Tuesday, March 30, 2010

American Politics and Psychiatric Disorders

The Scream - Edvard Munch


I'm a little late commenting on this Saturday's Globe, but the shock is just wearing off now. My headline of choice, from page A18, "McCain remakes himself as a born-again conservative". W-H-A-T?! Even remotely following U.S. politics makes me a little bit crazy.

John McCain, king of the political marital compromise is advertising endorsement from Sarah Palin? If you know me, you can hear my maniacal-I'm-going-to-snap-laugh.......McCain's ability to compromise.....That's why people liked him so much! Now he's seeking the support of (gasp) Sarah Palin? Holy shit and lock up your daughters! This is really all the proof we need folks - the U.S. is no longer the leader of global democracy. The nation is going down like a 58 year old silcone-boob-jobbed-one-time-barbie-bride.

To sum up the most telling paragraph of the full page spread, J.D. Hayworth (Arizona congressman) is rallying to take away John McCain's leadership roll in the fall congressional elections because he compromises with the democrats to make effective change. Bad John! Bad, bad John!!!

Ok, we Canadians don't get too keyed up about all of the American-gun-shooting elect everyone down to your local crossing guard business, but this is significant. The sociological divide widens not only along democratic and republican party lines, but between ourselves and our American neighbours. Like a fat, bald, wanna-be-a-young-guy, the U.S.A (previously most cool on the world stage) is wearing 32" jeans when clearly 38" would fit much better. It's time to age gracefully good neighbour. Quit clawing at misinterpreted declarations that were signed before men could legally look at a woman's ankle.

Sarah Palin is doing John McCain a favour by endorsing him?! I mean, who wouldn't agree that Ms. Palin, in her deep wisdom would not have some morsels of shazam-like zen knowledge to pass on to a retired navy pilot and former prisoner of war. Shoe shopping sure is inspiring, but not to the extent that it would connect good ol'Sarah to that being, and connectedness we all know as the greater human good.

Of the Arizona citizens that back this move further to the right by the Republican party, the article quotes Judy Hoelscher, a homeowner who owes more on her mortgage than the value of her home. She doesn't take the blame for not knowing what the heck her own financial situation is. She doesn't even take responsibility for the money she owes. She blames the Democrats who imposed regulations on financial institutions, that "forced" her to buy a home her family could not afford. To quote the great Jimmy Buffett, a great Democrat (I'm sure he is), "Math Sucks" Ms. Hoelscher.

Yes, as Canadians we see how difficult our economy has been because of restrictions placed on our financial institutions. It was evident in a recent front page headline of the Toronto Star....not only is our economy recovering...it's thriving. What say you to that? I say greed gets you nowhere, and to vote for more greed, gunpowder and over mortgaged houses is just plain stupid.

The Republican stance on the new health care reform is that the Democrats "poisoned the well". Someone slap me on the back to stop me from choking. Please direct me to the person who can tell me how universal health care is bad for the general public. When you fall on your ass it's nice to know that you live within a nation of people who actually care about what happens to their fellow man. Sure, it might chop into someone's 2 billion dollar bonus-fund-mad-money account, but what the hell? The law is the lowest ethical standard we can refer to when things get out of hand. I don't know about you, but creating a society that lives just a smidgen above that lowest expectation gives me the warm fuzzies. Me and the great philosophers who lived pre-B.C.E. Hopefully our neighbours to the south catch up one day.

I would recommend that Mr.McCain remain as he has been; someone who worked to find compromise and actually better his country. John old boy, pour yourself a cold beer, and sit back on the front porch (unless you're going to take the high road and cross the floor).

If a babe in a leather jacket, who can shoot a gun, skin dead things while wearing a short skirt and bad glasses was ever going to lead a country, they'd already be calling me Ms. Prime Minister.

Disclaimer; No, I don't think all Americans are doughheads. My friends in the U.S. may argue against me, but it doesn't mean they're bad people, just a little over medicated by their HMO's and substitute prescriptions.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

104 Reasons I Should Be in Paris


1 Remembering Grade 4 french class and how impossible it seemed.



2 French Waiters

3 Never being mistaken for an American

4 Place du Tertre and bartering for your portrait
5 Men are so much sexier when you don't know what they're saying
6 The intersection at the Opera House
7 Tuileries - lunch on the grass and a great bottle of wine
8 Being lost with two very handsome foreigners at Place Vendome
9 Being anonymous
10 Really fat pigeons
11 The train to Versailles
12 Old hotel room doors and hearing everything that goes on in the dead of night
13 Ferrari cabs
14 The people waiting for the metro to open in the morning - going to work, or returning from play
15 Chocolateries ('cause it sounds so luscious in a french accent)


16 Grass



17 The hill in front of Le Centre Pompidou

18 The unique thrill of finding a clean public toilet.



19 The Metro, especially Chatelet Les Halles

20 Old Stuff

21 The Marais - kinda like San Fran or Toronto Queen Street "village"

22 Really, really scary medieval statues

23 Appreciating french arrogance, and adopting it

24 There's a post office in the Eiffel Tower

25 Watching tourists get shaken down by Gypsies

26 The OTHER Statue of Liberty

27 All of the windows, not just the Rose Window

28 Trimmed shrubs

29 Rue de Rivoli



30 Boulangeries



31 Really, really, really good house wine



32 Any 20-40 something man named Jean-something-or-other, Lucas, Theo,Hugo,Antoine,Alexandre,Clement, Maxime, etc.



33 Walking



34 The steps at Montmartre

35 Palais Royal

36 The bum of the Venus de Milo

37 Vermeer's The Lacemaker

38 Seeing the real Monet in many shades, and knowing for sure you don't care for any of the water lilies

39 Really cool basements

40 The Gates of Hell and the Kiss the Burghers of Calais

41 Jules Bastien-Lepage when you have really, really tired feet

42 Shakespeare & Co.



43 Traffic

44 The little park bench adjacent to the Eiffel Tower

45 Only needing to pack a carry-on

46 The best chocolate covered orange slices I've ever had

47 The promise of romantic love

48 Apricot Jam

49 Really bitchy store clerks who should be models

50 Day trips to Versaille, and the little opera house in the palace

51 Doorways

52 The lights - it really is a beautiful city at night

53 Discovering you're not the only one winded after climbing all the stairs to get to the top of L'Arc de Triomphe

54 Sneaking into the Opera House when it's closed to tourists (yah, go ahead - just do it!!!)

55 Missing out on Henry's Bar and having to go back to do that Hemingway stop - another round Henry!

56 Place des Abbesses

57 Not having to worry about parking

58 Great metro maps

59 Sneaking fresh bread and "stuff" home in your carry-on to celebrate and debrief when you get back to the real world

60 Knowing one day Prince Charming will propose at Le Train Bleu at Gare de Lyon

61 Never having to watch sports on tv

62 The pipe organ at Notre Dame because someone actually plays it!


63 Fresh bread ALL the time

64 The variety of REAL Cafes

65 Musee d'Orsay

66 Le Monde

67 Channelling Hemingway while sipping espresso at Les Deux Magots

68 Early spring blooms

69 Au Lapin Agile (I'm saving that for my visit with Prince Charming)...and since I may never do that...let me know how you like it!

70 The indulgence of Rodin

71 Yellow peonies

72 The French

73 Architecture - look up!

74 Relaxed, race car driving cabbies

75 Balconies

76 Getting lost

77 Tourists

78 Seeing art again for the first time as an expression of the human spirit

79 Shopping with the locals

80 The lunch menus

81 Poulet et pommes frites

82 Bicycles

83 Tuileries

84 Climbing to the top of L'Arc

85 Feeling that "something" at Notre Dame



86 Patios that sit three tables deep

87 Not being with a tour group

88 Shop windows



89 Courtyards



90 Hot crepes filled with apricot jam

91 Time for more than one cup of coffee at a time



92 Hearing the click of shoes along the narrow road in the dead of night and wondering where on earth they've been at 3am.

93 The after hours shenanigans at the bottom of the metro steps

94 Missing someone and realizing how lucky you are to have someone to miss

95 Writers

96 No "Big Box Stores"

97 Artists



98 Watching other people lounging in the aesthetic, and knowing you're one of them



99 Good wine in your camera bag and more wine just over there



100 The knuckle off of a warm baguette



101 Buying postcards instead of looking at it all through a camera lens



102 Seeing the smiles of other tourists

103 St-Germain-des-Pres and everything about it.....sigh....



104 The feel of silk in the lingerie stores

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Committed


A few years ago one of my friends gave me a copy of Elizabeth Gilbert's, Eat Pray Love. It was a book that had received a lot of media attention, yet didn't tug at my intellectual yearning to read. It wasn't until a second friend gave me her copy of the same book that I thought perhaps I should give it a try (after all, friend #2, much like myself rarely loans out her books. To loan a book is an expression of great love). Both women said that I'd love the book, and that the author's voice reminded them of me. Uh-oh.

I read the first two sections of the book, that took the author from married, to mourning her marriage through the food of Italy, and sanctity of spiritual of India. I stopped there. I didn't enjoy the book, and I thought that the author was rather self-indulgent as she travelled (by means of monetary advance from her publisher by the way)and indulged in, good food, spiritual retreat and adventure. Not every woman who finds herself on the other side of a bad marriage has the good fortune to be able to wallow in this kind of obsessive, border-line selfish thinking. Most are not writers, and that does give Ms. Gilbert much more leeway in my eyes. Most women are praying to get through the day to day demands of paying bills, raising children (if they have them), and not falling apart emotionally while living hand to mouth and day to day.


When I first picked up the book and started reading, I thought, “Oh my gawd! Am I that self-indulgent?! Do I really obsess about things like this woman?! Come on! “. It was kind of like being set up on a blind date and wondering what the heck the setter-upper had in mind when they matched me with the guy across the table. Pul-eaze! I did have to concede however, that yes, I obsessed, especially about my single/dating status. And yes, my friends had very patiently listened. Maybe they thought the book would hold up a mirror, and finally make me shut up. That, or increase my gratitude for the freedom I have as a single person OR encourage me like good girlfriends do that Mr. Right is out there somewhere, and I would meet him when I least expect it. Hahaha. Very funny ladies.


Anyway, two weeks ago I wanted to read something. My bed is, and always has been surrounded by books. I keep the ones I'm reading, and the ones yet to be read on shelves at arms length near my reading lamp. After all of these years of bachelorette-hood, I have come to the conclusion that I am happy as I am. Not just, I'll-get-by-until-the-next-guy-comes-along happy, but really content just having my own space and managing my own time and money. So, in my comfy bed with lots of pillows, I reached over and pulled Eat Pray Love off the shelf and started the final third of the book about Ms. Gilbert's adventures in Bali.


Much like my philosophical friends who think relationships happen when we need them, and we learn the lessons we need from these relationship when it’s time for us to learn these lessons, I believe that we read what we read when we need it, when we’re ready to translate whatever message happens to be hidden in those millions of words for us.


The long and short of it is that I did enjoy the last third of the book. That third did remind me of me, and how I relate and make my place in the world. Isn’t it nice to see that part of ourselves reflected back in our choice of literature? Anyway, I enjoyed the book and had read an interview with Elizabeth Gilbert in Shambala Sun magazine about her new book Committed; A skeptic makes peace with marriage.

After I finished the first book, I wanted to know what happened with neurotic Elizabeth, and her very sexy Brazilian lover Felipe. I mean, how bad could it turn out? He was Brazilian after all. I must confess here that every blue moon I actually take a hit of Harlequin romance myself. My dealer is a mid-fifties Newfie housewife who secretly boils bologna and cabbage and says prayers over the pot that I might meet Mr. Wonderful who will sweep me off my feet, take care of all of my worldly cares, and treat me like gold just the way her husband treats her. Keep boiling bologna old girl. I need all the help I can get.


Anyway, I bought my copy of Committed, and settled in with it. Yes, it does tell the story of Elizabeth and Felipe, and it does end “happily ever after”. After, that is, a hellish experience with the bureaucracy created by a paranoid, red-neck Republican U.S. government called “homeland security”.


Gilbert’s book gives us a great narrative about the history of the institution of marriage, and insight into how an independent woman’s mind wraps itself around that institution. From Greek philosophy to the early days of the Christian church, and marriages for land and power pre-middle ages, it is a sweeping testament to how “thinking women” as Gilbert puts it, come to terms with the great losses and gains of marriage. What the price of that intimacy is, and what the price of not having that type of intimacy is.


I remain, as I did before I read the book; content in my being. Content with my home, my child, my friends and my spirit, and maybe a little inspired. Inspired to think it is possible. I would marry again, but not under the same circumstances, or with the same expectations. Meeting a really nice man who can carry a conversation with me would be a good start.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

The Saturday Globe and Mail


I am so grateful for the ink residue left on my fingertips after I read the Saturday edition of the Globe and Mail. That we live in a country with (relatively) free press is a huge freedom for which we, as Canadians should be more acutely aware and grateful. The newspaper business is dying an agonal death. We’ve turned inward to our computers and hand held devices to take in the narrow band news that interests us personally. On the train, the subway, the bus, we plug in, and disconnect from the rest of the world. My thoughts are echoed by Stuart McLean and a great piece in his weekly CBC Vinyl Cafe stories. He weaves a great memoir about what we lose as a society, as individuals move away from the newsprinted page and disengage with one another debating the issues of the day.


I must confess, I generally read the paper section by section, and I look forward to the Globe Life Style section the most, with Lucy Waverman’s recipes inspiring me to cook and entertain. The rest of the paper inspires the conversation that seasons the food and wine at the table. What would Saturday morning be without the cantankerous, Don Cherry-like in icon status, Christie Blatchford? I mean really, the woman is unrepentant with well-thought out arguments. I don’t always agree, but I certainly admire her chutzpah (and the love she has for her pooch).


A lot of my friends and acquaintances nod their head in agreement when someone moans about depressing news stories, how sensationalized everything is, blah, blah, blah. Well, it’s true sometimes. But, and a big but it is, what the heck do we Canadians really have to report as traumatic, sensational, population-annihilating news? Usually what we count as real news; atrocious natural disasters with astronomical death tolls, and the injustice of corrupt governments don’t make our national news. I mean, come on people, we do a great job of covering up the pathetic nature of our federal government like a Baptist newlywed covers up her knees for goodness sake.


Page A5 of this Saturday’s Globe and Mail includes a quarter-page article by Gloria Galloway about the recent “Tequila Tantrum” had by our federal conservative Veteran’s Affairs Minister Jean-Pierre Blackburn. What a joke. We call this government? We elected these people for a second time?! What the heck are we thinking about?! The whole government is a joke, a bunch of self-important idiots who have latched onto the teet of “almost” stardom and won’t let go. See the article next to this Tequila debacle about Ralph Klein becoming the star of a new game show, as evidence of this goofy politician cum pseudo star phenomenon.


Does it really matter whether your tie is red or blue, or even orange anymore? There seems to be a self indulgent pulse running through our political system, fuelled by bloated expense accounts, zero accountability, a not-so-much-as-apathetic-but-lazy public and a Prime Minister who has learned how to call time-out (recently we have been reminded of the definition of proroguing) whenever there may actually be an intelligent argument coming to light about what the hell is really going on with our U.S. worshipping boys in Ottawa. Really Mr. Harper, just because you have come to be known for crotch-scratching-hockey-game betting, calling national, political time outs is not really that cool.


So, Mr. Blackburn, who according to the article included a $68,000.00 receipt on his 2007 expense report for aircraft rentals, had a hissy fit for not being able to take a big ol’ bottle of booze on a flight. Classy. Mr. Blackburn, less than a year ago announced that our Canadian government was going to spend $358.7 million (MILLION) to tighten up Canadian airport security. Maybe if he weren’t so attached to his booze, he would remember that it’s been a few years since they’ve allowed any liquid over 100ml on board a plane. Oh. Well, my oversight. Not privately hired planes. That’s right, he’s had little experience flying commercial like us lowly, brainwashed Wal-Mart shoppers. Silly me, what was I thinking criticizing this inspiring Canadian (elected) leader?


After the ever present “they” confiscated his tequila, the Minister (OUR ELECTED minister) demanded that security empty the bottle in front of him. What’s wrong Mr. Blackburn? If you can’t party on Canada’s watch and dime, no one else can either? What was he planning, doing body shots off Her Excellency, the Right Honourable Michaelle Jean, Governor General during the next proroguation while she winks across the room at that bad boy Stevie Harper? I hope they confiscated the contraband lemons and salt from his carry on too. Ok, so now I'm getting silly, but it's a reflection of the language and behaviour that we have come to expect and (regretfully) accept from our elected leaders.

So people, as I am ever vigilant in voicing every time we have an election – think really darn hard about for whom you vote. Think about not the type of country you can settle for living in, but about the type of country you are proud to call home. Are we a nation who just votes “so the other party doesn’t get in”, or do we have the fortitude to vote for the change we really want to see? So far, we’ve remained the apathetic blue or red voters we have always historically been. Vote for what you believe in....VOTE – VOTE-VOTE, so we can come out from underneath all of this adolescent political cock rubbing ( see page A9 photo of our Prime Minister accepting a case of beer from the President of the grand old U.S. of A. In payment for a bet they made on a hockey game)that only results in an embarrassing exchange of personal insults across the floor of a very spoiled parliament.


On that note, don’t even get me started about the second article on page A11, “Anglicans accept Pope’s invitation to join Catholic church”, but do go out and buy a newspaper. Get your hands dirty, and engage someone in an intelligent conversation about what is going on in the world. Talk leads to action, and action to the change we want to see in the world.


Read, love, and scatter peace.

Monday, March 15, 2010

Whose Problem is it Anyway?



Anyone who works in social work is assigned to fix others’ problems.
Each day you go to work, and your caseload will likely involve a smorgasbord of people with problems. People who are violent and are victims of violence; People who are substance abusers, are homeless, have mental health issues, are poor, can’t find a job, hoard things, have phobias, sexual dysfunction, disabilities, the-dirty-little-secrets we all share as fallible human beings, and don’t manage to hide so well all of the time.

What’s their diagnosis? Why are they being referred? In a general sense, most questions translate into plain English as; What’s their problem?

Quite often, and isn’t it grand? We often associate these problems, such as substance abuse, hoarding, eating disorders to the wonderful world of television that we, as a society tend to worship. Except me of course. Oh yah, and you. You’re particularly wise to these things you incredibly intelligent, on the cutting edge of every cultural boon, sexy reader you.

We see fat tv people trying to learn to eat and exercise to get thin, we see tv drug addicts learning to live drug-free, we see tv hoarders cleaning up their homes, and it works almost every time. On those television shows. So that must be the way the world works right? People who fall off the narrow, steep, mountain path named by democratic vote, “THE NORM”, are really only clinging to the edge and need a hand to swing their leg back over the top and keep on truckin’ right? Thank you cable tv.


One of the important questions on an intake form in any social service agency is who made the referral. Was it a relative? Medical Professional? Social Worker? School principal? Neighbour? Whoever makes the referral is the one to whom the individual referred is compared (to the referring sources set of what is normal, and what has slipped over the edge). Go ahead, read that sentence again.


So whose problem is it? When does behaviour tip the scale? When it affects your ability to work, pay your bills, and maintain healthy relationships?


Well, I flunk at least one of those three indicators according to my married friends, and sometimes I actually don’t like having to pay my bills, so maybe I'm only around 50% there. Does that mean I need a relationship intervention? Does a romantic relationship specialist, social worker, psychologist need to see me on an ongoing basis until I’m married with a house, picket fence, well trained dog, and pie cooling on the window sill? Maybe. Or, (gasp-deeeeeep gasp), maybe I’m happy just as I am. Maybe my being single is really just an issue for dinner party hosts, wedding planners and compulsive busy-bodies who worry too much about why I feel safe travelling alone, and gawd forbid, eating all alone in a restaurant.


Is it my problem that the neighbour works a night shift? That her husband drinks so much that he passes out every night by eight o’clock? That her nine year old son doesn’t eat dinner because of it and doesn’t do his homework, or the laundry, or the dishes, or have friends over, or take a bath, or go out and play? Come on, is that really my problem? I mean I don't have time for that kid. I barely have time to do the dishes, go to the gym, look after my own kid, and sneak in a little luxury bubble bath.


What about the old man next door? Is it my problem he always smells like a public restroom in Paris? Is it my problem that his mail piles up at the door, or that he spends his days and nights and weekends, and holidays and birthdays alone? Is it my problem that his house is packed with newspapers and everything else under the sun, including his garbage and recycling, and dirty take-out containers, and he never, I mean never-ever-never takes anything to the garbage?

Where I was raised, none of the above two paragraphs would be considered my problem. None of it. Not unless they were related by blood , and the only problem would be if anyone I wasn’t related to found out that I was related to crazy people or drunks. Because, heaven forbid if that happened we’d be tarred with the same brush, and we’d collectively go to hell with holey socks in a hooker’s handbasket. Incidentally, do hooker's carry handbaskets, or just really big purses?


Now what about today in the city? Is it my problem, when I have to get out of the house at the crack of dawn to navigate rush hour traffic, and I come home in the same highway war zone, barely able to cook my own dinner, do the homework in this house, clean my own floors and bathroom, and raise my own child? It can’t possibly be my problem right? I mean, after I shut my door, the problem doesn’t exist. I just have to deal with my own little microcosm right here in the little space that I pay for.


Or? ... does the kid who belongs to the drinking father start drinking himself? Maybe smoking, finding a bit of dope here or there? Finding friends who like to do the same things, but treat him like dirt because he stinks and is dumb, and in a few years the kid discovers sex all on his own maybe some meth or crack, and manage to spread the gift of STD’s that keep on giving? Or, maybe just lose it because he's so disconnected, and manage to justify carrying a firearm, or, maybe even using it? I mean, the kid could possibly be wise and insightful about what a hell hole his parents have created for him, study like mad and stay straight so he can build his own life and get the hell out. He could, and if you look at statistics, it’s a statistically minimal possibility.


I mean, really, what do I care if my neighbour drinks underage, does every drug under the sun, wields a weapon and causes widespread disease. It doesn’t get in my door does it, or even make my lawn look less than luscious and green right? I mean it’s not like that stuff is linked to violence, crime or anything like that. It’s kinda like the Boogeyman – if you pull the cover over your head and hold it there long enough, all of those social problems just pass you by. Haha, sucker!!! You can’t get me Social Boogeyman!!!


Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think that people need to smoke dope under cover of darkness in bomb shelters. I don’t think a drink or two (or even three) will land you in a burning rabbit hole bound for hell with pit stops for crack and pedophilia. Nor do I think a little community outreach and support would go amiss.

You know the old man who hoards stuff. Let him keep it, just let him keep the rodents, and the insects and the disease too. When you ultra blue conservatives figure out a way to do that, let me know. That stuff can’t come in after I’ve closed the front door on the world can it? I mean, really.

Sunday, March 14, 2010

To Baby or Not to Baby


I much prefer visiting the gynaecologist than the dentist. I dread seeing the gynaecologist, so you can guess how I feel about the dentist. With the dentist, there’s the pre-emptory small talk, and ongoing natter between the assistant and dentist about weekend plans and weekends at the cottage. Pul-eeze. At least with the gynaecologist, there’s no small talk and forced casualness. You know what’s going to happen. You’re wearing paper, and let’s face it, there’s not a whole lot of conversation that’s appropriate, other than, “Ok. That’s it. I’ll leave and you can put your clothes back on.”


I have been a regular with my “lady” specialist for years, with a history of surgeries and problems as long as my arm. At 19 I was told I wouldn’t be able to have children. Last night I just celebrated my child’s 11th birthday. I have been told through the years that if I’m thinking of having any more children, I need to do it NOW. As a teenager, the idea of having children was something I welcomed even less than a visit to the dentist. It was only after I fell in love and got married that I wanted a child. It was like a switch flipped, and all of a sudden, I wanted children, lots of children. I have dreamt of having a big country house with a huge harvest table where my children and grandchildren would gather for Sunday dinners, holidays, to do homework and come to that kitchen and table, knowing it as a safe, comforting place. When I divorced, as much as my marriage, I grieved all the dreams I had of having a family that could gather me up like snuggling into a warm duvet.


Since then, I have worked, gone to school, and most importantly raised my one and only child. For years I thought, “don’t worry Trish, you’ll meet the right guy one day, and have more kids. You’ll fix all the mistakes you made the first time, and have a great life and family.” It’s been a decade, and I’m still hoping to meet that special person to share my life with. My gynaecological clock has been ticking, and now I think it’s tocked.


My last visit to the gynaecologist felt different. It was as if I had turned a corner in my life and could breathe a little more deeply again. You see, my visits are usually emotional ones. I’m there because something is wrong. Something isn’t working the way it should be, which has always made me feel like I’m not working the way I should be, that I’m somehow not whole because during these prime years of life I haven’t walked around with my proud pregnant belly sticking out that says, I am loved, and I’m loving, and I’m capable of performing the greatest miracle on earth .


The specialist that I go to see has his office in a hospital. The white walls, old granite floors, worn waiting room chairs and seven year old magazines give it all a clinical feel. You are there to be examined. The feeling of wanting another child, and the new life that would represent pushed its way to the conscious surface every time I had an appointment. With watery eyes I would watch the pregnant women walk in, beaming and smiling, holding the hand of their partner or giving those coy little angel smile to the proud grandmother’s to be who would accompany them to the appointments. I sat alone. No mother, no husband, hiding behind worn pages of old housekeeping magazines, feeling like an abandoned car. Tears welled up, and I was relieved when I was finally ushered into the examining room and handed the paper gown.


When was your last period? Do you have any children? How old are they? How many pregnancies have you had? ...The standard questions before you put your legs up and your head back, wishing it was all over. The two most annoying things I’ve ever seen during my many visits to the gynaecologist’s office are pictures on the ceiling above the examining table (believe me, pictures of snow capped mountains and spring meadows are not going to make me forget what’s going on down there), and oven mitts on the stirrups. Oven mitts!? Really a little less patronizing – pul-eeze!


So, during my last visit, I skipped the haute couture gown papier, and oven mitted stirrups and went right into his office. I thought maybe he was firing me. After all, he’s there to help women. I was faulty. I mean I feel like a woman, I look like a woman, hell, I even enjoy being a woman, but let’s face it, my plumbing had become passé. As I sat down expecting my pink slip, my doctor began an actual conversation with me. He talked, I listened. I talked, he listened. Ladies who may be reading this take note; he listens. If you feel, as I have felt a few times that your specialist is not listening, fire them, and find one who cares about what you’re saying about your body.


“Are you trying to have children,” he asked looking up from the results of my last lab work. “I’m trying really hard right now NOT to get pregnant”, I replied with a little chuckle. You see, I’d just finished up an atrocious relationship and the idea of reproducing made a little chill go through me. “I’m not trying to have children,” I said, getting over how hilarious I think I am,”but I don’t want to write off the idea completely yet.” You see, I still have this push pull feeling of, yes, I want another baby, and oh gawd no! I can’t imagine raising another three year old.


I had been struggling with whether to commit to having a relationship that would be healthy enough to nurture another child, or deciding that I indeed did not want to have another baby. The struggle reminded me off an Anne Morris quote on a Starbucks coffee cup, “The irony of commitment is that it's deeply liberating - in work, in play, in love. The act frees you from the tyranny of your internal critic , from the fear that likes to dress itself up and parade around as rational hesitation. To commit is to remove your head as the barrier to your life.” As a young twenty-something, I had promised myself that I would be finished having my children at 30. When I turned 30, almost five years after my divorce, with a six year old, I decided I would give myself another five years before I decided that I wouldn’t have more kids.


So there I was. 35 years old, still not committed either way to having, or not having another child, on the verge of being fired by my baby doctor. I was exhausted from vacillating between the two options. Despite my dream of having a family, I was getting tired. Tired of carrying a hope that now seemed hopeless. I was starting to dream of other things. Carrying on with, my hobbies, travelling, having a relationship where reproduction wasn’t in the spotlight. That had begun to look like a great place to invest my hopes after years of relationships that would not result in a happy, mommy and daddy home for a child.


Hearing my non-committal answer, my doctor, gentle-yet-to-the-point, said, “If you want to have more children, do it now.” He emphasized “now”, like the word was a flashing neon sign. Now?! I thought. Now? The idea of it made me laugh. There is no way (flashing neon sign emphasis here) that I was going to get pregnant NOW!


Like the first sip of a lemony gin and tonic on a hot afternoon, the reality of my reproductive potential flowed over me. Now? Now. Wow. No way.


What a great way to commit one way or the other. No more babies. I mean, how quickly can you go from first date to proud parents? With the right birth control and the right Cava or Champagne, I can honestly say it would take me at least a few years. In a few years my child will be driving, getting ready to move away to university and the idea of having midnight feedings and potty training makes me shiver. I do not want to do that. Not at this stage. Five years ago – sure. But now? Anyone who knows me would tell you that it will NEVER happen.


I am still sad I don’t have more children. I will always wish I had crafted my path a bit differently, that luck in love would have found me. On the other hand, I am grateful for my one, healthy, happy child. Grateful I’ve been able to provide a stable home and lots of love.


Commitment is indeed liberating. Sometimes we just need a little more perspective before we commit to the right things.

Finding Nature on the Flight Path



It was the first day of March , and the first day that I think spring peeked around the corner to make sure it's safe and is going to make a run for it.


The sun was bright that day, and any white, fluffy evidence of the snowstorm we had had during the weekend melted, and was racing to the sewer grates. It was the first day since, oh, I don’t know, November, that I didn't have to wear my scarf or button up my coat. I actually rolled down the car window today March 1st, because the heat of the sun was uncomfortable behind the windshield as I cruised up the highway.

When my son and I left the gym, the thin, barely-there puddles hadn't yet completely frozen over, and the sky was a beautiful cracked ice flow of clouds with stars twinkling in the dark lines between the broken sky. As we walked along the path beside the lake on our way home, we both looked up and marvelled at the beauty of the sky, and voiced our hopes for a great camping season. “It’s so beautiful, isn't it?, I said to my son. “It is, but it’s not as interesting as that,” he said, pointing his caught-between-being-a-child-and-adolescent finger to a large group of human shadows blocking the path, just beyond the lamp post.

At first I bristled a little bit. I couldn't make out how many of them there were, or imagine why they might be standing out there after dark, huddled together like that. Oh well, we’ll just keep our heads up and keep walking, I thought instinctively to myself. Followed immediately by the thought that my eyesight is getting exponentially worse. Step by step, the group became less of a shadowed huddle, and I could make out the distinct shapes of a few adults and a group of little people. As each pace brought us nearer the huddle, I could make out the voice of a gentleman who was addressing them, and then his telltale neckerchief. The elusive, urban species of Cub Scout leader.

I couldn’t help but snicker under my breath a little bit. When I was a little girl, the Cub Scouts would meet in a little barn-like shack just on the outskirts of town. They went there to learn all about tying knots, and poison ivy, and about always being prepared, while their parents sat outside or in another wood-panelled room smoking cigarettes and gossiping about which Cub Scout’s dad had been fired from his factory job. The kids would do their thing, promise to do their duty, or whatever it is they promised to do, and as a reward, they would get to camp out a few times a year. We actually lived where there were trees, “woods” even, and you could take your fishing pole down to the lake and catch dinner. Poison ivy rashes actually happened, and we all knew how to suck the honey out of clover, catch smelt, and paddle a canoe, way before our tired out, blue collar parents sent us to what we called "the scout hall".



So, as my city-raised son and I walked past this group, the leader asked the question, “When you’re walking or hiking, why shouldn't you walk off of the marked path? Well, what do you think? Because you might get lost? Because a stranger might pick you up? Because you’ll get your shoes muddy? All sensible answers from tots who have been raised under streetlights, and never more than five minutes from a non-fat, decaffeinated latte and a printed edition of world news. That poor leader. He held his hands in his hands as he tried to explain that walking off a marked trail might damage the flora that was native to the area. Huh?



And then a huge aircraft flew directly overhead, it’s massive, gas binging engines drowning out the common sense of that elusive endangered species; Cub Scout Leader.