids out, and I know that many of my friends also helped out with the education of the children of their maids or drivers.

I had an email recently from one boy – well, now I guess he’s a young man – who, through the help of friends from Canada has been able to finish high school, go to Grade 11/12 college, and is now starting college studying computer engineering. If not for a little help from his friends, he would likely have had to stop studying much earlier and go to work helping his father, who works in construction. (This is nothing like being a contractor in Canada.)

Suresh is one of thousands of kids who deserve this kind of help. He attended a school in Bangalore called Christel House: a school established in 2001 “with the vision of helping children of underprivileged backgrounds break the cycle of poverty, realize their hopes and dreams, and become self-sufficient, contributing members of society.

Christel House is a wonderful initiative and there are others like it, but still not enough. There are still many more children who are eager for an education than places like Christel House can accommodate.

There is a great short documentary about the situation for many children and teens in India that was made by Suresh and two of his classmates, and chosen to be presented at the Naples “Kids for Kids International Film Festival in 2007. I don’t think the film is still available on line, but there is a news item about it at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KFX-Qaz7b8M

Do I need to win the lottery to help kids like Suresh have a better chance? Obviously not. But I’m just putting it out there…..

Apartment Hunting

2011-06-20T08:24:00.000-04:00

I’m off to Toronto to find a place to live!

It's pretty exciting, especially since I haven't had to do my own house-hunting for the last several years. In both India and Turkey, I had flats supplied by the schools I worked for, so I didn't get to choose what I wanted.

Now is my chance!

There are approximately 17 gazillion apartments in Toronto. I only need one of them, so I think it should be a breeze to find the perfect one for me.

After living overseas for so many years, I’m used to living quite simply. The only things I require are:

- within a ten minute drive to my new school

- underground parking

- bright, airy, spacious flat

- newly reno’d and painted (Farrow and Ball’s Elephant’s Breath would be nice)

- (as a colour, that is; I imagine it would be a different story as a scent…)

- decent kitchen with fridge and stove

- a gas range would be a great bonus

- as would a dishwasher

- and a small cube deep-freeze

- and a maid

- slash cook

- an updated bathroom

- with great water pressure in the shower

- preferably a Jacuzzi tub

- and NOT ugly sixties pink or green toilets

- two bedrooms with ceiling fans

- good closet space/ walk in closets by California closets

- or Ikea – I’m not fussy

- hardwood floors throughout

- the kind with wide floor boards and a walnut stain

- parquet in a Celtic knot pattern with walnut/maple is okay too, I guess

- high end crown moulding too

- a big balcony suitable for entertaining

- with built in planters and a mini-bar at one end

- oh and a nice view of Lake Ontario

- year round climate control

- a fireplace – wood burning, of course

- an in-building gym, pool and convenience store

- laundry facilities

- a cheerful, handy superintendent who likes changing lightbulbs

- and killing bugs

- not that I will have any bugs

- or rats

- good neighbours; particularly ones who don’t have big, loud, drunken parties

- or who invite me when they do have them

- the “tall, dark, handsome” and single type of neighbours who mix a good martini

If anyone has any leads on an apartment just like this, please send me a quick message with the details. And of course, everyone is invited to my house-warming party.

Sai Arigala

2011-06-16T21:13:00.000-04:00

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"

2011-05-29T14:11:00.001-04:00

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

2011-05-22T22:07:00.002-04:00

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.

I never saw it, but I doubt my rat was this cute!

“I think you have a rat,” he said.

“What do frayed wires have to do with a rat?” I wondered.

“The rat’s chewing them.”

“But why would I have a rat. There’s nothing for a rat to eat here!”

“That’s why it’s eating the wires,” Ranganath insisted.

It sounded a bit like circular logic to me, but it turns out that Ranganath was right. I did some intense investigation and discovered that there were a few rat droppings that I hadn’t spotted (because they were underneath the washing machine).

Ranganath recommended one of those sticky traps to catch the rat – the ones where the rat runs on and gets stuck. I couldn’t stomach the thought of it. The thought of a live rat that I would have to Finish Off was just more than I could handle.

The thought of the live rat period was more than I could handle. The only good thing about this rat was that I hadn’t seen it yet. It was more like the rumour of a rat than an actual toothy, worm-tailed, flea-bitten rodent at this point.

I elected to Do It In with cakes of rat poison, ignoring Ranganath’s scorn on the effectiveness of rat cakes. I duly plopped two of the cakes beside the washing machine before I went to bed that night. (Where I lay awake with the light on listening for rat-like scuffling until I fell into an exhausted doze.)

In the morning the rat cakes were gone! I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. On the good side it meant (I naively believed) that the rat had eaten the poison and would die. On the bad side, it meant that there really was a rat. And that I might have a stinky dead rat carcass to contend with.

Just to be sure, I set out rat cakes again that night. In the morning they were gone. And again on the third night I put out more poison. And on the third morning – gone.

Something was up. At this point I realized that the rat poison cakes probably didn’t work. And now I was just basically feeding the thing. Charming. Not exactly the pet I would have chosen.

I had to get more aggressive in my attempts to kill it. Or I had to move out.

I decided not to be so wimpy. First I tried to find where the rat was living or coming into the flat. This was a mystery that I never did solve.

But I did discover that the crafty little bugger had been piling the rat poison cakes in a dark corner of a cupboard that had only a curtain covering it. If I wasn’t determined to kill it, I would have actually been proud of my little pet for being so smart!

There was definitely no rat’s nest IN my flat, so I concluded that it was coming in and out every night – by what route or means I never figured out.

Serious Poison! Note: it is even strong
enough to kill blondes!

I got some Serious Poison – which, by the way, you can buy on any street corner – and put it down with the appropriate bait (the chemist recommended coriander and peanuts) and put it near the washing machine.

In the morning there was no discernable disturbance in the poison. I wondered if the rat realized that I was serious and the jig was up, or if it really did eat some of the poison before crawling away to die somewhere.

But from then until the end of the school year, there was no more rat poo or any other signs of rat habitation in my flat. So it was gone!

UNTIL……

I came back from summer holidays only to discover that a rat had moved into my washing machine over the summer. And given birth!

Fortunately my housekeeper had discovered and Dealt With the rats a few days before I got back, but I never looked at my washing machine the same way again!

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

2011-05-21T21:14:00.005-04:00

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.

Not only did the world keep turning, but here in Ottawa, it was an exceptionally beautiful day with no weather at all, let alone the promised tornadoes, earthquakes, plagues of frogs and locusts etc. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero. You would think the Rapture had never happened the way people just kept carrying on.

What a rip off!

But wait! My research, it turns out, was incomplete. Today is just the beginning of the end. It was only the Judgement Day for believers. They have been sent to heaven today, while those of us who are still here – because we don’t believe? – are apparently in for a rough ride for the next five months. THEN the world will totally end.

So I didn’t miss the Big Event after all. Phew.

I did, however, miss the 1^st Annual End of the World Party, in Portland, Oregon, sponsored by the Pastafarians. Maybe next year.

So happy belated Rapture, everyone, and enjoy the rest of the long weekend!

P.S. I have to say that I was a bit disappointed that Google didn’t create a special “Google Doodle” for the Rapture today, like they do to commemorate other important dates. (I particularly enjoyed the recent ones celebrating Roger Hargreaves’ Mr. Men books!)

Discourse of Fools?

2011-05-19T23:18:00.001-04:00

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!!

2011-05-09T21:08:00.004-04:00

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.

A few years back, I took a trip to Portugal with a good friend and her grown up son. We somehow got onto the subject of the FSM and the Pirate Corollary on the flight to Faro, and ended up spending most of the next two weeks talking like pirates and three sheets to the wind.

Portugal

is a good place to have an obsession with buccaneers, what with its history of sea-faring, exploring, piracy and all. And it’s funny how, when you are tuned into something, you see evidence of it every where! It felt like everywhere we looked we saw pirate ships – from the shop signs to the full sized pirate ship we stumbled upon in Lagos.

Only 5 euros at the gypsy market!

I became so pirate-obsessed, I even bought clothing: a t-shirt emblazoned with a skull and cross-bones and the words “Pirate Ladies” and pair of pointy-toed buckle-y shoes that would make a pirate proud – and only 5 Euros at the gypsy market!

My pirate obsession resurfaced recently because at work (I work with kids) I have been dealing with a number of pirates while organizing a trip to Pirate Adventures in Ottawa. The lads have been leaving phone messages for me in pirate, and answering “Ahoy” when I return their calls. I get a little flustered and flushed when I talk to them, what with their talk of booty and the size of their cutlasses……

We’ll get to spend an entire morning with the likes of Barnacle Bill, Typhoid Terry and Cap’n Murky, cruising the high seas in a “real facsimile” pirate ship! (ok, ok maybe not quite the high seas… more like Mooney’s Bay, but at least it’s real water). I can’t wait!!

Where does one find a pirate in 2011? There’s always internet dating….. Can you believe that there really are Pirate-based dating sites out there? Google it for yourself. You know you want to. Now, I ask you: if you had to choose between the Vegan Atheist dating site I’ve mentioned previously and Pirate’s Booty.com (or whatever it’s called) wouldn’t your choice be as obvious and simple as mine?

With my luck, I will end up dating the kind of pirate who burns dvds of his downloaded old Star Trek episodes and sells them in back alleys. But as long as he is willing to share his ruffley shirts, I think it could still work out! Aye, me hearties, it could still work out!

Vote Early and Vote Often!

2011-05-02T10:37:00.000-04:00

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

2011-04-28T22:15:00.000-04:00

"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.

“Senior Meet Up” (or whatever it’s actually called – all I know is “senior” is in there) sounds like the name of a club for mall-walking retirees. But, no. It’s truly an online dating site for people over the age of forty.

Forty! WTF? When did 40 suddenly become “senior”? Last time I checked, 40 was the new 30. I’ve even heard it called the new 25 by people who like to delude themselves even more than I do! But if you think about it, these deluded types are only out by 15 years, whereas this website seems to be out by 25 years – if you go by the age at which one may collect a pension and qualify for senior discounts!

I digress.

Witnessing the web-dating shenanigans of 50-something women was both entertaining AND educational. I learned some strategies that I’ll definitely adopt the next time I make a foray into the online dating jungle. Most importantly, I learned that in the modern dating game, it is essential to arm oneself with a sense of humour, a couple glasses of wine and a magnifying glass.

The need for a sense of humour is self explanatory once you start cruising through the profiles... Otherwise the horrors of the shirtless, scrawny sixty-something bachelors with toothy (or is it denturey?) grins might send make you cancel your subscription and run off to the nearest cat shelter for companionship.

(I only saw the profiles of the men, but I’m guessing that ridiculous profiles are an equal opportunity thing; likely there are also some terrifying profiles of women that have legions of men seeking refuge in their comic book collections.)

A glass of wine (or two) can make the hours of scrolling through cheesy pick up lines more bearable… but at all costs avoid DD. Drunken Dating can prompt you to send some truly squirm-worthy messages.

These mails probably sound witty and fascinating to you in your alcohol induced haze. But can you guarantee that the recipient of your brilliance will be equally blotto when reading your words? It’s one thing to slobber, “I love you, man,” to friends who know and love you, even when you’re three sheets to the wind, but perfect strangers…. not so much. Imperfect strangers, even less so.

As for the magnifying glass… Well, I guess when your reading glasses aren’t quite what they used to be (to say nothing of your eyes), and the profile pictures were taken at 100 metres….. I gently tried to suggest zooming the screen, but my advice was ignored. In fact, an even bigger magnifying glass was purchased (though thankfully not a chain on which to wear it around the neck!)

Turns out the magnifying glass was quite helpful in highlighting small things like ear, nose and back hair, crossed eyes and wedding rings. These were details that the models were no doubt hoping to hide by sprawling over the hood of their classic cars, showing off their trophy fish, kissing puppies or otherwise attempting to distract viewers. I know it’s probably not fair to judge someone by their profile picture alone, but on the other hand, it is the picture they purposely chose to represent themselves…..

So, my advice for anyone surfing the singleton sites? Do it with a martini in one hand and a magnifying glass in the other. But most of all, keep your sense of humour close by and have fun!!!

The Middle Aged Sage

2011-04-23T17:43:00.002-04:00

“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.

Lately I’ve become interested in/obsessed with finding some kind of magical potion that will remove fine lines, deep wrinkles and full-on craters of the face. (I know, I know – the potion exists and it’s called Botox! And in the hardware store it would be caulking…. hmm… I wonder….)

Like Amitabh's beard, my eyebrows are going startlingly white!

I digress. The only thing I needed was a pair of tweezers to keep my eyebrows in check between threading sessions. It’s not that I mind the occasional stray bit, but I do object to the few wiry pure white browy bits that have recently made their appearance on my face. Why would my eyebrows be going grey before the rest of my hair? It’s like Amitabh Bachan’s beard sprouting above my eyes!!

Anyhow, I literally couldn’t wait to put my new tweezers to good use, and as soon as we got to the car, I flipped down the sun visor and got plucking. It was a little hard to do while Anne was driving. And at one point, I glanced out the side window and realized that my grooming session was being witnessed by a gaggle of eleven year old girls who stared at me with fascinated horror. I’m sure that if my tween neice Kathleen had been in the car, she would have been mortified by my behaviour.

But I’ve got that cool, “I’m-middle-aged-and-I-don’t-care-how-dorky-I-am” groove on, so I smiled at them and kept tweezing even though they clearly thought I had lost it.

And maybe I have, but it is very freeing nonetheless, to not really mind what others think of your adorable little idiosyncrasies. This benefit of the aging process was summed up aptly in a birthday card I gave to Anne last year: “They say that as you get older, you start to lose your mind. What they don’t tell you is that you won’t miss it very much.”

The Joys of Shopping for Jeans!

2011-04-19T23:14:00.000-04:00

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.

Let me explain my body type. Basically, I look exactly like a super model. A super model in the House of Mirrors at the Fun Fair who is standing in front of the mirror that makes her look half her natural height and twice her natural width and wobbly around the edges.

Now imagine that body type in jeggings. Actually, you don’t have to imagine… just go look at some sausage links and you will have all the visual you need to help you understand why I elect to shun the jegging.

Next I am offered boot cut jeans that look like all the jeans I’ve owned for the past decade. Probably a safe bet, but I am looking to spice up my wardrobe a little bit, or at least move it towards the new millennium.

“How about a straight leg?” I venture.

A thorough investigation of the many cuts on offer (Dangerously Low Cut Skinny, Low Cut Skinny, Dangerously Low Cut Slim, Low Cut Slim, Dangerously Low Cut Slim Bootleg, Anorexic Hip Bone Hugging Skinny, etc. – it is worse than trying to order a drink at Starbucks) reveals nothing that is classified as “straight”.

“How about these? They look good on EVERYONE!” suggests 00, holding up a pair of Low Cut But Not Offensively So Skinny Boy Cut Deep Indigo jeans. “And they’re on sale!”

Well! On sale. How can I not try them on at least?

The answer to that question is: I physically can’t try them on. I will never know if they would have looked as good on me as they did on EVERYONE, because I cannot get them on at all. It isn’t even that they are too short in the rise to cover my hind quarters, or that they are too slim in the leg for my post-adolescent thighs. The fact is, they are so “skinny” that I can’t even get my foot through the bottom of the leg opening without dislocating my ankle.

00 decides it is her personal mission to find me some up-dated jeans. She ferries pair after pair to the change room for me until I am surrounded by a sea of denim and riddled with indecision. Dark wash or whiskered? Contrast stitching or classic stitching? Rhinestones or embroidery? Wide leg trouser style or boyfriend jean?

Too many decisions. Too many jeans. Too much time in the change room. And by the way, about those change rooms… There’s just nothing like florescent lights for picking out the cellulite is there? Why don’t they use subtle mood lighting in change rooms if they really want to sell clothes… you know, the kind that make everyone look gorgeous… and tilt the mirrors so that you look taller and leaner…

The only decision I am capable of by the end of the experience is to go home and have a large glass of Malbec.

And I have just realized that coming home empty-handed just means I have to do it all over again!

Titicaca

2011-04-18T20:26:00.004-04:00

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.

A demonstration in island-building

Of course, these floating islands are much more than mere rafts. They are made out of totora reeds that grow thickly on the lake. Each island is made from reeds stacked or woven up to make a dense, spongy sort of “ground” that’s about a metre thick. They need to maintain the islands by throwing new heaps of reeds on them as the bottom bits rot away…… Walking on it is like walking on a slightly sturdier than normal bouncy castle.

The reeds are also an important food source. Peeled, they taste a bit like a mild radish. The women on the island we spent most of our time on were chewing them almost continuously. They also farm fish and hunt ducks.

She offered to swap outfits...

These days, many of the lake dwellers have some modern amenities (like electric light) out there in the middle of the lake thanks to solar panels and approximately 360 days of sunshine a year. One of the women took me by the hand and led me into her house – also made of woven reeds – and offered to let me try on her traditional outfit of a bright pink multi-layered skirt and the pom-pommed sombrero hat that (I think) singled her out as either a new bride or an eligible bachelorette. I declined the generous offer as politely as possible.

It was fascinating and mind-boggling to imagine living on these little floating oases in the middle of a freezing cold lake. How do they not drive each other completely stark staring mad? You couldn’t even go for a walk to blow off steam, since the largest of the rafts is no bigger than the average school gymnasium.

The truth is most of the Uros people have abandoned their traditional way of life and headed for shore. The few that remain on the lake are mainly there for tourism. I’m just glad I had the chance to see their floating homes and meet them while they are still there.

Have no plans, will travel anyway!

2011-04-17T10:49:00.000-04:00

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.

The result of this lack of planning was that we had to start out at the highest point – Cuzco, instead of adjusting to the altitude by visiting Arequipa first. But at least we did get to see most of the places we wanted to see after all. (We couldn’t have seen ALL of them unless we had a few months to spend noodling around – Peru is a huge and diverse, incredibly beautiful country.)

Since we started out at the highest point with no time to get used to the mountains, I was affected by the altitude from the minute I got off the plane in Cuzco and started walking sideways like a disoriented crab. I was light-headed and slightly breathless the whole time I was there – it felt a little bit like being drunk. I drank lots of coca tea and sucked coca candies, hoping that they would either cure the altitude sickness or get me a bit high.

Seeing the Inca sites around Cuzco was worth any discomfort, and we could have happily stayed longer to have more time for hanging out in the squares, taking photos, and just gazing at the peaks of the Andes.

If we were more organized people, and if we had booked it a year in advance, and if we had time to adjust to the altitude and if we had more time to for the holiday, we could have walked the Inca trail from Cuzco to Machu Picchu, but that’s a lot of “ifs”, and quite honestly, I might be a bit too lazy and fond of indoor plumbing to have fully enjoyed the trek. So we took the train.

No matter how you get there, Machu Picchu is as breath-taking, beautiful and strange as the guide books promise. Set like a jewel in the ring of mountains, it shows the ingenuity, engineering ability and sheer hard work of the Incas who built this lost city on the top of a mountain and then abandoned it during the Spanish Conquest.

And we got to see it even without planning ahead. In fact, if we’d planned our trip in advance, we might not have been on the particular train we boarded, heading back to Cuzco that evening. We would have missed the unexpected delight of a fashion show of Peruvian woollens put on by our train attendants to the accompaniment of ear-splitting Peruvian disco music. Yet another mind-boggling, breath-taking and strangely beautiful sight.

Because although seeing ancient sites is a fine reason to travel, what it really comes down to for me is people watching, and being privileged to get a glimpse into another culture, even including the whacky ways people find reach out to tourists.

P.S. Sady, my camera was out of juice by then, but you can go to YouTube and search for “Peru Rail fashion show” to get an idea of what I mean!

Anne, the Dance Mother

2011-04-16T21:28:00.000-04:00

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.

At home I told Kathleen we were having bun practice that night and that she would sleep with her hair in pony tail to avoid the usual morning hysterics that come with my picking up a hair brush. I realized that her hair was too much for all the bobby pins in the world.

5:30 the next morning we were up and getting ready; white tights and a bun; I had a 2 a.m. brain wave (using two elastics - one on the inside and one around the whole mass once it was wound). We had to be at the studio by 7:15 so Kathleen could get the main part of her costume which was being altered. I just had to bring the tutu part which had come home in a bag, where I left it for a couple of weeks along with the hair thing that I wasn't at all sure where to attach.

When we got there; all of the other kids were completely dressed, with elegant buns, pink
tights, freshly fluffed tutus and make up that would put Liza Minelli to shame! How was I to know that tutus needed fluffing? And sending her on to school in make up? "No" I said at home
earlier...

This is when my self esteem began to crack. I had to hunt and dig for the altered costume as the
dance school owner wasn't there yet. The dance teacher was in a bit of a state about the white
tights. The looks of distain other mothers, who apparently stayed up all night to ensure the
daughters were perfectly turned out and from their beautifully made up little girls at my daughter, made me think that perhaps I got it wrong about the makeup. A little mascara wouldn't kill Kathleen and maybe a touch of eye shadow, some eyeliner, with blush and lipstick would round out the look. So I dumped the contents of my makeup bag on the studio floor and proceeded to doll Kathleen up, including poking her in the eye with my waterproof mascara, for the complete Raggedy Ann effect.

Tracy (owner) showed up and in her very calm unflappable way handed me the costume and
explained to me that you can fluff a tutu over the kettle to which she led me. Try as I might I
could not make it boil. (She explained the part about the water to me next.) The teacher then
came up with a pair of pink tights and sent Kathleen off to change. She then rather briskly
ordered ‘who-ever-left-this-make-up-all-over-the-floor’ to remove it so they could practice.

Once the tutu was ready, make up collected and Kathleen in pink tights we did that completely
farcical routine of chasing each other in circles to get the freshly fluffed tutu on. Two rounds of the studio later, one of the other mothers watching it all, stopped Kathleen and I caught up. As they finally practiced and I watched, I realized that with every bark from the teacher about better "turn out” that I was in a perfect ballet first position!

Off to the Opera House for 8:00 a.m. It really dawned on me then that this was a really BIG deal
competition, hence the BIG attitude from the other mothers! They had greeters to get us to the
right room, ushers to move the whole group around the back stage area where I was admonished for having a cup of coffee - one that I really really needed.

I decided at that point that I would just go around and sit in the auditorium where I thought I was supposed to be meeting Chris. I got to the lobby to find out that it would cost me $10 to just sit in the auditorium, $5 more if I wanted a program - cash only. I found the only cash I had in change at the bottom of my purse and paid to get in to hand off the day clothes to Chris who was taking her to school later (she was the only one whose parents were making her do that!). Waiting for a break between dances so as not to disturb the dancers on stage, I got in; no Chris. It seemed that he thought he was meeting me backstage only to be met by "NO MEN PAST THIS POINT" signs everywhere.

I popped into a seat beside some other mother from one of the other nineteen studios
participating. The next dance started and my cell phone began to ring - by the tenth ring I
silenced it and was able to watch the routine. 11 - 12 year olds who looked like a gaggle of colts on stage - all legs and a bit gangly; I commented to the woman sitting next to me. Of
course that was her daughter on stage...and of course she belongs to our studio.

Thankfully Chris got there - got in for free because he knows everyone including the janitor at the Opera House. Kathleen danced beautifully, in pink tights and with her bun in place. She got a bronze (if you don't get gold or silver you get a bronze) and was very proud of it.

When she was finished I went out to meet her (as did all of the other mothers). Her rather loud
and surprised comment to me was, "Mom, did you actually stay to watch me dance?" I am sure
the other mothers would never have left their children with the impression that their jobs were a titch more important than dance competitions. I am sure that IF they have jobs they booked the whole week off, had manicures, pedicures, a complete dye job and their legs waxed for the occasion.

I am going to go back to that competition this week-end to buy one of those pricey programs
because it probably has "the rules" in it. I will take the test again next year.

It is four years later...and I like to think I have lightened up a bit! I now pass with flying colours because the real rule is - Don't take it too seriously!

WWJD?

2011-04-15T22:36:00.004-04:00

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.

You see, the house I live in has an upstairs bathroom and a downstairs bathroom which is located in a closet-ish affair under the stairs (like Harry Potter’s bedroom). For the first month or so that I lived here, the upstairs toilet wasn’t working, so first thing in the morning, I had to traipse down to the Harry Potter loo. And while I was down there, I would put the coffee on and noodle around the kitchen, flip through a magazine…. It became my morning habit. (Who am I kidding? I’ve always been a morning noodler.)

“My husband is the same way,” Jan sighed. “After ten years, I still can’t convince him to get dressed before he comes downstairs. He’s the last one ready every morning. The kids and I will be ready to get in the car and he’ll just be getting in the shower.”

Hmmmmm….. getting dressed before going downstairs. Novel idea. I resolved to try it Jan’s way for one day and see how it went.

So, this morning, when my alarm went, and I hit snooze as usual, a fleeting thought went through my head. “I bet Jan never hits snooze.” I got out of bed. Used the UPSTAIRS loo and got immediately into the shower.

All morning, I kept thinking, “WWJD?” (What would Jan do?) and using that as my criteria for the next move. In amazingly rapid succession, I bathed, dressed, blow-dried and put on my mascara. I even found a few minutes to tidy my bedroom, make my bed and clean up my writing desk. All without the benefit of coffee.

When I got downstairs, the coffee was already made, thanks to the automatic function on the coffee maker. AND I had 20 minutes to drink my coffee and eat my breakfast. Everything else was done.

I wafted around with my coffee and cereal, feeling like some kind of domestic goddess, all serene, efficient and capable. What a great morning! At 7:14, I brushed my teeth – right on time and with so much accomplished. Everything was neat and tidy and all was right with the world.

As I leaned over the sink to spit, the cowl neck of my sweater swung out in a graceful arc, forming a little pouch that perfectly caught my entire mouthful of foam.

Well, F#*&!

“WWJD? WWJD?” I thought frantically tearing off the sweater and flinging my drawers around looking for something else clean to throw on. Changing my sweater had a domino effect on the rest of my outfit and everything spiralled downward from there until it was 7:28 and I was charging out the door, thirteen minutes late, sweating and dishevelled, missing the bus and suspecting that my new outfit made me look like a circus clown. (Specifically the midget circus clown who runs in circles around the clown car, begging the other clowns to let him in.)

Well, it was a fun experiment to try channelling Jan for the morning, but the truth is, I am a born noodler. The only cure may be to find a job that starts at noon!

"No Comment"

2011-04-12T20:37:00.000-04:00

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.

2011-04-11T22:25:00.004-04:00

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.

Doesn't he look haughty yet Muppet-like?

The day had started with me sitting on the balcony of my hotel room on the walls of the ancient fort city of Jaisalmer, Rajastan. The sheer glamour of staying in the fort walls made me feel a bit like Aishwarya Rai in Jodha Akbar. Without the jewels, silk, or Miss Universe looks…. but still, it was a spectacular place to watch the sun rise.

My group for the camel trek met our guides early and we were driven out into the desert in jeeps to meet our camels and camel drivers. My camel’s name was Fidel. “As in Castro?” I ask the proud owner, whose name turned out to be Cuba. Go figure.

Fidel looked like a cross between a Muppet and a haughty butler. (Don’t all camels?) He glared at me balefully and looked like he wanted to spit on me, but Cuba assured me that his camels were all gentle, obedient creatures. Fidel spat out the thing he’d been chewing, raised his head and made a sound exactly like a toilet backing up. Then he picked up his snack and got back to ruminating.

“What’s he eating?” I asked Cuba.

“A bone.”

“Why is he eating a bone?”

“Non-veg camel,” said Cuba.

Mounting a camel is nothing like mounting a horse. It’s more like scrambling up the side of a garden shed. And that’s when the camel is kneeling down. It took a couple of tries and a shove from

Cuba

for me to get up. I was feeling pretty proud of myself when Fidel gave a sudden lurch that nearly shot me forward down his neck and head first into the sand. Turns out that when a kneeling camel stands up, it goes hind end first and then the front end follows.

The first stop on our two day trek was to a camel watering stop, where not one of them drank a drop. You can lead a camel to water….

Riding Fidel wasn’t hard since I didn’t have to steer. I just had to sit there and he fell into his place in line. We walked at a steady pace with the occasional trot. (The men all complained about pain and discomfort on the trots… sorry, guys!) I had plenty of time to admire the desert scenery and imagine that I was part of caravan on the Silk Road hundreds of years ago.

Two days in the saddle was quite enough for my unaccustomed rear, but they were two of the best days ever. The strange beauty of the desert, the banter of Cuba and his colleagues, our unexpected beer-wallah, the way our campfire felt so tiny in the middle of the desert, sleeping with nothing but a bedroll between me and the stars… there were too many wonderful moments. My favourite one was shortly after six am, when one of the camel drivers quietly woke us all up so we watch the first sun of the new year rise over the Thar Desert. Utterly spectacular.

P.S. I could have stayed there for the rest of my life -- Cuba made me an offer of marriage, but with no camels or goats to offer for my dowry, I didn’t think it fair to accept.

Welcome!

2011-04-10T16:26:00.000-04:00

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?

So let me get quickly to the next point.

And that point is that I lead an incredible and extraordinary life. I’ve been brave enough to ship off on my own and live half way across the world not once but three separate times (and counting). I’ve traveled to some of the most amazing corners of this beautiful planet. I’ve slept in the open desert beside the camel I rode on all day, trodden the stones that Aristotle and Plato walked on, eaten things I couldn’t identify on sweaty street corners, written a novel or two, worked in jobs that are fun and fulfilling….. well, you get the point, right?

But I realized that in judging my life against the normal conventions, I’d forgotten how amazing my life has been and continues to be. How screwy is that?

I vowed that I would never again judge my life against the yardstick of anyone else's expectations. And I'm finally going to get around to doing something with the pictures and the stories I've been accumulating during the expat life I've lived for most of the last ten years!