What You Owe Me

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What you owe me is an apology. An apology for being so fukcing insensitive. An apology for thinking we are close enough for that elbow-in-the-ribs-just kidding-hardy-har-har sh!t. Didn’t you notice the silence that followed? The slow, drawn out, dripping with barely contained sarcasm when he replied, “riiiighhht….” Was the tension thick enough or did you move right through it oblivious (as usual)?
This is a public rant so filled with anger you might want to turn your heads. Someone touch a nerve you ask? Not hardly. This wound is so raw, so tired of people poking at it, never giving it time to heal that it has bled dry. Nothing left to give. It gets tiring, always making excuses, pretending to be brazen and beyond it all. Well, not anymore.
DINK. Dual Income No Kids. Also stands for Didn’t I Not Know? Here’s what you don’t know. I’ll break it down for you:
Dual Income – yes because neither one of us is in it for the money we need both incomes to live the life we want. Neither of us has the luxury of being a stay at home anythings. Dual income because we love the work we do. Wouldn’t change a thing even though it means working for nuts and peanuts.

No Kids – Here’s where I gnash teeth and spit nails because you have no clue what you are talking about. Did you ever consider this: Clinically infertile. Barren. Irrevocable damaged goods. WhatE-v-e-r you want to call it. No natural born killers kids. No. Maybe there was a kid and now he’s gone and nothing can replace him? One shot deal. Adoption is a laughable gesture. Who in their right mind wants to hand over a kid to someone who has lost a mind; been to the funny farm? Has a shrink on speed dial? Has tried to commit suicide more than once? Has mental moments on an almost daily basis? Give me a fukcing break.
There comes a time when you know something just wasn’t meant to be. Seriously. You don’t pine away. You don’t cry over spilt sperm. You pick your azz up and carry on. Last but not least, you don’t take too kindly to the nickname dink.
So, back to what you owe me. Dink.

What We All Long For

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Brand, Dionne. What We All Long For: a Novel. Toronto: First St. Martin (Griffin edition), 2008.

From the very beginning I thought this book looked interesting. Originally published in 2005 I had heard that it had even been used in university Lit classes. Upon knowing that tidbit I assumed a level of complication with the characters and a deeper depth of plot. Here is what I came away with: complicated characters that all want something (parallel to the title). Their relationships to one another go around and around – always circling one another – but really, going nowhere. This is where the plot came up short. That sense of longing hums along the fine lines of each relationship, and there is a common theme of boundaries but beyond those connections each character is lost. Tuyen is a lesbian in love with her straight best friend. Longing for someone she can’t have, sexual preference is Tuyen’s barrier. Carla is the biracial bike messenger Tuyen is in love with. Carla has a troubled brother. Longing to steer her brother straight, lack of money is Carla’s barrier to helping him. Oku is a music-loving college drop-out of Jamaican decent. His unrequited love for Jackie is his longing while her boyfriend is the barrier. Jackie longs for simplicity. Her barrier is being attracted to more than one man.

Oddly enough, the linear, uncomplicated character of the story (told in first person) is the one with the most depth and more intriguing story. Quy is the brother of Tuyen. He was separated from his parents in Vietnam as a very young child and has been lost to them ever since. His story is how her survived refugee camps in Thailand and how eventually, he made his way back to Tuyen and her family. Tuyen has never met this long-lost brother so when he reunites with his parents life changes for Tuyen.

The last character in What We All Long For is probably Brand’s most complex and mysterious: the city of Toronto itself. As the characters move in and out of its restaurants, nightclubs, streetcars, and alleys the city responds. It lives and breathes and entices just like its human counterparts.

Lost Without It

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Me without my right hand ring is like not having a right hand at all. Friday night seemed normal enough. Nothing out of the ordinary. Exchanged texts with a friend and laughed about his upcoming gigs. Worked out. Took a cold bath but washed my hair standing over the tub, bent under the faucet. Later, I read a chapter in bed, a cool sheet draped over my knees. Coming into the home stretch of a really good book I got sleepy. When kisa came to bed I curled around his hip, grateful for the sleep that was coming fast & easy.

I couldn’t tell you what made me notice; what made me panic, but all of a sudden I felt my thumb ring was gone. For nearly 7 years this silver band with cod worn smooth swimming clockwise has not left my right hand. It’s my symbolic home away from home and suddenly it was missing. A strip of pale white skin marked where the ring should have been. Wide awake with panic I jumped out of bed. Kisa frantically asking “what? What? What’s wrong?” but I couldn’t answer him. It all seemed too stupid. This piece of metal was an extension of my, myself & moi. How could I explain that without it I was completely lost? Even now I don’t expect anyone to understand this whatsoever.

Like a madwoman I retraced my steps. Back to where I lifted. Did I fling it off mid tricep kickback? Wouldn’t I feel something like that? Back to where I undressed for the bath…back to the…bath. Oh no. With dread I remembered standing over the drain, my soapy hands scrubbing my scalp, the force of water when I rinsed (Why did we have to have such great, rushing water pressure?!), the open drain….I pictured the ring slipping off oh so easily and sliding down the drain to be lost forever. It was the only logical explanation. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. That had to be it. Kisa lured me back to bed and with the sulk of a child I went.

By 4:30am I was awake again and crawling around the living room on my hands and knees searching under the couch and in the folds of the fabric. I pictured calling my sister and asking her for the phone number to the shop where I got the ring 7 years earlier. I was getting desperate enough to have another one shipped to me although in my heart of hearts I knew it wouldn’t be the same. Not finding anything downstairs I was drawn back to the bath. Hypnotized by the thought of the ring going down the drain I tested my theory…with my wedding ring. My $1,000+ wedding ring. Holding it tightly I tried to push it down the drain and discovered…it wouldn’t fit. There was hope my ring of fishes didn’t fit either. 

In the end it was tangled in a tank top I had taken off earlier. Somehow it had lodged itself in the built-in bra and didn’t come loose even after I shook the shirt. I think Kisa was relieved I was happy again. I was happy I found my sanity.

Friend of My Youth

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Munro, Alice. Friend of My Youth. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1990.

In the very first chapter of Book Lust Nancy Pearl talks about the Alices. Alice Adams, Alice Hoffman, Alice Munro, Alice McDermott…to name a few. I recognized all, and read most of the names except one: Alice Munro. The stranger Alice of the group. Now, two years after starting the project I am finally reading an Alice Munro book.

Friend of My Youth is a collection of short stories all based on the lives of women.
“Friend of My Youth” is the opening story. Imagine hearing a story from your mother, something that happened long before you were born, but has stayed in your mother’s mind all this time and important enough to be told to you when you were old enough. But, and this is the catch, you don’t know how it ends, even after your mother’s death. You simply don’t know the end. And so begins Friend of My Youth. The connection through all of the stories are women. They have lead roles emotionally as well as physically.

The best lines: “Her hair was freshly done to blind the eye with brassy reflections, and her face looked as if it would come off on a man’s jacket, should she lay it against his shoulder in the dancing” (Friend of My Youth, p 18).
“‘Watch out for him,’ Barbara told the other clerks. ‘He’s a jerk, but he knows how to stick things to his fingers'” (Oranges and Apples, p 107).
There were other charming details like the winter and summer kitchens in “Friend of My Youth” & the watching for satellites in “Oranges and Apples.”

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter “A…My Name is Alice” (p 1).

You Got Sun

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How many times can people point out the obvious before you want to either bite their heads off or say ‘No Sh!t Sherlock’ which I guess is one and the same… I can gauge my level of tolerance by how soon I start counting things. When I start noticing just how many times something is brought to my attention I know I’m near my annoyed stage, soon to be moving onto my pissed off stage. Scary, but true. It’s like counting to ten before dishing out the punishment to a small child. “If you don’t cut that out before I count to ten! One…two…” Yup. I’m childish. I count.

On my 6th day in California I got the “you got sun” comment 27 times. 27 times. Sometimes more than once by the same person, punctuated by an oohing sound, as in “oooh, looks like you got sun.” You would think I would know how burnt I was by the flame red parboiled look of my taut skin, the faint stingingsensation I felt whenever anything brushed my shoulders….but, no. People still felt the need to point out the obvious. You. Got. Sun. As if I wasn’t embarrassed enough by the fact that the SPF 50 I slathered on earlier had no effect. As if I wanted to be this burnt. I like my skin. I like not having cancer. Lamenting and tsk tsk-ing over my overexposed epidermis only made things worse. It’s not like I went for the singed look on purpose. It’s not like I was enjoying my new look.

Yes, I got sun. Now leave me alone. Go away. But, hey. Hand me the aloe before you go.

Could Have Stayed

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Week Two of the FarmI could have stayed at the farm all day. Today, I introduced myself to Liz. She’s always eating something from a bowl when I come in (well, she’s two for two so far)…I guess if I lived on a honest-to-goodness working CSA farm, I too, would be munching on something several times a day! I let her know we wanted to donate next week’s share to the homeless shelter.

The week was an interesting mix: beets, turnips, green onions, green garlic, summer squash, kolrabi (I need to check the spelling on that one), and there was even broccoli! For greens we were allowed one head of romaine, one bag of a mix of arugula, mustard greens, kale, etc; one huge bag of spinach…I bring my own recycle bags and by the time I went through “my” share they were filled to the gills.

The u-pick selection was awesome: flowers (I didn’t), herbs (got a little oregano and thyme), and and and strawberries! A huge quart! I washed and froze half of them. Tonight I’ll surprise Kisa with fresh strawberries on his icecream. Yummy!

The sun felt nice on my shoulders. Sky blue overhead. I spotted a lone cloud in the shape of a heart. Kids ran in and out of the rows of peas (not ready yet), screetching. Mothers looked under leaves for strawberries while fathers whistled for loose dogs. Sitting in the bed of thyme I inhaled an Italian kitchen and a future stew. Recipes ran through my head.  I could have stayed all day.

Chasing Vermeer

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Balliett, Blue. Chasing Vermeer. New York: Scholastic Press, 2004.

I love it when a book takes me somewhere new. It’s even better when it opens doors to other interests that stick. It’s best when it’s completely unexpected. Such is the case with Chasing Vermeer. When I first realized it was a young adult book I thought I would get through it in a day, get through it and move onto something more my speed. Who knew this book would be just my speed? For starters there is a play-along game involving pentominoes. If you can’t get the hidden message there is an interacted website (still active) to help you out, complete with other games to get you sidetracked. Then, there is the discovery of something completely unexpected I mentioned before. Chasing Vermeer mentions a lot of Vermeer’s work in detail so I started doing a little more research and found a fantastic website dedicated to Vermeer. It’s really great. I lost my lunch break playing with it! I love learning something new everyday in the most unexpected ways. But back to Chasing Vermeer, the book.

It’s a great mystery for kids and adults alike. Petra Andalee and her new found friend Calder Pillay find themselves in the middle of a mystery complete with codes and the crime of stolen art. It starts off with Petra and Calder as classmates with a weird assignment: find letters in art. Both Petra and Calder call the other “weird” and can’t imagine ever being friends, but soon weird coincidences bring them together to solve a mystery involving an old woman, the FBI and an international art scandal.

Here are some quotes that nabbed me: “Good letters were no longer written. He was sure of it” (p 23). Glad I’m not the only one who feels this way!
“What was art, anyway? The more she thought about it, the stranger it seemed” (p 40). My thoughts exactly!

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter “Best For Boys and Girls” (p 21).

Way Nicer Everything

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When we checked into the Long Beach motel the first thing I noticed were the signs everywhere alerting us to the fact that the management doesn’t care about our belongings. “Not responsible for lost or stolen personal items” was posted in at least three different places in our room. It made me think the maids had sticky fingers, a habit of “accidentally” walking away with things. This was the hotel “management’s” way of shrugging it off. The attitude didn’t give me a warm and fuzzy feeling about being a guest. Neither did their attitude about their treadmill, but that’s another blog. It’s ironic that this is where we left behind our camera charger & cell phone charger. Like they said (more than once): not responsible!

Then, there was something about the Mission Valley hotel in San Diego that rubbed me the wrong way. Maybe it was the broken phone when we first arrived. Maybe it was the lack of elbow room. But, but, but I’m betting it was the rude sign we encountered in the bathroom. I don’t know why I couldn’t see this as humorous. Instead of getting a chuckle out of it I felt accosted, confronted, accused of something I wouldn’t even think of doing. Sarcasm was in the ink of that sign.

Rude

When we finally got to Ontario we discovered way nicer everything. Larger pool with lax hours of operations (when we asked, the desk manager said it closed “around 10pm..ish”). Free breakfast. Nice huge room with flat screen tv. Way bigger bathroom. More luxurious toiletries. Best of all. No rude signs. Nothing warning us the maids steal. Nothing asking us not to, either.

Aquarium on the Hill

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In awe

I like the tucked away adventures. Everyone knows the Bronx Zoo, Sea World, Disney, Grand Canyon… Those are the things people expect you to visit while you are visiting. Locals and I’veBeenTheres will add their two cents, “Oh! Ya gotta go see blahblahblah.” I perk up whenever I hear the word “aquarium.” Doesn’t take much to get me there. Doesn’t matter how big (or small) it is, I’m there. While visiting a friend in D.C. I heard of an aquarium in a basement. We went.
Such was the case in Long Beach and La Jolla. My aunt urged us to see Birch Aquarium & swore we wouldn’t be disappointed. We weren’t.

I admit we arrived a little late. 90 minutes before closing. I worried that wouldn’t be enough time & promised myself I wouldn’t spend too much time in from of the leafies…if they had them. A little background: Birch Aquarium has been around since 1905 and have chosen the butterfly fish as its endearing mascot. One side of the aquarium is dedicated to ever changing, ever thought provoking educational exhibits. When we went the showcase was how species hide (Can you spot the…?) and the tragic effects of global warming on coral reefs. Really devastating to see. The other half of the aquarium is dedicated to permanent displays like the Tide Pool Plaza, an area they allows the young (and young at heart, like me) to touch creatures. It was closed by the time we got there. Most spectacular (of course) is the great hall of fishes with the grand finale being a 70,000 gallon tank complete with kelp forest. It truly is beautiful.

One of the oddest displays was a tank with two eels, a pacific lobster and some kind of crab. I couldn’t tell the species of crab because it was dead. Dead! The eels were minding their own business, looking grim while the lobster…munched on the crab. It was in part fascinating because I had forgotten how complex nature could be, how violent – survival of the fittest and all that. But, here’s the other thing I couldn’t get out of my head: the display was eating the display! Woops. We stood and stared. Mesmerized by the lobster’s untiring efforts to break open the armor of the crab carcass.

Finally, it was closing time and Kisa and I reluctantly moved towards the exits. I bought a shirt to remember the experience. As we were getting in our car a woman stopped us, “Is this the aquarium?” she leaned out of her minivan to ask. “yes, but they are closing” I replied, “come back tomorrow because it’s worth every second.”

Tallest SeahorseIMG_2449IMG_2410

May We Be Excused

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Sometimes, and it doesn’t matter how old you are, you feel like a kid at the adults’ table. At least, that’s what it felt like to me when Kisa and I finally escaped to explore San Diego by ourselves. We were leaving that afternoon to visit La Jolla, Ontario & Upland but wanted to get in a little time in SD before we said goodbye. As the song goes, who knows when we would pass this way again?

My aunt and uncle had raved about the harbor tour they had taken the day before (“best thing we ever did” they vowed) and suddenly it was all I wanted to do, too. I had boat envy. I wanted to be on the water in the worst way. So, we picked a tour and went. We opted for the deluxe version – two hours, both sides of the harbor. It turned out to be a sparkling fantabulous day – like the day before and the day before and the day before. Thanks to Tom, we reached the marina in plenty of time to park, buy tickets, use the restrooms and find front row seats in the bow. It felt like running away.

For two hours we toured San Diego’s harbor, north and south. At times I could barely hear the guide over the wind in my hair and fellow passengers around me. I didn’t mind missing out on the spiel. To me, it started to drone anyway. Instead I enjoyed the military ships, the brown pelicans, hefty sea lions, fellow boaters speeding by, splashing green water, white foam spray and dazzling sunshine.

Maybe You Should Drive

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The name of a Barenaked Ladies album (my favorite as a matter of fact)…or what Kisa heard the night of the wedding. Both, actually.

Kisa had been king driver since day one. He got us from Vegas to Long Beach; from Long Beach to San Diego; from our hotel to anywhere we wanted to go. All without complaint. All without a single utterance of “maybe you should drive.” He drew the line at mall chauffeuring, though. He got us there but refused to sit in a parking lot. It was our last full day in Diego, after all. He wasn’t about to wander a mall no different from the ones we have at home. “Call me when you need a pick-up” he cheerfully offered as we piled out of the car. “Okay.” I was equally as cheerful even though I knew my last day in Diego was going to be spent shopping (I’ve come to the conclusion if you’ve seen one Michaels, you’ve seen them all).

Later that evening Kisa confided to me that he’d had enough of driving. He was looking forward to cutting back on chaffeuring and cutting loose at the wedding. How many times had the groom told him he had a special beer for him? I wasn’t confident it would work out. In a family of drinkers sober drivers are really hard to come by.
Somehow we managed to hitch a ride with an aunt. No driving for kisa. So far so good. Maybe he would get to enjoy himself after all. I know what you are thinking. What about you? Couldn’t you drive? For those of you who don’t know me I don’t drink a drop and get behind the wheel of a car. Ever. Not one sip. Kisa is too kind to deny me a glass of wine at my cousin’s wedding. Having me escort was out of the question.

So, back to the party. The reception was raging. People dancing. People laughing. The music was rocking. We were having a great time. Kisa was on his third or fourth beer of the night. A drop compared to what others can put away. There we were, staring at the black harbor, enjoying the gentle rocking of yachts in the marina. A full glass of beer in Kisa’s hand. We had come out for a breath of fresh air. All of a sudden he feels a tap on his shoulder…”Say,” says a voice, “are you driving us back? Hint, hint.” I could feel Kisa’s defeat as he exclaimed “yeah, sure” and dumped out his full beer. I felt awful (as I was working on wine #2). As word spread “Drink up! J’s driving us home!” people began to approach Kisa to confirm. Each time he responded his speech became more slurred and giggly. He was just messing with them, but it was funny to see their eyes grow wide. You could almost hear their brains working, “is he really okay to drive?”

Of course he was. Kisa always drives.

Polar Bear Antics

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Bucket head

There are times when I visit a zoo, aquarium, wild life park, or some other place where wild animals are caged and occasionally question whether or not the animals are truly happy. If they could converse would they tell me they are content? I can’t think about it too much because it might lead to me doing something rash like trying to unlock gates or smuggle animals out. I don’t know what I would do with a wild boar or black bear, but I would want them free. I know that most places that keep otherwise untamed animals on display are doing it for more than revenue. I realize they are promoting advocacy, encouraging education, even preserving some near extinct species. [Is it possible that the Polar Bear is headed that way? It’s more than possible and impossibly sad to think about.] I learned of more than one animal that no longer existed in the wild, yet was alive and well in captivity. It’s a chance for us ho-hum humans to get up close to spectacular creatures without the Hemingway safari or silly hats.

If anyone were to ask me what my favorite part of the San Diego zoo was I would have to say, without a shadow of a doubt, the polar bear. The zoo boasts of three polar bears but we only saw one. I’m convinced we saw Tatqiq. From the moment we stood in front of her giant tank I knew she was happy. She had plenty of space to swim; plenty of toys to play with (my favorite part was when she put the bucket on her head); plenty of land to roam; even salmon to munch on. I didn’t worry about cramped quarters or abuse. She seemed to even have a smile on her face. We watched her play until she ambled on shore, had a bite to eat and then flopped to the ground for a nap. I could almost hear her snore.

So. Instead of trying to smuggle animals out, in the case of the polar bear, maybe I should be trying to smuggle them in!

Coming at ya

Tom Took Me There

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Tom Took Me There or Which Way to the Zoo?

Balboa Park

Our TomTom is great. Plug in an address and turn by turn, mile by mile, Tom will get you where you want to go. It’s a combination of listening to what he says, watching his display screen and computing what comes up ahead. The line I heard over and over while in California was “ahead keep left; then stay on the left lane.” We heard that a lot. Basically, it was Tom reminding us to stay on 5 every time a new highway was introduced. Or something like that.
We used Tom everywhere we went and only once did he steer us wrong…errr…but really he was right. We wanted the San Diego zoo. We asked Tom for directions to the zoo. Simple enough. He gave us options for “zoo management offices” and something called a wild animal park. Well, in the zoo pamphlet I had picked up from the hotel it mentioned this wild animal park. Thinking it was a section of the zoo (like the wild safari is a part of Six Flags) I told Kisa “pick that one.” We certainly didn’t want to visit the management offices (unless it was run by a bunch of cute monkeys). Tom calculated the miles as my family piled into the car (Kisa was chauffeur for 90% of all outings, I should add. More on that later…). Soon we were off, passing wineries, ostrich farms, palm tree nurseries, fruit orchards, lots of interesting things. 30 minutes later Tom announced, “you have reached your destination” as we paid for parking.
Once we started walking around we realized we weren’t at the right place. The wild animal park was part of the zoo but in a completely different location. Something wasn’t right. Sooo…Back in the car we went; traveled the 30 minutes back to where we started and eventually, finally, found the right zoo. Monkeys and all.

 
Stalker

Citizen of the Galaxy

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Heinlein, Robert A. Citizen of the Galaxy. New York: Ballantine, 1991.

I have a confession to make. I have never settled down with a good science fiction book because I love science fiction. Because I don’t prefer science fiction. There. I said it. My father-in-law’s first book was a sci-fi thriller with the main character named after the family pet. Go figure. Luckily, he’s never asked me to read it. Otherwise, I couldn’t wouldn’t refuse and would diligently struggle through it.

I didn’t struggle through Heinlein’s Citizen of the Galaxy, though – much to my surprise. Armed with the “rule” that I could quit after the first 50 pages I attacked it with relish, thinking I would put it down after the first 50 pages in. When I stopped reading that first night I was on page 110, again, much to my surprise. It’s highly enjoyable for a genre I usually do not go out of my way to enjoy.
Thorby is a slave and in the opening scene he is “bought” by a beggar who turns out to be more than what anyone, especially Thorby, bargained for. His master hates slavery “with a cold passion” and releases Thorby and instead adopts him, training him to be a beggar and thensome. Soon Thorby is learning different customs and family structures as he travels from planet to planet. Life as he knew it is never the same again especially after he meets his real family on Earth.

Some interesting points: In Jubbulpore (capital of Jubbul) “slave” is a legally recognized status & “beggar” is a licensed profession (p 20 & 21).
“The Sargon’s police operated on a concept older than justice; they assumed a man was guilty, they questioned him by increasingly strong methods until he talked…” (p 48).
And…my favorite line:
“A Losian would come zipping toward Thorby on the wrong side of the street (there was no right side), squeal to a stop almost on Thorby’s toes, zig aside while snatching the breath off his face and the heart out of his mouth – and never touch him” (p 116). Sounds like a scene out of Star Wars.

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter “Robert Heinlein: Too Good To Miss” (p 109).

Surfing the Words of Others

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I wanted to title this blog, “write something damn you!” But, I decided that was a little harsh…You see, I have friends who blog. WordPress people. When I added them to my blogsurfer I thought, “cool. a new and different way to keep in touch. awesome.” Not so awesome. Only a few people actually write with regularity. I get bored. So, I started the hunt for new and interesting people. That in itself has a curse attached. I found Frogshake. Added the blog to my “list.” Soon after the words stopped coming. Same with someone else. And someone else. Huh. Started (again!) searching for other words; other people with interesting things to say. Added them to the surf. The words rolled to a stop. Flat calm seas. Again. What, exactly, is going on? Am I cursing the blogging universe by wanting to read them on a regular basis?  

I like words. I like them even better when they are strung together in thought-provoking, insightful, even funny sentences. Best is when they are from people I adore. John Mayer is good with words. I’d read him more often if he gave up the silly singing career and devoted his time to putting pen to paper…like that’s gonna happen! That’s not to say I don’t enjoy his music or his lyrics…he’s just good with the words no matter how he gets them out.

So. Here’s a request. Tell me your favorite blogs. Do you have one I haven’t read? Where do you go for words? I know someone who stalks a weasel. But, what else is there? Email me. call me. text me. comment me. write on my wall. whatever. You will be doing me a huge favor. I won’t add them to the surf or the roll, though. I wouldn’t want to jinx anything!

ps~ a word on my links, speaking of blogs… You may have noticed a change in favorites. Yes, this was deliberate.
Sometimes, you outgrow a life. Sometimes you just grow up. I think I did a little of both.