Reading Into the Silence: The Great War, Mallory, and the Conquest of Everest. There are so many characters I couldn't keep them all straight, and the story goes into so much of the political and historical context around the three Everest expeditions in the 1920s I couldn't keep any of that straight either. All the descriptions of Tibet made me want to go trekking in that part of the world though, and after googling a bit I found this. Can we hold our first bloggers' get-together in Bhutan?
The book provided me with lots of conversational fodder for future cocktail parties, including the affair of the seven dancing lamas brought to London to promote a film about the 1924 expedition, which may have contributed to Tibet's later conquest by the Chinese (pages 561-564), and the Great Trignometrical Survey of India—undertaken to determine whether the earth is round or flattened at both poles—which took 40 years to complete and involved lugging instruments weighing 1000 pounds through jungles and up mountains and razing anything that obstructed the surveyors' sightlines, including villages and temples (pages 41-42). I also felt better about not loading the film correctly and therefore failing to get photos of a rare one-horned mother and baby rhino that were literally at my feet in Nepal (I was up a tree at the time) after reading that Mallory inserted the glass plates in his camera incorrectly and the reconnaissance photos he spent days taking during the 1921 expedition didn't turn out (pages 291-292). I further marvelled at how accomplished people were back then, with some speaking 27 languages fluently (page 103) and others having the consummate clothing and accessories for every occasion (page 57). I was overcome by the same feelings of inadequacy when I read Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything, in which he describes characters like Count von Rumford, who married a rich older woman, committed treason, escaped to Bavaria where he served as a military advisor to the government (for which he had the title of “Count” bestowed on him), designed some famous park, founded the Royal Institution in London to promote the science of chemistry, became the world's leading authority on thermodynamics, and invented the drip coffeemaker, long underwear, and the Rumford fireplace (pages 102-103).
I feel like such a schlump. I blame television and the internet for how little I've achieved in life.
Spending New Year's Eve with my mother watching Price and Prejudice (featuring Colin Firth, the only human fit to play Darcy; what were they thinking when they cast that limp codpiece Matthew Macfadyen in the role?) and relearning how to knit. My mother kept up a running commentary (no mean feat, considering this version of Price and Prejudice is about six hours long) on how the grass around Pemberley looked fake because it was too green, how skinny the men's ankles were (not Colin Firth's: he has manly ankles), how she didn't think Jane was good-looking, how they really didn't do much except sit around in those days (I guess there were schlumps back then too; they probably frittered away their time on needlepoint and whist), etc.
I was inspired to take up knitting again because my ex-sister-in-law gave me a hand-knit scarf for Christmas. I haven't knit for about 20 years, and still have four sweaters in various stages of completion at the back of the closet. I pulled one out that was part of a kit given to me in 1989 for Christmas. All that had been done was a little bit of one sleeve. It seemed too difficult to figure out where in the pattern to start from, so I took the sleeve apart to start afresh but could no longer remember how to cast on. I finally managed to decipher the complicated instructions for the “easy cast-on method" but then had second thoughts about proceeding with the sweater, which is a Fair Isle pattern that requires lots of yarn changes. So I pulled out a different semi-finished sweater, one where both sleeves have been knit and half the front, there is only one colour of wool to work with, and I still have the sheet where I jotted down the completed rows so it was easy to pick up the pattern again. I discovered I can't knit and watch the screen at the same time, but since the grass was too green, most men's ankles too skinny, and Jane too unattractive, I don't think I missed out on too much.
Learning about sneaky fat cells. They pretend to be lazy schlumps but secretly they function like organs, secreting hormones that have a major impact on our physiological and psychological well-being. They're also sneaky in another way, but I can't remember the details: my fat cells are probably secreting a mind-altering chemical that's impairing my memory.
Gaining weight. Holy adipose tissue, I've gained six pounds since I last weighed myself! That kind of snuck up on me; I haven't had to worry about my weight for years. Of course, there were warning signs. For example, when I got new orthopedic inserts (yes, I knit on New Year's eve AND wear orthopedic inserts) and remarked that my old ones didn't seem to be too worn down, the person fitting the new ones replied, “Well, you're not really heavy.” For days afterwards, that bothered me. Where had she put the emphasis: was it on not or on really?
Writing some creative nonfiction. It's about a few summers my family spent in the Eastern Townships when I was young. More interesting than the story is the discordance between the hazy impression I had of idyllic summers spent there with my best friend and the specific memories that came up when I thought back to that time: domestic violence, rumours of an alligator that was released in the lake because it got too big for someone's bathtub, leeches, a horrendous water skiing accident, and a drowning. When Eve was older, did she still think of Eden as a paradise? Or did she mostly remember the rampant weeds, the full-body sunburns that left her with an unattractive patchwork epidermis, and the worms in the fruit?
Attending holiday parties. The most enjoyable gathering was with a small group of friends. We know each other well, which meant we didn't have to engage in superficial cocktail party chit-chat about the affair of the seven dancing lamas or the Great Trignometrical Survey of India. Instead, J informed us that she's trying to get pregnant again, but for whatever reason has little interest in sex. So she and D went shopping for a porn movie to get her in the mood. J also brought her 14-month-old, and the staff adamantly refused to let the baby in the store. J found this odd, although I would find it a trifle disconcerting to see people walking around with children in a sex shop. D found a movie that she thought would be effective, although J complained about the lack of foreplay. “Hello, I'm the plumber,” clothes summarily dispensed with, [J mimicking thrusting hips], was how she described the narrative arc. Despite the lack of plot and character development, the movie apparently did the trick. (Do the Academy Awards include a category for best porn film? If not, they should add one.)
We did a gift grab following dinner. Someone got a loofah sponge that had not, the label informed us, been tested on animals.
Watching Columbo. Seasons 1 through 7 plus the movie specials in December. Which explains why I haven't had time to invent sexy flannelette lingerie or a virtual reality device that allows people to try on clothes and footwear when shopping online.
2012 RESOLUTIONS: Shed schlump image. Invent something. Knit everyone a pickle ornament for their Christmas tree. Outwit sneaky fat cells. Try to stop worrying about climate change, reversal of the earth's magnetic field, and Canada becoming a libertarian's Eden.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Work woes, forgotten birthdays and mandatory menopause seminars
The other day was a difficult one for me. It actually started the night before, when I checked my work email around 8 pm – yes, a bad decision, and something that has become a bad habit. In essence, the email enlightened me as to the basic nature of what I thought was a reasonably good working relationship with one employer (I have two jobs). Even worse, the fallout would cross over into my other job and make it appear as though the coworker who, according to Deloney, the Buddha would off in an instant with an icepick, is actually more like the Buddha and I, the inept Clouseau. Unable to sleep much of the night, I spent hours composing a resignation letter in my head.
The next day I did go to work, stayed for a couple of hours, composed resignation letters to both employers, spewed some emotional vomit in the presence of coworkers, didn't send the resignation letters but did send a terse email saying something unexpected had come up and I had to leave, and left.
I took a circuitous route home and went down to Lake Ontario. I sat for about an hour, not doing much except trying not to cry, then started walking. I passed through a waterfront park where families and friends plant trees in honour of those who have died. The majority of those others seemed to be people in their teens or twenties, which of course made me think about how short life is and also, to paraphrase Shirley Valentine's words, what a little life I've led. Then I headed home.
When I got to my house there was a large bag hanging from the mailbox. Inside was a box on which two of my coworkers had written: “We suck. We totally forgot. Happy Birthday.” Inside were six cupcakes from the new cupcakery downtown, as well as two chocolate bars from the relatively new chocolatier beside the totally new cupcakery.
Digression re forgotten birthday: Shortly before my birthday, which was about three weeks ago, two of my coworkers called me into their office for a secret consult on what kind of cake we should get for our boss to celebrate National Boss Day. With a smirk, I rattled off a few of my favourite types. When I walked into the National Boss Day celebration, I expected everyone to yell “Happy Birthday!” When that didn't happen, I thought they were attempting to prolong the charade and delay the element of surprise. By the end of what I had thought of as the “National Boss Day celebration” (in quotation marks), there were still no birthday wishes. To my surprise, it actually was a National Boss Day celebration (no quotation marks), somewhat ironic given what prompted me to write this post.
Still digressing into forgotten birthday: It's not like there weren't subtle hints that my birthday was imminent. Subtle hint #1: Shortly before the actual day, I brought in a card that a friend had given me. That friend knows how much I like charades, and had found a card with a cartoon showing the back of a man, pants down, holding a large anvil over his head, ready to swing it down in front of him. Five other cartoonish people are watching, expressions serious, rubbing chins. The caption reads, Despite Eric's best efforts, on one guessed 'Bangkok'. And on the inside, Have a bang-up time on your birthday.“Look at this card,” I said to my coworkers, who all did and had a good laugh. Subtle hint #2: “What are you doing for the weekend?” my coworkers asked, the Friday before the weekend of my actual birthday. “I'm going to a yoga retreat. Some of the women from the Italy trip are going to be there.” Last year a friend and I rented a villa in Italy to celebrate our 50th birthdays. Everyone at work knows this; I made sure of it. Subtle hint #3: “Look what someone gave me,” I told my coworkers when I got back to work on Monday, passing around a book called Porn for Women. It contains photos of super-sexy men holding, for example, a piece of cake, with a voice bubble that reads, Have another piece of cake. I don't like you looking so thin. Or one with a huge smile on his face, accompanied by the words, I know. Let's take you shoe shopping! Or the triptych, the favourite of the gift-giver, which started off with, Foreplay. 10:12 p.m. Next scene: Foreplay. 10:50 p.m. Final scene: Foreplay. 1:30 a.m. My coworkers passed the book around and had a good laugh. Who ever buys a book like that for themselves? It's a quintessential birthday gift. Apparently, even the most blatant hints are ineffective with my coworkers. Perhaps, when I presented the card, I should have added, “In Western liberal democracies such as ours, cards like this are often given to celebrate citizens' births. Even amidst the cost-cutting measures of the current government and global economic retrenchment, families, friends and coworkers will often present cards such as this one on the anniversary of a person's birth to support local retail initiatives.”
Final digression into forgotten birthday: I attended a mandatory menopause seminar at work this week. Somewhat surprisingly, instead of the expected curmudgeon of women fanning themselves, there was lots of vegetarian sushi, a salad, a cake, and some contrite coworkers. I mentioned all the birthday hints they had missed and we had a good laugh. During Pictionary we realized that, in addition to failing memories, some of us are starting to experience vision and hearing loss -- that round thing was meant to depict a ball, not bald -- and were reassured by the fact that we are all in this together.
Back to the story that I was telling before forgotten birthday digressions: After recovering from a cupcake-induced coma, I spent the afternoon exploring the financial ramifications of leaving work. I wouldn't qualify for Employment Insurance, even though I've paid mega-amounts into it. One has to be fired, or be able to prove “just cause” for quitting, to be eligible. I asked someone at Service Canada if receiving seven pounds of cupcakes and chocolate from coworkers constitutes a workplace-related threat to my health; she said no. I found out that I'm not eligible for social assistance either: I would have to sell all my assets – basically, my house – and run myself into abject poverty before I would qualify. I don't have the three-month “emergency fund” planners recommend for situations such as this. To sum up, I can't afford to leave work unless I'm fired.
I had plans to go to movie with a friend that night. I didn't know what we were going to see, but he said it was supposed to be very good. Unfortunately, I discovered once the movie started that some of it takes place during WWII; I avoid such movies like the plague (I've never seen Schindler's List, for example, and it's not because I was making out with someone in the theatre like on Seinfeld). About 20 minutes into the movie, during a scene where French guards were ripping children away from their parents, I whispered to my friend “I can't stay,” and left. That's the first time I've ever walked out before a movie ended.
I'm ever so grateful for forgotten birthdays and mandatory menopause seminars, which make this sometimes bleak world bearable.
The next day I did go to work, stayed for a couple of hours, composed resignation letters to both employers, spewed some emotional vomit in the presence of coworkers, didn't send the resignation letters but did send a terse email saying something unexpected had come up and I had to leave, and left.
I took a circuitous route home and went down to Lake Ontario. I sat for about an hour, not doing much except trying not to cry, then started walking. I passed through a waterfront park where families and friends plant trees in honour of those who have died. The majority of those others seemed to be people in their teens or twenties, which of course made me think about how short life is and also, to paraphrase Shirley Valentine's words, what a little life I've led. Then I headed home.
When I got to my house there was a large bag hanging from the mailbox. Inside was a box on which two of my coworkers had written: “We suck. We totally forgot. Happy Birthday.” Inside were six cupcakes from the new cupcakery downtown, as well as two chocolate bars from the relatively new chocolatier beside the totally new cupcakery.
Digression re forgotten birthday: Shortly before my birthday, which was about three weeks ago, two of my coworkers called me into their office for a secret consult on what kind of cake we should get for our boss to celebrate National Boss Day. With a smirk, I rattled off a few of my favourite types. When I walked into the National Boss Day celebration, I expected everyone to yell “Happy Birthday!” When that didn't happen, I thought they were attempting to prolong the charade and delay the element of surprise. By the end of what I had thought of as the “National Boss Day celebration” (in quotation marks), there were still no birthday wishes. To my surprise, it actually was a National Boss Day celebration (no quotation marks), somewhat ironic given what prompted me to write this post.
Still digressing into forgotten birthday: It's not like there weren't subtle hints that my birthday was imminent. Subtle hint #1: Shortly before the actual day, I brought in a card that a friend had given me. That friend knows how much I like charades, and had found a card with a cartoon showing the back of a man, pants down, holding a large anvil over his head, ready to swing it down in front of him. Five other cartoonish people are watching, expressions serious, rubbing chins. The caption reads, Despite Eric's best efforts, on one guessed 'Bangkok'. And on the inside, Have a bang-up time on your birthday.“Look at this card,” I said to my coworkers, who all did and had a good laugh. Subtle hint #2: “What are you doing for the weekend?” my coworkers asked, the Friday before the weekend of my actual birthday. “I'm going to a yoga retreat. Some of the women from the Italy trip are going to be there.” Last year a friend and I rented a villa in Italy to celebrate our 50th birthdays. Everyone at work knows this; I made sure of it. Subtle hint #3: “Look what someone gave me,” I told my coworkers when I got back to work on Monday, passing around a book called Porn for Women. It contains photos of super-sexy men holding, for example, a piece of cake, with a voice bubble that reads, Have another piece of cake. I don't like you looking so thin. Or one with a huge smile on his face, accompanied by the words, I know. Let's take you shoe shopping! Or the triptych, the favourite of the gift-giver, which started off with, Foreplay. 10:12 p.m. Next scene: Foreplay. 10:50 p.m. Final scene: Foreplay. 1:30 a.m. My coworkers passed the book around and had a good laugh. Who ever buys a book like that for themselves? It's a quintessential birthday gift. Apparently, even the most blatant hints are ineffective with my coworkers. Perhaps, when I presented the card, I should have added, “In Western liberal democracies such as ours, cards like this are often given to celebrate citizens' births. Even amidst the cost-cutting measures of the current government and global economic retrenchment, families, friends and coworkers will often present cards such as this one on the anniversary of a person's birth to support local retail initiatives.”
Final digression into forgotten birthday: I attended a mandatory menopause seminar at work this week. Somewhat surprisingly, instead of the expected curmudgeon of women fanning themselves, there was lots of vegetarian sushi, a salad, a cake, and some contrite coworkers. I mentioned all the birthday hints they had missed and we had a good laugh. During Pictionary we realized that, in addition to failing memories, some of us are starting to experience vision and hearing loss -- that round thing was meant to depict a ball, not bald -- and were reassured by the fact that we are all in this together.
Back to the story that I was telling before forgotten birthday digressions: After recovering from a cupcake-induced coma, I spent the afternoon exploring the financial ramifications of leaving work. I wouldn't qualify for Employment Insurance, even though I've paid mega-amounts into it. One has to be fired, or be able to prove “just cause” for quitting, to be eligible. I asked someone at Service Canada if receiving seven pounds of cupcakes and chocolate from coworkers constitutes a workplace-related threat to my health; she said no. I found out that I'm not eligible for social assistance either: I would have to sell all my assets – basically, my house – and run myself into abject poverty before I would qualify. I don't have the three-month “emergency fund” planners recommend for situations such as this. To sum up, I can't afford to leave work unless I'm fired.
I had plans to go to movie with a friend that night. I didn't know what we were going to see, but he said it was supposed to be very good. Unfortunately, I discovered once the movie started that some of it takes place during WWII; I avoid such movies like the plague (I've never seen Schindler's List, for example, and it's not because I was making out with someone in the theatre like on Seinfeld). About 20 minutes into the movie, during a scene where French guards were ripping children away from their parents, I whispered to my friend “I can't stay,” and left. That's the first time I've ever walked out before a movie ended.
I'm ever so grateful for forgotten birthdays and mandatory menopause seminars, which make this sometimes bleak world bearable.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
I've been robbed!
My house was in such disastrous state last Sunday that it took me a while to realize someone had broken in to it. Here's what happened.
On Sunday I set off at 10 am for a town nearby, where a friend--let's call her Dame X, because this is about to turn into a potboiler--was taking four of us out for high tea to celebrate her 60th birthday. She had decided to do this because some serendipitous segue at a previous get-together had led to a discussion of the joys of clotted cream. Prior to high tea, the five of us met at Dame X's place and staged a birthday ritual, which involved installing some mostly uncuddly handmade bunny art in her backyard. Dame X was born in the year of the rabbit, and we decided to go with a psycho/wacky bunny theme because she once noted that rabbits are so much more than cute furry things. I high-jumped outside the box and made her a Buddha beaver instead, which depicted a buddha on one side and a beaver holding a chewed stick on the other. Several years earlier Dame X had planted a magnolia tree, and in the second season of its tragically foreshortened life it was done in by a beaver. She wrote me an email with the subject line, “May all beings be happy...” and a terse message: “... except beavers.”
The Saturday night before we went to Dame X's I had been working on the birthday art project late into the night, having left it until the last minute. As a consequence, there was glue, sparkles, bits of fur, paper, and paints strewn all over, under and around the dining room table. The Friday before that Saturday Kingston had a record-breaking rain, and many properties were flooded. My basement wasn't, but in some of the lower-lying areas there were patches of wet, as if the ground water had risen to the basement level. So the basement too was in a chaotic state, as I had moved stuff from the wet areas to dry ones and flung down towels to soak up the water. There were mounds of cat litter here and there, courtesy of over-zealous cats; the mounds had ballooned into soggy mushy masses that, if you didn't know what they were, appeared highly suspect. There's a box on my back deck lined with strips of my mother's old fur coat for the cats to sleep in. That got soaked in Friday's rain too, so strips of soggy fur were hanging over the railing, making it appear as if I had recently skinned a bunch of animals. (When the neighbour came over to see if I was OK, she recoiled when she saw them. They broke in after seeing that? she asked.)
And I hadn't done the dishes for days.
When I returned from the psycho bunny/high tea event, I went to the front entranceway to hang up my hat. The neighbour's key was in the front door. (I have the kind of doors that require a key to open them from both the inside and the outside. My younger nephew is stupefied that anyone would devise a system where you can get locked into your own house.) The neighbour's key in the front door seemed a tad odd but didn't really register, because I do all sorts of odd things these days.
Then I went upstairs and started getting out of my flowery, flowing high tea-worthy dress. As I was doing that, it struck me that there was stuff strewn on the floor that I would have no reason for strewing at that point in time: my passport, my birth certificate, my chequebook... I then noticed that all the drawers were open and my jewelry was out on the dresser. Someone's been in here! I thought in disbelief. I looked over and saw my laptop on the desk. Someone's still in here! I thought in belief. I ran down to the back deck and called to the neighbour to go through the house with me because someone had broken in and I wasn't sure if they were still in there. She told me she would call the police instead. Literally less than two minutes later, two police cars arrived and four police officers got out. I explained the situation and then, as they approached the back door, started apologizing for the state of the house.
Stay outside ma'am, they interjected, not interested in hearing why my house looked like it had been through a flood and an earthquake and possibly several other natural disasters of some sort.
They came out ten minutes later and told me nobody was in the house. They asked if anything had been taken. I really couldn't tell at the time, but later discovered at least two things were missing: some US cash left over from my last trip, and a locket bracelet my mom had given me from her mother, that had a picture of her (my mother's) grandparents in it. It was the only piece of jewelry I had that looked somewhat valuable, although I think it was gold-plated rather than solid gold.
Several weeks ago, a detective phoned and asked if I knew of anyone who might have broken into my house. I told him I don't run with that kind of crowd. Then he mentioned there had been a few other break-ins in the hood, and that at one of them glass had been broken and there was some blood. They sent it away for DNA analysis, and with luck might find a match in their database. In six months, he informed me. It's not like on CSI.
The robbery was as low impact a one as you could hope for. They (or he or she) got in the house by pushing the bathroom screen in (I usually always leave the kitchen and bathroom windows slightly open). They obviously tried to leave through the front door, but, as prophesized by my nephew, got locked in, so went back out through the window. They could have damaged the bathroom window and screen, but didn't. They could have vandalized the place, especially once they discovered how little there was that was steal-worthy, but didn't. They could have stolen my identity by taking my passport and birth certificate, but didn't. (My personal theory is that once they saw my passport photo, in which I resemble a terrorist who is going through an acrimonious divorce and having a bad hair day, they decided the market for assuming my identity was going to be limited.) They could have stolen my laptop, which has lots of writing and financial details that I haven't saved elsewhere, but didn't. They could have left an insulting note decrying my shoddy housekeeping skills, but didn't. In fact, if I were to break into a place that was in the same state mine was when they broke in, I might have been tempted to clean up and do the dishes, just to mess with the mind(s) of whoever lived there. Sadly, they didn't.
On Sunday I set off at 10 am for a town nearby, where a friend--let's call her Dame X, because this is about to turn into a potboiler--was taking four of us out for high tea to celebrate her 60th birthday. She had decided to do this because some serendipitous segue at a previous get-together had led to a discussion of the joys of clotted cream. Prior to high tea, the five of us met at Dame X's place and staged a birthday ritual, which involved installing some mostly uncuddly handmade bunny art in her backyard. Dame X was born in the year of the rabbit, and we decided to go with a psycho/wacky bunny theme because she once noted that rabbits are so much more than cute furry things. I high-jumped outside the box and made her a Buddha beaver instead, which depicted a buddha on one side and a beaver holding a chewed stick on the other. Several years earlier Dame X had planted a magnolia tree, and in the second season of its tragically foreshortened life it was done in by a beaver. She wrote me an email with the subject line, “May all beings be happy...” and a terse message: “... except beavers.”
The Saturday night before we went to Dame X's I had been working on the birthday art project late into the night, having left it until the last minute. As a consequence, there was glue, sparkles, bits of fur, paper, and paints strewn all over, under and around the dining room table. The Friday before that Saturday Kingston had a record-breaking rain, and many properties were flooded. My basement wasn't, but in some of the lower-lying areas there were patches of wet, as if the ground water had risen to the basement level. So the basement too was in a chaotic state, as I had moved stuff from the wet areas to dry ones and flung down towels to soak up the water. There were mounds of cat litter here and there, courtesy of over-zealous cats; the mounds had ballooned into soggy mushy masses that, if you didn't know what they were, appeared highly suspect. There's a box on my back deck lined with strips of my mother's old fur coat for the cats to sleep in. That got soaked in Friday's rain too, so strips of soggy fur were hanging over the railing, making it appear as if I had recently skinned a bunch of animals. (When the neighbour came over to see if I was OK, she recoiled when she saw them. They broke in after seeing that? she asked.)
And I hadn't done the dishes for days.
When I returned from the psycho bunny/high tea event, I went to the front entranceway to hang up my hat. The neighbour's key was in the front door. (I have the kind of doors that require a key to open them from both the inside and the outside. My younger nephew is stupefied that anyone would devise a system where you can get locked into your own house.) The neighbour's key in the front door seemed a tad odd but didn't really register, because I do all sorts of odd things these days.
Then I went upstairs and started getting out of my flowery, flowing high tea-worthy dress. As I was doing that, it struck me that there was stuff strewn on the floor that I would have no reason for strewing at that point in time: my passport, my birth certificate, my chequebook... I then noticed that all the drawers were open and my jewelry was out on the dresser. Someone's been in here! I thought in disbelief. I looked over and saw my laptop on the desk. Someone's still in here! I thought in belief. I ran down to the back deck and called to the neighbour to go through the house with me because someone had broken in and I wasn't sure if they were still in there. She told me she would call the police instead. Literally less than two minutes later, two police cars arrived and four police officers got out. I explained the situation and then, as they approached the back door, started apologizing for the state of the house.
Stay outside ma'am, they interjected, not interested in hearing why my house looked like it had been through a flood and an earthquake and possibly several other natural disasters of some sort.
They came out ten minutes later and told me nobody was in the house. They asked if anything had been taken. I really couldn't tell at the time, but later discovered at least two things were missing: some US cash left over from my last trip, and a locket bracelet my mom had given me from her mother, that had a picture of her (my mother's) grandparents in it. It was the only piece of jewelry I had that looked somewhat valuable, although I think it was gold-plated rather than solid gold.
Several weeks ago, a detective phoned and asked if I knew of anyone who might have broken into my house. I told him I don't run with that kind of crowd. Then he mentioned there had been a few other break-ins in the hood, and that at one of them glass had been broken and there was some blood. They sent it away for DNA analysis, and with luck might find a match in their database. In six months, he informed me. It's not like on CSI.
The robbery was as low impact a one as you could hope for. They (or he or she) got in the house by pushing the bathroom screen in (I usually always leave the kitchen and bathroom windows slightly open). They obviously tried to leave through the front door, but, as prophesized by my nephew, got locked in, so went back out through the window. They could have damaged the bathroom window and screen, but didn't. They could have vandalized the place, especially once they discovered how little there was that was steal-worthy, but didn't. They could have stolen my identity by taking my passport and birth certificate, but didn't. (My personal theory is that once they saw my passport photo, in which I resemble a terrorist who is going through an acrimonious divorce and having a bad hair day, they decided the market for assuming my identity was going to be limited.) They could have stolen my laptop, which has lots of writing and financial details that I haven't saved elsewhere, but didn't. They could have left an insulting note decrying my shoddy housekeeping skills, but didn't. In fact, if I were to break into a place that was in the same state mine was when they broke in, I might have been tempted to clean up and do the dishes, just to mess with the mind(s) of whoever lived there. Sadly, they didn't.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
After the essay
Is it in bad taste to announce that I had an essay published in a Canadian newspaper yesterday?* That question is probably irrelevant: I'm already heavily invested in bad taste land because, apparently, I wear Crocs in public (am I the only one who finds them fashionable?).
The online version of the essay was open to comments. There was the imbecile who complained about product placement in the formerly “litterate” Globe & Mail; the overly health-conscious nut (or possibly epidemiologist) who went on endlessly about the low fiber and high sodium content of Campbell's soups; the motherfucker who noted it was a little Norman Rockwellian; and the usual mob drivel. There was also a smattering of good (by which I mean complimentary) comments, including a perfectly delightful one from someone named Deloney. Thanks Deloney!
As you will note from the preceding paragraph, I'm all for free speech, but someone needs to invent a dross sweeping app. When a person posts something on the internet, they should be able to attach triggers to it. Then, with the much ballyhooed intelligence computers are supposed to possess, said computers can sweep comments containing those triggers under a virtual carpet. Should the writer choose to look under the carpet, they have that option. So, for example, if I specify “sodium” as a trigger, any comments containing that word would be swept under the carpet. Any comments with misspelled words would be swept under automatically, unless they contain some note of appreciation. Anybody who posts a comment containing “it's” as a possessive will have an IP address-seeking missile launched to destroy their computer, regardless of how complimentary the comment is. Persons who use en and em dashes incorrectly will be exempt from censure however (since I had five em dashes in the piece I originally submitted and the editor removed three of them, and seemed to turn the other two into en dashes--but maybe that's because the Globe & Mail no longer employs litterate editors).
I'm not quite as disgruntled as I probably sound. It was entertaining and enlightening to read through the comments and notice how few of them concerned the essay itself. I am aware that when I comment on others' blogs, I am frequently guilty of the same thing. From now on, I promise not to use your space as a soapbox. And if I do, feel free to call me an imbecile, an overly-something-or-other nut, an epidemiologist, or a motherfucker.
*One of my coworkers (not the one who was done in by an icepick-wielding buddha) also had something (lucrative, and slightly lewd) published this week. I'll let her tell you about it here if she wishes, thereby providing her special dispensation to use my space as her soapbox.
The online version of the essay was open to comments. There was the imbecile who complained about product placement in the formerly “litterate” Globe & Mail; the overly health-conscious nut (or possibly epidemiologist) who went on endlessly about the low fiber and high sodium content of Campbell's soups; the motherfucker who noted it was a little Norman Rockwellian; and the usual mob drivel. There was also a smattering of good (by which I mean complimentary) comments, including a perfectly delightful one from someone named Deloney. Thanks Deloney!
As you will note from the preceding paragraph, I'm all for free speech, but someone needs to invent a dross sweeping app. When a person posts something on the internet, they should be able to attach triggers to it. Then, with the much ballyhooed intelligence computers are supposed to possess, said computers can sweep comments containing those triggers under a virtual carpet. Should the writer choose to look under the carpet, they have that option. So, for example, if I specify “sodium” as a trigger, any comments containing that word would be swept under the carpet. Any comments with misspelled words would be swept under automatically, unless they contain some note of appreciation. Anybody who posts a comment containing “it's” as a possessive will have an IP address-seeking missile launched to destroy their computer, regardless of how complimentary the comment is. Persons who use en and em dashes incorrectly will be exempt from censure however (since I had five em dashes in the piece I originally submitted and the editor removed three of them, and seemed to turn the other two into en dashes--but maybe that's because the Globe & Mail no longer employs litterate editors).
I'm not quite as disgruntled as I probably sound. It was entertaining and enlightening to read through the comments and notice how few of them concerned the essay itself. I am aware that when I comment on others' blogs, I am frequently guilty of the same thing. From now on, I promise not to use your space as a soapbox. And if I do, feel free to call me an imbecile, an overly-something-or-other nut, an epidemiologist, or a motherfucker.
*One of my coworkers (not the one who was done in by an icepick-wielding buddha) also had something (lucrative, and slightly lewd) published this week. I'll let her tell you about it here if she wishes, thereby providing her special dispensation to use my space as her soapbox.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
A honkin' non-honky fridge
Today I worked at home because I was having my new Darth Vader fridge delivered. I call it that because it's black, not because in a startling revelation it told me it's my father. When the delivery truck arrived and they brought out the box, I ran out.
-- Is that the right fridge? I demanded. The box was HUGE.
They checked their delivery slips while I checked the box for the model number. It was the correct fridge. Perhaps there was styrofoam in the box to protect the appliance? But nope, when they pulled the box off, it was all fridge.
I don't know what I was thinking. I have a small kitchen and I live alone. The fridge's manual states that three turkeys can be stored in the wide freezer bin. I'm thinking that's equivalent to 60 pounds of tofu, or 20 tubs of ice cream. Maybe I should adopt, except black fridges are like a forensic kit for fingerprints. A better plan, then, may be to take up hunting and store a moose in the freezer bin. Or I could be innovative and rent space in it to Queen's researchers for their specimens, except the manual sternly admonishes me that under no circumstances is the fridge to be used for storing scientific materials.
The manual also informs me that I basically have to place the fridge in the centre of the room to ensure there is enough airflow for it to operate efficiently, and helpfully explains that if there is a bad smell I should check for spoiled food, such as rotting moose meat caused by poor air circulation around the fridge which prevented the latter from functioning properly.
The fridge makes a statement, I must admit, and when you look at it you might conclude that whoever owns it is a chef. Then you would turn around and see my stove, which is the next size up from an easy bake oven. And it's white. And about 50 years old. I'm sure if an interior designer entered my kitchen he or she would immediately suffer appliance mismatch-induced apoplexy.
I set out to buy a sleek European-style fridge and I ended up with a Korean monolith (it's a Samsung). I'm still trying to figure out how that happened. But right now I have to go to Costco and buy several 50-pound jars of pickles, 40 pounds of tofu, 10 tubs of ice cream, and some sauce that goes well with rancid moose meat.
-- Is that the right fridge? I demanded. The box was HUGE.
They checked their delivery slips while I checked the box for the model number. It was the correct fridge. Perhaps there was styrofoam in the box to protect the appliance? But nope, when they pulled the box off, it was all fridge.
I don't know what I was thinking. I have a small kitchen and I live alone. The fridge's manual states that three turkeys can be stored in the wide freezer bin. I'm thinking that's equivalent to 60 pounds of tofu, or 20 tubs of ice cream. Maybe I should adopt, except black fridges are like a forensic kit for fingerprints. A better plan, then, may be to take up hunting and store a moose in the freezer bin. Or I could be innovative and rent space in it to Queen's researchers for their specimens, except the manual sternly admonishes me that under no circumstances is the fridge to be used for storing scientific materials.
The manual also informs me that I basically have to place the fridge in the centre of the room to ensure there is enough airflow for it to operate efficiently, and helpfully explains that if there is a bad smell I should check for spoiled food, such as rotting moose meat caused by poor air circulation around the fridge which prevented the latter from functioning properly.
The fridge makes a statement, I must admit, and when you look at it you might conclude that whoever owns it is a chef. Then you would turn around and see my stove, which is the next size up from an easy bake oven. And it's white. And about 50 years old. I'm sure if an interior designer entered my kitchen he or she would immediately suffer appliance mismatch-induced apoplexy.
I set out to buy a sleek European-style fridge and I ended up with a Korean monolith (it's a Samsung). I'm still trying to figure out how that happened. But right now I have to go to Costco and buy several 50-pound jars of pickles, 40 pounds of tofu, 10 tubs of ice cream, and some sauce that goes well with rancid moose meat.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
What I did this summer
Did someone move Niagara Falls? Because it's not where I thought it was, which has screwed up my planned summer week of travelling with my younger nephew. I had already given him, for Christmas, a ticket to Titus Andronicus at Stratford. Later, my nephew mentioned that T.S. Eliot said this about Titus Andronicus: "It is one of the stupidest and most uninspired plays ever written” (he (my nephew) got that from Wikipedia). Admittedly, it does sound a bit like the Elizabethan version of Saw II. Who am I to argue with the combined forces of T.S. Eliot, my nephew and Wikipedia? So I bought my nephew, for his birthday, another ticket to a play at Stratford, for Richard III. It is on the top-10 Shakespeare list. Not at the very top, of course, as that position belongs indisputably to Hamlet, although I think even that play has its flaws. For example, I don't think Will did a good job of making clear what actually happened to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. For another, I didn't particularly like Hamlet as a person, especially the way he treated his mom and Ophelia. And the story was a bit too tame. In Titus Andronicus, in contrast, two men rape a woman then cut out her tongue and chop off her hands then two more people each get a hand cut off then two people are decapitated then a midwife is killed then a baby is kidnapped then two people have their throats slit and are baked in a pie then someone has her neck broken then someone else is killed who is then killed by someone else who is then subsequently killed by someone else then finally someone is buried alive. And Richard III is even more violent. So basically Stratford is going to be a cultural bloodbath.
My nephew has never been to Niagara Falls. So I thought after the high-brow violence of Stratford -- even though Titus is at the lower end of the high-brow scale, still, it is Shakespeare (although that is disputed, partly because of the jejune dialogue) -- we could head to Niagara Falls and do the low-brow haunted houses and Maid of the Mist tour. Then I was planning to take him up to Tobemory and give him a four-hour scuba dive that he can do without being certified, which will at least give him the chance to figure out if he's interested enough to want to take lessons. (I gave him scuba diving lessons a number of years ago for Christmas, which never materialized, although not through any fault of mine.)
The problem with this plan is that because the government of Ontario seems to have relocated Niagara Falls, we'll have to go West to Stratford then South and East to Niagara Falls then West and North to Tobermory. In other words, going to Niagara Falls in the middle of the trip doesn't really work. Going at the beginning and the end doesn't either, because of the timing of the plays at Stratford. It's not a tragedy, of course (although I'm sure Shakespeare could have made it into one by throwing in some poignant soliloquies and at least five revenge killings), but I may have to rethink the itinerary a bit. I have a book called Top 100 Unusual Things to See in Ontario, which includes sights like Trenton's Big Boulder, Smiths Falls' High-Rise Privy, and The Swamp That Feeds the World. I'll see what my nephew says. Perhaps we should aim to make it one of the stupidest and most uninspired trips ever taken.
My nephew has never been to Niagara Falls. So I thought after the high-brow violence of Stratford -- even though Titus is at the lower end of the high-brow scale, still, it is Shakespeare (although that is disputed, partly because of the jejune dialogue) -- we could head to Niagara Falls and do the low-brow haunted houses and Maid of the Mist tour. Then I was planning to take him up to Tobemory and give him a four-hour scuba dive that he can do without being certified, which will at least give him the chance to figure out if he's interested enough to want to take lessons. (I gave him scuba diving lessons a number of years ago for Christmas, which never materialized, although not through any fault of mine.)
The problem with this plan is that because the government of Ontario seems to have relocated Niagara Falls, we'll have to go West to Stratford then South and East to Niagara Falls then West and North to Tobermory. In other words, going to Niagara Falls in the middle of the trip doesn't really work. Going at the beginning and the end doesn't either, because of the timing of the plays at Stratford. It's not a tragedy, of course (although I'm sure Shakespeare could have made it into one by throwing in some poignant soliloquies and at least five revenge killings), but I may have to rethink the itinerary a bit. I have a book called Top 100 Unusual Things to See in Ontario, which includes sights like Trenton's Big Boulder, Smiths Falls' High-Rise Privy, and The Swamp That Feeds the World. I'll see what my nephew says. Perhaps we should aim to make it one of the stupidest and most uninspired trips ever taken.
Friday, March 11, 2011
The big one
Before moving to Japan in 1987 I went to a bookstore in Australia to find out more about the country I knew mainly for its geisha girls, samurai and sushi. I remember reading a description of the 1923 earthquake that hit in the wrong place – near Tokyo – at the wrong time: it was the lunch hour, and people were cooking over fires. About 40,000 residents of the city fled to an open area, presumably to find safety from falling buildings. They were incinerated.
The article noted that a large earthquake strikes Japan approximately every 60 years. That fact, combined with the graphic description of the 1923 earthquake which killed an estimated 140,000 people, almost made me change my mind about moving there. I did end up going, and left 17 years ago. By that time the big one was overdue.
Sometimes the earth moves and there's that pleasurable little death, as the French refer to it. And sometimes the earth moves and there's horrific, big death.
The article noted that a large earthquake strikes Japan approximately every 60 years. That fact, combined with the graphic description of the 1923 earthquake which killed an estimated 140,000 people, almost made me change my mind about moving there. I did end up going, and left 17 years ago. By that time the big one was overdue.
Sometimes the earth moves and there's that pleasurable little death, as the French refer to it. And sometimes the earth moves and there's horrific, big death.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)