tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90757202024-03-19T00:47:02.113-05:00On the CorkRandom thoughts, life as I see it, feel it, dream it, rants, raves, introspection, sarcasm, love, pain, joy, gratitude, knowing, intuition, retrospection, assimilation, observation, admiration, ambivalence, truth, lies, balance - holding it all at the same time.McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.comBlogger74125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9075720.post-25874632124686152092011-08-26T13:54:00.005-05:002011-08-26T21:49:57.355-05:00Public Mourning Public Ignorance<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" closure_uid_3j0t2="395" style="text-align: center;"><div closure_uid_3j0t2="396">" I do not believe that sheere suffering teaches. </div><div closure_uid_3j0t2="396"> If suffering alone taught, all the world would be wise, since everyone suffers.</div><div closure_uid_3j0t2="396"> To suffering must be added mourning,</div><div closure_uid_3j0t2="396"> understanding, patience, love, openness</div><div closure_uid_3j0t2="396"> and the willingness to remain vulnerable."</div><div closure_uid_frrs0d="337">~Joseph Addison~</div><div closure_uid_frrs0d="337"><br />
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</tbody></table><div closure_uid_3j0t2="347">Tomorrow we say good-bye to Jack Layton, who, until a short time ago was the elected leader of our country's official federal opposition. </div><br />
<div closure_uid_3j0t2="339"><div closure_uid_frrs0d="336">As you may or may not know, I'm kind of a pro when it comes to saying good-bye, especially, the formality of it all, arranging and staging funerals. I am not a wedding/funeral junkie, but I recognize the great importance of ritual. We often tisk at over-done anything (weddings, showers, </div>birthday parties). We scoff at show and pomp, but do we consider the important communal aspect of ritual?</div><br />
<div closure_uid_3j0t2="336"><div closure_uid_frrs0d="326"><div closure_uid_r3i2wi="341">One local GTA columnist wrote about what she (ignorantly) understands to be inappropriate mourning; "What once would have been deemed Mawkish is now considered to be perfectly appropriate" (Christie Blatchford, National Post, August 22, 2011).</div></div></div><div closure_uid_3j0t2="336"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_3j0t2="336"><div closure_uid_r3i2wi="326">The columnist scoffs at Layton's last letter to his fellow Canadian citizens as a piece of political propaganda, and at Layton for a being, "a 24/7 politician who was always on". Clearly she thinks quite highly of herself sniffing out this more than <em>obvious</em> truth. Layton was a 24/7 politician who was always on. Better than some of the Conservative Cabinet Ministers who were more often "turned on" and breached security I would say. <em>Seriously </em>Ms. Blatchford, do you think we need your column in a second-rate "national" news rag to point out that someone else likely helped Jack Layton write the letter? A letter which would inevitably hit the press like the historical piece of news that it in fact<em> is</em>? </div></div><div closure_uid_3j0t2="336"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_3j0t2="336"><div closure_uid_r3i2wi="340"><div closure_uid_54a0ta="336">Regardless of how orange your political stripes are, you would have had to be a cave dwelling gnome not to have known who Jack Layton was, or how important his leadership was changing the political landscape of this country. His letter read, "We can restore our good name in the world,", and yes Ms. Blatchford, as a nation we <em>have</em> lost that. Apathy is not globally respected. Well, not outside the padded leather walls of the old boys club where they masturbate over stock portfolios padded by dirty employment and environmental practice. </div></div></div><br />
<div closure_uid_3j0t2="336"><div closure_uid_k79rru="326"><div closure_uid_54a0ta="337">I could go on about this poorly thought-out rant by a writer who is reminiscing about her journalistic hey-day. This piece doesn't deserve any more dissection. What the column did for me was to help me realize the importance of public ritual.</div></div></div><div closure_uid_3j0t2="336"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_3j0t2="336"><div closure_uid_k79rru="327"><div closure_uid_54a0ta="335">Fear, anger, joy and even grief become energized and eventually dispelled much more easily when they are shared. As an individual we grieve and mourn. As a group we grieve and mourn together. Together -that's key here. As Canadians we have lost our good name in the world as we leave other nations to hang out in the wind when they need human rights advocates and collaborate to save our planet. Through this public display of grief and mourning, we, as a nation,have shown our true colours. We will mourn together, and hopefully, celebrate that ethical piece of our identity that has been swathed by apathy.</div><div closure_uid_54a0ta="335"><br />
</div></div></div><div closure_uid_3j0t2="336"><div closure_uid_r3i2wi="342"><div closure_uid_k79rru="328">It only takes one bad apple to make the rest of the bunch seem perfectly ripe and delicious. Thank you Christie for sharing your ignorance so we could disrobe from our national shame that is called apathy and celebrate the gifts that have been given by a much more wise and compassionate leader. </div></div></div><div closure_uid_3j0t2="336"><br />
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</div></div>McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9075720.post-69490040000866807072011-08-15T21:01:00.001-05:002011-08-15T21:03:09.863-05:00Classmates<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div closure_uid_e6cn1q="305">This is a quick post - not in the general sarcastic spirit of On The Cork, but most sincere.</div><div closure_uid_e6cn1q="305"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_e6cn1q="305">My friend died yesterday. He was an MMA trainer, and one of the few "good guys". We went to school together for 9 years, and shared many moments together as most kids do.</div><div closure_uid_e6cn1q="305"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_e6cn1q="305">He lived his dream, married his best friend, and died all too young at 37. This is why we should never hold back saying, " I love you". Say it every day, as often as you can.</div><div closure_uid_e6cn1q="305"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_e6cn1q="305">You were a bright light Shawn Tompkins, and you will be missed.</div></div>McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9075720.post-14358473183869513432011-08-01T22:34:00.001-05:002011-08-02T16:33:16.210-05:00Romance Novels: Relationship Manure<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div closure_uid_jyipas="302"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1YQ6nY5l1WftN1q3N1N6_dl6106xM6dEvZD4ZAn4j9K_4eqFuIKw8_1is8g8znb5Jsp6NsH0c3hnN0bltn8fBGNPj7-6Jddk2LzM0CxOsSKPQf69EZuaWd_UAk5neSlmnqjQbkQ/s1600/romance+novels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1YQ6nY5l1WftN1q3N1N6_dl6106xM6dEvZD4ZAn4j9K_4eqFuIKw8_1is8g8znb5Jsp6NsH0c3hnN0bltn8fBGNPj7-6Jddk2LzM0CxOsSKPQf69EZuaWd_UAk5neSlmnqjQbkQ/s1600/romance+novels.jpg" t$="true" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" closure_uid_5ncnx5="416" style="text-align: center;">" Love is like a friendship caught on fire. <br />
In the beginning a flame, very pretty, often hot and fierce,<br />
but still on ly light and flickering.<br />
<div closure_uid_5ncnx5="417">As love grows older, our hearts mature </div><div closure_uid_5ncnx5="417">and our love becomes as coals, deep burning and unquenchable<span class="sqq">”</span></div><div closure_uid_5ncnx5="417">~Bruce Lee~</div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div closure_uid_5ncnx5="370">Two of my very best friends on the planet love to sneak in time with re-runs of Little House on the Prairie. Every woman I know cherishes her girlfriends, going to the spa, and cries in the bathtub. Despite being educated, well-travelled, and independent, we are women. </div></div><div closure_uid_jyipas="302"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_jyipas="302"><div closure_uid_5ncnx5="419"><div closure_uid_66oa5p="333">Being gentle, sympathetic, and loving being snuggled up with our head resting on our man's chest are not weaknesses. Read on dear reader, for what I have to say may surprise you, what with my reputation as the Colonel Ball Breaker in the battle of the sexes.</div><div closure_uid_66oa5p="333"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_66oa5p="333"><div closure_uid_asj5df="317">Last month I had an epiphany at Wal-You-Know-What. After dropping off my kiddo at ball practice I had to run an errand for more junk to clean my little home with. Dish soap in hand, I was standing, trance-like at the romance novel rack. "How pathetic am I?", I thought to myself as I took note of my very matronly denim capris, cotton t-shirt and hair clipped up off of my neck. "Have I really been reduced to this frumpy house-cleaning mom standing at the romance novel rack?". That wasn't the epiphany. I'm a pretty happy frumpy house cleaning mom after my professional 9-5 gig. </div></div><div closure_uid_66oa5p="333"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_66oa5p="333"><div closure_uid_asj5df="318">The epiphany came as I stood there scanning the titles and cover shots of beautiful men and women holding one another in passionate embraces. Two other women joined me. Both wearing denim capris and cotton tops, both with their hair clipped up off of their necks, and both clinging to bottles of dish soap. We all wore glasses, and we were all about the same age. I was the only one not sporting a diamond and wedding band. Harlequin had us by our proverbial balls. </div></div></div></div><div closure_uid_jyipas="302"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_jyipas="302"><div closure_uid_5ncnx5="353"><div closure_uid_66oa5p="332"><div closure_uid_asj5df="319">Until a few years ago, I had only ever ventured into the land of romance novels as a curious teenager, intrigued by heaving bosomed heroines being rescued by rippling-biceped heroes. At that point, I was all intellect and proud of it. No way was I, an honour student, student reporter, peer counsellor and die hard human rights advocate going to be so weak as to actually feel better because I had a man in my life. Boys were up there with experimenting with new eyeshadow colour and thong underwear. </div><div closure_uid_asj5df="319"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_asj5df="319">It was my dear friend Jan who reintroduced me to the genre years later. I was (am) a very serious professional, who read non-fiction, highly intellectual books and articles about <em>very</em> important things. I did <em>not</em>, repeat, <em>NOT</em> have time for poorly written, formula romance novels about women and men who live happily ever after. I mean <em>come on</em>. If I were ever to snag my rippling-biceped hero, surely he would want his intellectual equal. I could not be caught with this drivel littering my coffee table.</div></div></div></div><div closure_uid_jyipas="302"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_jyipas="302">Passages like the following used to make me roll my eyes and close the book; "Despite her reservations about falling for such an obvious bachelor, her breath caught in her throat as soon as she saw him standing there, soaking wet, on the other side of her screen door, " and, " Dammit! He knew that she was stubborn, but he couldn't resist being away from her for another moment let alone another night. He swallowed his pride, as he pulled into the parking spot just outside her door. He was going to do whatever it took to make sure she knew she was the only woman that he loved."</div><div closure_uid_jyipas="302"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_jyipas="302"><div closure_uid_5ncnx5="310"><div closure_uid_asj5df="320">What plays out in these romance novels, as most of us are aware, is that there are a couple of people who meet, and against all odds live happily ever after in our imaginations after we close the back cover and snuggle into our pillows for the night. </div></div></div><div closure_uid_jyipas="302"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_jyipas="302"><div closure_uid_5ncnx5="296"><div closure_uid_asj5df="330">So, you might ask what on earth could be beneficial reading such unabashed smut? First of all, you get both perspectives - male and female - without the flavour of bias you get in conversation with friends. Besides recounting our daily who, what, where, when and why, girls often spend a lot of their time involved in discussion about women not understanding men and men not understanding women. Or, more accurately, about men being insensitive and not being emotionally available. Men would be wise to flip through some of these little gems to glean insight into the female psyche.</div></div><div closure_uid_5ncnx5="296"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_5ncnx5="296">There's a lot of skepticism and even cynicism out there about the value of relationships. Who needs a man in their life/ or a woman in their life when they are strong, independent and capable all on their very own? Isn't monogamy and marriage an outdated necessity now? If these things are true, why do 99% of all single people I know wish that they could find exactly the right partner? Like it or not, everyone wants to be desired, and someone else's number one.</div><div closure_uid_5ncnx5="296"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_5ncnx5="296">Where can we find better, more affirming myths to encourage our dream of finding and making it work with Mr/Mrs Right?</div><div closure_uid_5ncnx5="296"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_5ncnx5="296">Besides the obvious part of the formula where two people meet and get together against all odds, each person has an internal conflict happening as well. For example, a determined woman to be successful on her own does not want to ask for help. The man may not want to get involved helping the woman because he can't bear disappointing someone else again. Despite their fears, and individual journey, the two overcome their internal conflicts because the power of love is greater than all of that ego stuff.</div><div closure_uid_5ncnx5="296"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_5ncnx5="296">We read about women who are insecure about their appearance, of getting hurt (again), who have children they want to protect, and feel misunderstood. We read about men who are insecure about their sexual prowess, of getting hurt (again), who have children they want to protect, and want only to please and not disappoint their woman. We're all a bit insecure. We've all been hurt. Trust is painfully hard when you've been betrayed. Reading about other people who have the same warts and still make it work just makes us <em>feel</em> good.</div><div closure_uid_5ncnx5="296"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_5ncnx5="296"><div closure_uid_66oa5p="321"><div closure_uid_asj5df="335">Besides that, love is supposed to be patient <em>and</em> kind. Romance novels give us great examples of patience, kindness, and the value of letting off steam with friends while cultivating this patience and kindness. It's ok to be gentle ladies, and desire having someone to talk to and rest your head against after a hard day. It doesn't make you less strong, less intelligent, or less independent. It just makes you human.</div></div><div closure_uid_66oa5p="321"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_66oa5p="321"><div closure_uid_asj5df="336">I like to believe that a man's idea of romance and lasting love is as simple as the, "Bring Beer and Show Up Naked" myth but I'm not that much of a ball breaker. Not quite. I do think that it would benefit all men to pick up a few romance novels. Go ahead guys - I dare you.</div></div><div closure_uid_66oa5p="321"><br />
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</div><div closure_uid_5ncnx5="296"><div closure_uid_66oa5p="320"> </div></div></div></div>McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9075720.post-27947978103460936392011-07-29T15:54:00.000-05:002011-07-29T16:18:25.157-05:00You Don't Say?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEaDDvRUcX2rhhJ7eEdZiAhOtQJIH0H2GxkqcjMmgasj86DpzOXNct58uYrGN-mnBJfY-4PdyzK1_bGSF9kLrv7oJUc1w8eIxtQk3g-WW8V7MaTkoGIhqndXjCWsAQ1Y8OAA5Alw/s1600/Written+Word.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEaDDvRUcX2rhhJ7eEdZiAhOtQJIH0H2GxkqcjMmgasj86DpzOXNct58uYrGN-mnBJfY-4PdyzK1_bGSF9kLrv7oJUc1w8eIxtQk3g-WW8V7MaTkoGIhqndXjCWsAQ1Y8OAA5Alw/s1600/Written+Word.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>“Count no woman wise, until thou</em><br />
<em> hast received a letter from her hand; </em><br />
<em>but love none thou hast not seen </em><br />
<em>face to face, for she who is</em><br />
<em> not foolish on paper is worth knowing”</em> <br />
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~Frank Gelett Burgess~ <br />
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</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><div closure_uid_98c0v5="318">I love writing. Even more than writing, I love receiving written notes. There's nothing better than opening the mailbox to find a letter handwritten from my Newfie friend Jan. When you're in love, there's nothing better than a card or note from that special someone pouring out their heart to you. When you're in a slump, it's such a pick me up to get a crazy "thinking of you" card from your wackiest and most faithful of pals.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div closure_uid_98c0v5="329"><div closure_uid_q8j02d="319">Too often we don't thank our friends enough, or people in our circle of acquaintance who go out of their way to make life more civilized. I'm trying to get better at that. I have yet to write a very important thank you to my gal-pal Vicki who helped me move some large items in the dark of night thanks to her hubby's truck that was borrowed under the strict condition that it would not be used to move <em>anything</em>. Thank you Vicki. Hallmark thank you smut to be mailed .....<em>soon</em>?</div></div></div><div closure_uid_98c0v5="337" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div closure_uid_98c0v5="334">Have you ever written a "love letter", or more accurately, a letter to your lover? That's a <em>serious</em> sitting down to write something <em>really </em>important. These are the letters of the wishes of our heart. Have you ever felt like you need to clarify something you said, or explain the essence of your <em>very self</em>? Has it ever been something that you just so <em>badly</em> want someone else to understand that when you read the sentiment back to yourself, you hit the delete button, or scribble out the words, or just shred the paper, because you can't put yourself out there? I mean, we've all heard the quotes about love and madness.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I've done that a few times - crumpling the paper, or hitting the delete button. Just today in fact. I began an email, typed it all up, got to the part that I really, really needed to say, froze completely, and deleted the whole darn thing.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div closure_uid_q8j02d="330">Years ago I (likely in an inebriated state) I wrote a veritable tome to someone who turned out <em>not</em> to be the love of my life. One of my best friends read it and in the most gentle way possible said, "McDish are you nuts?! If you send that I'll kill you". So I didn't. That may have been the only wise thing she's said since I met her almost ten years ago. That, and, "Get your purse and run!"...but that's another story.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div closure_uid_q8j02d="331">About a month ago I came across the very letter my friend told me to toss. I had written it in one of my many notebooks, and I was so relieved that I took her advice. I would never want that letter in anyone else's hands but my own now. Reading it over, I realized how much I've matured, and how much more I like "me" now.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div closure_uid_q8j02d="332">Everything I said in that letter shouldn't have needed to be said. In intimate relationships, the really important stuff should just flow. We should just know what someone else wants or needs. Or should we? I really don't know. By this stage in life, we've all been knocked around a bit, and have a few battle scars to prove it. Making yourself emotionally vulnerable is a huge risk.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Two of my older and much wiser friends have given me two good pieces of advice;</div><div style="text-align: justify;">1) A relationship only changes when a woman decides it needs to be changed.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">2) Men really just want to please us, they just don't know how.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's the repetition of the same issues that wear a relationship down. When needs are expressed and ignored, communication just seems redundant. It's not quite as simple as wining and dining us and buying sparkly jewelry. Wouldn't that be simple. When I talk to my friends (both male and female) in their time of relationship frustration and need, the same themes repeat themselves: time, communication, respect. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">How do we negotiate our time? How do we communicate, at what frequency, about what??? Respect is the biggie...respect me enough to spend time with me, respect me enough to communicate openly and honestly, respect me enough to make me feel welcome without ghosts of relationships past hanging around like bad art. That fine balance of defining your space, both domestically and socially, individually and as a couple, lies in navigating the elements of what the other partner values the most.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, today I deleted a great pouring out of my heart. Older and wiser? Older and cynical? Maybe just older. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I wonder though, what would happen if we all chose to strip ego-bare, and vulnerable in our most intimate relationships? Would we all soften up and evolve into more authentic relationships? What would you say?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div></div>McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9075720.post-30319455601381495292011-07-21T21:15:00.001-05:002011-07-21T21:28:20.981-05:00Meet Clint<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_kJInF28bTEbAgqSA1UU4orXl9osOxebMsZrYUEjjxZx1uAjZyTNuVzr6vR33Fm3DFbkzHh899a_1JHCZRjIvgChexp4EqJYmxJ9vdDfWsnJwMAC6yQjJ8IBKPab0hSKA-wGz3w/s1600/sold+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_kJInF28bTEbAgqSA1UU4orXl9osOxebMsZrYUEjjxZx1uAjZyTNuVzr6vR33Fm3DFbkzHh899a_1JHCZRjIvgChexp4EqJYmxJ9vdDfWsnJwMAC6yQjJ8IBKPab0hSKA-wGz3w/s1600/sold+sign.jpg" t$="true" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The only difference between <br />
a cult and religion<br />
is the amount of real estate they own"<br />
<div closure_uid_dt52vd="464">~Frank Zappa~</div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="464"><br />
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</div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291"><span style="color: #45818e; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>Meet Clint, your friendly neighbourhood devout Christian, marijuana addicted, real estate agent....</em></span></div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291">The house was tidy. Thank goodness. Some home owners didn't take enough care preparing their homes for sale, which made his job much more difficult. Clint looked at his watch impulsively as he rushed to open the patio doors, reaching into his left pocket for his lighter. From his right pocket he drew a very small joint, almost finished, but enough to get him through this showing.</div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291">In the three o'clock shadow of the October sun, he lit his smoke and inhaled deeply, checking hurriedly over his shoulder. Yes, the fence was high enough, surely any nosey neighbours in this little bedroom town would think he was just smoking a a cigarette.</div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291">It had been over two weeks since he closed a sale. He <em>needed</em> this . The church was expecting his annual donation for their Thanksgiving food drive. How could he, as one of the elders, let the congregation down?</div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291">Checking his watch again, Clint took a long, last drag of his cigarette, madly waving the smoke away from his head as if swatting at flies.</div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291">His addiction sated for the moment, Clint relaxed into his new state of mind. "Gosh those chrysanthemums are wild colours," he thought to himself, "God is good man. God is good."</div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291">Satisfied that the breeze had made it's baptismal offering by blowing away the smell of his inhaled afternoon delight, Clint sauntered back into the kitchen, opened the fridge and stared blankly at the contents. The fridge stared back.</div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291"><div closure_uid_1fsmdu="314">"Ah, thank-you Jesus - they have cake," Clint thought as he reached into the back of the fridge and pulled out, what was a a less than a fresh dessert leftover. He peeled back the plastic wrap which clung to a top layer of the cake, picked up the entire piece, and shoved it into his mouth all at once, "Mmm...." He crumpled up the plastic wrap and pressed it down on the empty plate, shoving it all back behind bottles of who knows what. Clint hung onto the door and continued to stare into the refrigerator.</div></div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291">Basking in the richness of the cake, Clint was alarmed by a sudden loud knock at the door, followed a few seconds later by another.</div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291">His watch said 3:45pm. "Cheese and Rice!", he was running late. They were supposed to be here half an hour ago, they being one Livinia Stone and her daughter Bridgette, prospective buyers. Clint scrambled to collect himself, checked his lapels for any lingering aroma and flung the front door open with a wide grin on his face.</div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291"><div closure_uid_1fsmdu="315">"Mrs. Stone? " he asked.</div></div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_dt52vd="291">"Ms.", Livinia replied as she stopped into the foyer, "This is my daughter Bridgette," she purred as she smiled up into Clint's cloudy eyes.</div></div>McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9075720.post-74410834494583334882011-07-03T21:27:00.003-05:002011-07-03T21:47:00.438-05:00Keep Summer Simple Silly<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxRBlnZELMOBeRcdW93Pmzqh8mm_5gAv0LuIfC6dLT2-v1B_CZaFhyphenhyphenFJd1TGrzu93nYlDije5hSRGGqu2WHNDtpYEtrXrBiBSYJRxd6HeXDrgfdRXXcP7DXNFD1dD1uPqoVpCkIw/s1600/sprinkler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxRBlnZELMOBeRcdW93Pmzqh8mm_5gAv0LuIfC6dLT2-v1B_CZaFhyphenhyphenFJd1TGrzu93nYlDije5hSRGGqu2WHNDtpYEtrXrBiBSYJRxd6HeXDrgfdRXXcP7DXNFD1dD1uPqoVpCkIw/s1600/sprinkler.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And there's that one particular harbour<br />
Sheltered from the wind<br />
Where the children play on the shore each day<br />
And all are safe within<br />
Most mysterious calling harbour<br />
So far but yet so near<br />
I can see the day when my hair's full gray<br />
And I finally disappear.<br />
<br />
~Jimmy Buffett~ <br />
<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I don't know about you, but when I was a kid, summer was really simple. Days ran into weeks, running barefoot between the beach and the water sprinkler in the yard. My wardrobe consisted of a bathing suit and baby doll jammies and Noxema for the occasional sunburn. Footwear? Simple; Flip flops and my Bionic-Woman running shoes. I can't recall whether I wore socks between June and September at all. I remember being dumped in a tub to scrub up with Ivory soap and drifting off to sleep with that smell on my clean, sun kissed skin.<br />
<br />
I grew up in a small town, and had all of the freedom afforded of such an environment. Your conscience wasn't imposed, it was bred into you like your hair colour and your heart beat. If you weren't blood-related to someone in the little town, they surely knew your dad or grandpa. Nobody but nobody would hesitate to let them know of any indiscretion you might hope to conceal. <br />
<br />
I remember one summer day, my cousin and I thought that we should hold what I like to refer to now as, "Hallowe'en" in July. We scratched out a couple of Hallowe'en masks from the upstairs storage closet, grabbed two grocery bags, and were out the door. We only made it to three houses. Behind door number three was an old lady who hated Hallowe'en so much in October that she gave out pennies and peanuts instead of yummy-sugary treats. She sat us down in her kitchen while she called my mother. That was the abrupt end of what could have been a terrific summer tradition. Mom let us eat the two cookies that the other nice old ladies dropped in our July trick-or-treat bags, after we went back and apologized for being so bold, of course.<br />
<br />
Besides the Hallowe'en in July cookies, food was simple. Mom would dish up cereal or eggs with toast "fingers" most mornings, and we would be out the door as fast as our barefoot legs would carry us. Kool Aid could have sold stock in our town, and we routinely melted chocolate covered graham wafers in the sun on the sidewalk. We ate them when the chocolate was soft and melted, shaking away the ants and sidewalk debris the best we could. Do you remember the Tupperware iced pop molds? Mmm, there was a recipe that used Jello and Kool Aid, and I loved it!<br />
<br />
At some point during our daily adventures,we made our way through the back yards of grandparents, aunts and uncles. That's where we would snack. Maybe we were hungry, maybe we were just kids looking for a bit of mischief, but our snacks were pilfered from neighbourhood gardens. Tomatoes were always best from my grandma's garden patch behind the woodworking shop. My aunt's carrots were the very best, but she'd get upset when we ran the garden hose out to rinse off the crunchy yummies. She used to yell out the window to, "Shut that hose OFF!".<br />
<br />
Raspberries and pears. Mmmmm!!! They were kinda fun to get. My neighbour Pete was old. Like antique-old, born in the 1800's old. But he was nice. He was like a big kid and when we wanted pears or raspberries, he used to just smile at us as we made our way through his weedy berry bushes and dodged bees to get the pears.<br />
<br />
Lunch. I don't remember many lunches. I'm sure we had them, likely sandwiches and mac and cheese. Lunch would be around the time that Mr. Dressup came on, followed by the, "News at Noon". At 1pm, most of the ladies in town would be transfixed by Days of Our Lives, and as long as we didn't interrupt, we were free to play in the yard, down the street, or at the beach. That's also when we did a lot of chocolate wafer melting on the sidewalk and sucking the nectar out of pink clover.<br />
<br />
At the end of the day, everyone sat down for dinner with their family. When I grew up, I thought my mother was the BEST cook in the whole world. Summer menus were different than winter menus. During the winter it was usually some kind of roasted meat, potatoes and veggies from a can. I think this was the quintessential rural Canadian meal. Summer was different. Potatoes and meat were cooked in the back yard on the big brick BBQ, and mom had lots of cold, fresh salads ready. Food was simple and delicious. Dessert was often whatever fruit was in season with vanilla ice cream or cake.<br />
<br />
Corn on the cob. Grilled chicken, steak, fish, and sausage from the butcher shop. Fresh strawberries, , lettuce, peppers and green onions from the garden and cucumber picked fresh and tossed in some vinegar with salt and pepper. We had pies made with peaches, elderberries, currants, apples and cherries from our yard or our neighbour's. <br />
<br />
We had such an abundance of fresh food that we spent hours and hours in August putting up tomatoes, beets, chili sauce, jams, peaches, pears, corn, beans.....and in the winter we would eat them, and would remember the work we put into preserving our food.<br />
<br />
Summer was simple. Simple because we were kids. So this summer, the best gift I can give my kid is to keep it simple. Simple, fresh food, lots of time outside in the pool and beside the lake. Simple dinners. Simple ball games. Simple late nights watching the thunderstorms roll in. Simple, simple, simple.<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9075720.post-34710955462436480042011-06-27T20:23:00.002-05:002011-07-22T08:33:46.418-05:00Chicks Shouldn't BBQ<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcg5sOkHYACjJxEkt40rAJ9YPItWDJHxm3MA6rPkUULeIrjnJehCj_bm0O05gSymDU_t1XCARg6HOSU6KQm6US2xeJj8Kl_z5x5UrRldl0D-cS4VMd1GQgWN2Lfp_MoJc8piTpRA/s1600/bbq+hot+dog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcg5sOkHYACjJxEkt40rAJ9YPItWDJHxm3MA6rPkUULeIrjnJehCj_bm0O05gSymDU_t1XCARg6HOSU6KQm6US2xeJj8Kl_z5x5UrRldl0D-cS4VMd1GQgWN2Lfp_MoJc8piTpRA/s1600/bbq+hot+dog.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"A man can be short and dumpy and getting bald, <br />
but if he has fire, women like him."<br />
~Mae West~</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Women <em>love</em> looking after their man. You can tell how great a man is to his partner by how well he's taken care of. When my friends and I are in relationship bliss with our significant others, we cook for them, buy them little gifties, let them have all the man-cave time they want and think it's cute, sexy even. When a man looks after his woman, she gives it back in multiples. Pun absolutely intended.<br />
<br />
<div closure_uid_edhyrz="314">Cooking becomes more than making sure he eats, it's a pleasure watching him enjoy his food. His nodding off while lounging at home in the evening is <em>so sweet</em>. Watching him help your kiddo with their homework or going outside to play catch melts your heart. When a man is gentle with his woman, everything is bliss.</div><br />
...and then there's reality...<br />
<br />
I think that's why we have raw meat and flames. When a man's manliness gets in the way of relating - he doesn't listen, he's insensitive or his head is generally hidden up his butt, there's always the BBQ. You know what I'm talking about when I say "man-dumb" don't you ladies? I mean MAN DUMB. As in, you could tell him in eight bazillion ways about how you feel and he still wouldn't get it and doesn't seem to care to get it- that's MAN DUMB. Not complimenting you in your new outfit that was clearly bought for a special night out with <em>him</em> - MAN DUMB. Pointing out how you could have done everything better - cut your hair, baked cookies, spoken to your boss - and then get defensive saying he's just trying to help - that's MAN DUMB. <br />
<br />
We don't want you to fix things boys, we want you to wrap your big strapping arms around us and say it's ok. We want you, as well groomed and smelling pretty as you may be, to be our Manosaurusrex. Anything else at the pinnacle of girl-crisis is MAN-DUMB. We have our girlfriends for strategy. That's who we commune with in the war-room of life. We need <em>you</em> for moral support and unconditional adoration.<br />
<br />
I once had a man tell me that he<em> adored</em> me. Only now do I realize how very sweet that was. At the time I thought it was MAN DUMB for not saying I love you. I get it now. <em>Very</em> sweet. I also had a man call me a bleeping c word. I think secretly he was really in love with me too. How could he not be, what with all of my feminine charm and grace?<br />
<br />
So, meat and flames....what gives? Well, I think when the battle of the sexes has reached a long, cool, stalemate, the last bastion of hope is the grill. There's something very sexy, primitive even about a man feeding a woman. It's like he went out and slayed the beast and is protecting his woman. Sorta. Maybe that's just when we're delusional post-period, or when we're absolutely desperate to justify spending time with someone who seems like an an alien from another planet? Someone who apparently either can't hear, read non-verbal cues, or appreciate that he's in a relationship with a <em>woman</em>, not his mother?<br />
<br />
It doesn't matter how MAN DUMB your man has been. If you see him out there, grilling, over a red-hot flame - you can't help but be turned on a little bit. I mean, <em>can you</em>? Just think of it, Mr. Sexy-I've-worked-hard-all-day-but-I'm-still-takin'-care-of-my-baby.....give him a break ladies.<br />
<br />
So, Chicks Shouldn't BBQ. We should meditate on the meat, er, I mean testosterone standing out there on the deck, and smile knowing what we get for dessert. After all ladies, we all know that summer is the best time for shakin' up the bacon that the Manosaurusrex brought home.<br />
<br />
Have BBQ - auditioning for guest chefs...</div>McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9075720.post-42806683155891708782011-06-26T16:02:00.000-05:002011-06-26T16:02:42.111-05:00How I'm Going to Spend My Summer Vacation Dammit<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikhX59sDQEMwe0ae63LzznMdzSe6-iibg_cy3a_E2PjC4JYnyD8m3YF0KnyrjM7tGUa8JvIDLvPIA2WomsY8ceAVCW77DJYUKMzJJ_Jg9hte868hE5LZGBUpp0ZRpUxVV088NFcA/s1600/summer+feet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikhX59sDQEMwe0ae63LzznMdzSe6-iibg_cy3a_E2PjC4JYnyD8m3YF0KnyrjM7tGUa8JvIDLvPIA2WomsY8ceAVCW77DJYUKMzJJ_Jg9hte868hE5LZGBUpp0ZRpUxVV088NFcA/s1600/summer+feet.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Vacation is what you take when you can't take <br />
what you've been taking any longer."<br />
~Unknown~</td></tr>
</tbody></table>In a state of Yo. As in the definition used by the <a href="http://www.factbites.com/topics/The-Smothers-Brothers">Smothers Brothers</a>. In a state of relaxed bliss, whether it be camping in the great Canadian outdoors, paddling, concert-going, putting up preserves, or, as I have been earnestly practicing; sitting on my patio chair reading smut. <br />
<br />
Just so you know, smut is modular. You can pack it up and take it anywhere. Some of the smut I purchased this weekend includes; magazines - Woman's World (oh yah baby!!! In honor of great-granny who used to clip the Ziggy cartoons and pin them to her cork board as motivation), The Rolling Stone (because a girl has to keep up with what's going on), Self ('cause it motivates me to move my<em>self</em> in this state of Yo), Books - Driftwood Cottage (the essence of the quintessential summer chick-novel), The Lincoln Lawyer (because I'm too happy here on my patio to get to the discount theatre showing), News - The Globe and Mail (just 'cause that's what I do). I'm fully loaded with smut for a summer of Yo.<br />
<br />
My fridge is stocked with my favourite beer, and a tiny variety of other bottled alcoholic beverages. I even have a vintage 2009 Bacardi Breezer floating around in there. Wine suits me fine, but once in a while I like a cold summery drink - if only to remind myself to stick to wine and beer, and the odd cocktail produced in the dead of winter by gracious hosts conjuring Caribbean shores. We have frozen fruit pops, frozen yogurt, and yes, we have ice cubes (something I'm told <em>chicks</em> are famous for not having)! Ahhh, summer time!<br />
<br />
The past two summers have passed with a pathetic shortage of outdoor-enjoy-every-bit-of-sunshine-that-you-possibly-can due to an acquiescence of leadership in relationship on my part. In other words, I bowed to the social preferences of, shall I say, at least one <em>acquaintance</em> who desperately needs to become familiar with the colloquial, "shit or get off the pot"-ism.<br />
<br />
I am astounded that adults of my generation think you are either a responsible parent/adult/housekeeper OR you get outside and have fun. Sometimes it's just about letting the outside in. Feeling the breeze blow through the windows, hearing the neighbour kids giggle and play. Enjoying an after dinner walk, taking in the waterbirds and flora that populate our little lake. There is a balance to this being responsible and enjoying life, and I think, at least when it comes to summertime, that I've perfected it. I am determined his <em>will </em>be a grand summer in the land of Yo (dammit!).<br />
<br />
This year I plan to make up for my two summers of hibernating. My legs, if you were unlucky enough to glimpse them are still long and shapely, but an ungodly shade of white that I've only seen in the morgue and at very special June-church-strawberry socials between the hem of walking shorts and the tops of knee socks. Not sexy. Although one gentleman caller that I knew in a previous life liked to refer to that shade as "China Doll" white. Hey, whatever works.<br />
<br />
This is the summer of McDishy and Monkey Lips in land the Yo. My neighbours have been subjected to the awe inspiring sight of me in tunics and stretchy capris, beer and wasabi peas at hand as I write you these blogs, or pen my not-so-tongue-in-cheek poetry. I think I have gained a reputation in the neighbourhood as the very intelligent crazy lady who loves kids and trots off some evenings in tottery heels, not to be seen for days. I'm a bit of an enigma, but I'm <em>fun</em>.<br />
<br />
You might be wondering about summer romance. Well, I've never given up on my dream of a great man, a loving home, and kids driving us clinically mad on a daily basis. As you do know, I <em>have</em> given up men who have briefly starred in the dream. In other words, I'm just going to hang out and see what happens. There is an article in my new Elle magazine that argues the benefits of summer flings. I'm pretty sure a fling is not on the map of Yo this year. I think I'm pretty content with my stretchy pants, tunics, wasabi-peas, beer and smut. I'm pretty sure Mr. Romance-Renaissance-Hot-Pants is not going to hunt me down in the backyard, campground or writing class. Yep, like I said, I'm just going to hang out and see what happens.<br />
<br />
Even though summer just officially started, I feel like I've actually <em>had</em> a summer. I've enjoyed my new-used BBQ, my little planters, my new muskoka chairs and patio lanterns. I've already had one weekend packed full of outdoor baseball games (courtesy of my kiddo), and dragon boat racing. Friday night we took our blankets and met friends for the Aretha Franklin concert downtown. Boy can that girl sing!!! It was packed, and somewhere in the crowd we lost our friend Karen, sacrificed to the I'm-going-in-search-of-something-to-drink-gods.<br />
<br />
I'm looking forward to our planned visit up north with Carrie, Sandy, Evan, little Mr. X, and Andrea's brood, followed by two days of mom-son-white-water-rafting bonding time. I'm wondering how my son will feel bonding with my A5-35'ed bones in a tent? I have time booked off I'm hoping to use for spur of the moment camping trips and gourmet smore and banana boat making expeditions. Every parent owes it to their children to teach them how to make smores, pitch a tent, and pee in the woods. You know, just in case you get lost with a bag of marshmallows.<br />
<br />
Jimmy Buffett is coming to town which means Toronto Parrotheads will host pre-concert and tailgate parties. Jimmy<em> is</em> summer. Of course, it wouldn't be summer in the city if you weren't booked into something Mirvish-ish, and we are.<br />
<br />
August will come and I'll be happy to get to the farm to buy tomatoes and beets and veggies so I can make preserves. This year I may even make my red pepper jelly, which is yummy during the winter time, snugged up with a bottle or two of wine. Glass, I <em>meant</em> glass or two of wine. <br />
<br />
Just this afternoon I made kinda-sorta plans with a friend to get-up-and-out-early-walking before work. He's a good sport, lives close enough to motivate me to move, and isn't afraid to see me un-make-uped or un-hair-did. Besides if we start this little routine together, I can tell everyone I'm "seeing a younger man"! I'm hoping he forgets our conversation and I can lay my aching bones in bed with the snooze alarm until 6:30am tomorrow morning.<br />
<br />
My evening walking routine has been salvaged and is in full swing. I'm registered for yogalates and writing classes. I write this eating marshmallow bananas and sighing that there is actually no latte involved in the yogalates. Besides that, summer looks pretty darn good from this angle. But what about rainy Sundays? Well, I still have a date with the summer fling at the AGO, and need to absolutely find myself in the audience at Stratford for Camelot.<br />
<br />
Even now, I have chicken on the BBQ, and homemade potato salad cooling in the fridge. My summery-island-tunes are playing and Leonard the cat is stretched out by the screen door listening to the birds. Kitty Wells is perched in her cage on the grass having a bird bath. I have my ever-ready bottle of bubbly chilling ready to add some yummy blueberry bliss. Come on over, sit down, relax. Do a little summer time dreaming with me. <br />
<br />
</div>McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9075720.post-61654571060811551972011-06-25T14:56:00.000-05:002011-06-25T14:56:11.045-05:00Ai Weiwei all the way home<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://store.swisherpens.com/pelikan-fire-limited-edition-fountain-pen-p4825.aspx"><img border="0" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9IL_bFxgZoRy5M_WnpzxiitaW795OyyappGd-2cjudhu-5ujhmJ1kxm7RfZmyYX4NapMVqNZMjzvrqzdPAJp9Z3uildmHldjsJX6kkhOtSkEzfSt-97fftJEBEBN35nwGTT-hiA/s1600/pen+on+fire.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Say to yourself, ‘I’m here on purpose,<br />
I can accomplish anything I desire, <br />
and I do it by being in harmony <br />
with the all-pervading creative force in the universe.<br />
<br />
~Wayne Dyer~ <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>“I’m okay, I’m out, I’m fine now,” he said quietly." Was the crux of the report in the <a href="http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/world/asia-pacific/outspoken-chinese-activist-ai-weiwei-released-on-bail/article2071364/">Globe and Mail</a> this week following news of the release of Ai Weiwei. What more could he say besides that? <br />
<br />
After all, he has been released on bail after 10 weeks of being detained at an undisclosed location on the condition that he not speak of the who's, what's, where's, when's, why's and how's of his kidnapping. There was some talk of unpaid taxes, but we all know how easy it is for any government to doctor tax records -or anything else for that matter- when looking for justification to silence dissidents.<br />
<br />
In <a href="http://mcdishy.blogspot.com/2011/06/our-creative-nests.html">Our Creative Nests</a>, I use Ai Weiwei as an example of how the human spirit often flourishes under pressure. What shall I say of him now? Described as, "only a distant echo of his usually bombastic self", can we assume that his creative spirit has succumbed to his oppressors during the mystery of his abduction? We <em>can</em> assume that he's damn glad to be home, and whatever the heck the giant "THEY" did to him, <em>or </em>threatened <em>or</em> tortured him with has been a great tonic for subduing the creative spirit. But I rather like to think of it as a sleeping pill for the creative animal that is curled up and healing now. May we see that animal stretch and rise again with care, and give great love and support for Ai Weiwei as he becomes comfortable with his recently silenced voice again.<br />
<br />
So why am I writing to you about this? Why bother reporting the release of a silenced creative powerhouse? I'm writing to ask who you think is responsible for speaking out against oppression? Is it the job of courageous artists like Ai Weiwei? Or is it the sole task of women like <a href="http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/national/british-columbia/vicious-attack-in-bangladesh-leaves-ubc-student-blind-husband-arrested/article2070667/">Rumana Monzur</a> who was just viciously attacked and blinded by her husband? He gouged her eyes out and bit off half of her nose because she dared to be successful. Or maybe speaking up about oppression and violations of human rights and freedoms is the job of marginalized gay teens or movie stars confessing their addictions? <br />
<br />
Does this all sound a bit absurd? Does it seem like perhaps, just maybe, just an eensy weensy teensy bit, that we sit back in our Adirondack chairs and kinda take for granted that the rest of the world is just able to hang out on the weekends and relax? Perhaps all of those people in Syria and Libya and Tunisia get a break from the hell they've been enduring on the weekends and get together for pool parties and community yard sales? <em>You know</em>, just to "get away from it all".<br />
We owe it to ourselves and the rest of the world to get a little more involved with what's going on. We owe it to ourselves and the rest of the world to be more discerning in our consumerism and politics. Even if it simply starts at home. Not just watching the news, but questioning it. <a href="http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/politics/opposition-fumes-as-tories-release-reams-of-redacted-detainee-files/article1512550/">What do you mean the Canadian government, when asked for documentation about whether our soldiers knowingly handed over Afghan prisoners to torture, blacked out much of the information</a>? How come? Why? If this happened, how did it affect our soldiers who were ordered to carry out these actions? <br />
<br />
We are blessed to live where we do. Blessed with our freedom and cursed with complacent apathy. We have come to expect our freedom, soothed by the hand of "THEY", and guided without our knowing into a sugared silence. It's time to sit up and pay attention.<br />
<br />
As I was hinting at in Our Creative Nests, we owe it to ourselves to let our creative self out of the stall and run for it's life. Write a letter, paint like it's your last chance, sing, dance, sculpt, let your humanity be exalted so the rest of the world might be freed.<br />
<br />
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</div></div>McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9075720.post-44081376177725605662011-06-23T21:06:00.001-05:002011-06-23T21:37:31.194-05:00Toddlers and Other Annoying People<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZx3RtqTzIPvNw-9z8rexkL9qDEeyAo2WxtHUJpHY00PuAY7O9qB0FSIzcYepV_oWvQ1zeBA7rjAPevOfRl_TWY76dn_7EopOhdAgJbOeB0HjfcUZPaMhlJtg3dQVxNTY6LgFM4w/s1600/toddler+drinking+coffee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZx3RtqTzIPvNw-9z8rexkL9qDEeyAo2WxtHUJpHY00PuAY7O9qB0FSIzcYepV_oWvQ1zeBA7rjAPevOfRl_TWY76dn_7EopOhdAgJbOeB0HjfcUZPaMhlJtg3dQVxNTY6LgFM4w/s1600/toddler+drinking+coffee.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="body"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small;">"When the toddler does something</span></span><br />
<span class="body"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small;"> and there are consequences for his action</span></span><br />
<span class="body"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small;"> civilization begins."</span></span><br />
<span class="body"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small;">~Alicia Lieberman~</span></span> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>Every day I look forward to correspondence from my incredibly wise, hilarious and gorgeous cousin. We check in with one another, reflect on experiences, current events, spirituality and creativity. It's cool if we laugh or if we cry. I think we're kindred spirits. You might think we're a little bit nuts. That's ok. I think we're cool with that, right cousin?<br />
<br />
My cousin, a few years younger than I am is single with no children. He has yet to enter into the secret brotherhood of fathers club. Today, while my head was wrapped in foils at the salon, I received the very best email of my week thus far. <br />
<br />
Today my cousin, (let's give him a false name here, just for the sake of not over-using the phrase, "my cousin"-let's call him Daniel), told me about his afternoon at a coffee shop. He was enjoying his time out, but somewhat overwhelmed by the people around him. No, he's not anti-social, quite the opposite. <br />
<br />
Saturday or Sunday mornings I enjoy <em>my own</em> special time at <em>my own</em> special coffee spot with <em>my very own</em> special copy of the Globe and Mail. I totally get what Daniel was saying about being ambivalent in the presence of the activity and noise of other people. During my weekend newspaper reading and coffee drinking session, I enjoy being surrounded by other people. I enjoy being surrounded by other people that is, <em>if</em> they behave in a way that I find unobtrusive. This means no talking too loudly, sitting too closely, and absolutely no requests to move a chair or heaven-forbid-I-have-to-get-out-the-touch-my-newspaper-and-die-look, ask to read a section of <em>my</em> paper. I like my newspaper in order. I like to think that no one else's grubby paws have oiled up the places my hands will touch. Ooga booga. <br />
<br />
I like to eavesdrop on conversations if I <em>choose</em>, but not be <em>forced</em> to hear one because the volume is<em> </em>inappropriate. I like to nod or say a quick, "good morning" to whomever I sit next to. I don't like feeling obligated to hear about what someone is reading, being asked what I'm reading, or if I'm enjoying the weather. I like the idea that we can gather in a public space without being obnoxious or be <em>forced</em> to interact. Interaction optional. Coffee, news, intellectual thought without interruption welcome. Ahhh....life ain't easy being an idealist.<br />
<br />
Relating completely to to the conundrum of being around people but not having to engage with them, I was happy to be sitting in the salon with my tinfoil baking blond streaks broiling on my head, blissfully alone. I laughed when I read his question; why on earth would people bring their toddlers to a Starbucks?!<br />
<br />
Instantly my memory took me back to my own experience of "mom with toddler" at Starbucks. I remembered my son at that age, being dragged along Saturday morning for <em>my </em>morning coffee. One of my friends from a previous life came to mind - a <em>very</em> sweet man who <em>very</em> generously offered an afternoon of babysitting when I was in a pinch for child care. He picked my wide-eyed kindergarten aged son up at school, and promptly took him to Starbucks. My son, thinking the attention combined with a public outing was <em>fabulous</em>, took advantage of a then-not-yet-father, and ordered an orange flavoured soda just before lunch time.<br />
<br />
Guess what happened next? Yep. You got it. My little angel spilled his orange soda. My friend bought him another one, and decided against the toddler-in-public adventure and brought him home (hopped up on sugar). This same friend was kind enough to keep us company on a walk one evening. Again we ended up at Starbucks. That was about a year before the soda incident, diapers and a spilled hot chocolate may have been involved, but I'm a bit foggy on the details. It could be the ammonia residue from my visit to the salon. I <em>do</em> know that my son's behaviour was akin to that of a baby raccoon, hiding under tables and swinging on the chair legs. <br />
<br />
The short answer to why people take their children to Starbucks Daniel, is that being stuck at home with miniature, intellectually impaired people with no control over their id or ego can drive an adult insane. Also, parents of toddlers rise for the day at almost the same time university students come in for the evening. By the time we see these little people at the cafe, they've had breakfast, messed up the house, been grocery shopping, had snacks <em>and</em> a nap. Oh yah, another reason; taking them out in public is how you train toddlers to behave in a socially acceptable manner. <br />
<br />
I do not abide parents who use the excuse, "He/She's only 5", in response to their child picking at common dishes on a table with their fingers or not being able to use utensils. This is lazy parenting. All parents must go through the humiliation of publicly socializing their toddlers, so they're not socially obtuse children, just (as I'm now finding out) as all parents must go through the humiliation of publicly re-socializing their teens so they don't become socially obtuse adults.<br />
<br />
Believe it or not, I now feel nostalgic for the days when my son's head was just at the right height for patting when we bellied up to the barista bar.<br />
<br />
When I see little ones tagging along with mom or dad on Saturday morning, or any other time for that matter, I'm filled with nostalgia. I remember how the soft pudgy hand felt in my own, how my own son loved being able to choose his very own drink, and most of all, how his wide-eyed wonder at the world had the power to change my own perception. <br />
<br />
I didn't have the luxury of reading my much cherished Saturday Globe and Mail in those days, but I'd give up my paper if I could have just one more day with my son, pudgy little legs dangling from the chair he struggled to climb up on, calling me mommy, and asking "why" about everything.<br />
<br />
Instead of dreading the company of small children in social spaces now, (after all, toddlers are messy, noisy and unpredictable) I am completely entertained by them. As a matter of fact, that's one of the only things that can tear my attention away from Russell Smith's tongue-in-cheek men's fashion column. Toddlers package up the gift of of young-mommy-memories now. Who knew that such annoying people could come bearing such priceless gifts? Maybe this weekend I'll talk to the guy who's always eyeing "my business" section. Just sayin'.</div>McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9075720.post-28211166667027681192011-06-21T21:35:00.000-05:002011-06-21T21:35:42.404-05:00Row,Row, Row Your Boat Down the BLEEPING Stream....<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPPEgV72yFdNU0muHlZnL8vwqDo7B1DdEAIxD4IAkIwbb78mtEVOWC5gBDtqxbe-3U0k5dn1kNtG14HNXiPGUIgamS6_d5L1wDXeNhqfkP6EE254SM0HJMSDJPdcPpnuCZbsuv0A/s1600/colourful+canoes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213px" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPPEgV72yFdNU0muHlZnL8vwqDo7B1DdEAIxD4IAkIwbb78mtEVOWC5gBDtqxbe-3U0k5dn1kNtG14HNXiPGUIgamS6_d5L1wDXeNhqfkP6EE254SM0HJMSDJPdcPpnuCZbsuv0A/s320/colourful+canoes.jpg" width="320px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
"If a June night could talk, it would probably boast it invented romance."<br />
~Bern Williams~<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I love the water.<br />
<br />
I grew up on the beach, and feel calm and at home whenever I'm near the water, whether it's a lake, ocean or stream. Sometimes I'm just grateful for a bathtub full of water!<br />
<br />
This year, in an effort to regain my sanity and get away from the four, sweat-sticky walls of the gym I had been avoiding for months, I decided to take up a water sport. What better way to shake off the winter blahs and celebrate our great Canadian summer?<br />
<br />
I thought I would start out easy, you know, a beginner team of lady paddlers. We all come out to socialize, but we also all enjoy it because our cute little 20-something coach pushes us just enough to make it feel like we've worked our matronly buns. I give him credit. He's a serious paddler, and I believe we were sent to teach him patience.<br />
<br />
Tonight, as in every paddling night, we were called to do our drills; up and down the boat, hard strokes, pausing, technique, boat positions. Paddles clashed, swells flooded the boat, water was tossed up by faltering strokes, and arms and backs were banged in the process. Nothing out of the ordinary.<br />
<br />
Each week, we get together and paddle our little hearts out for an hour. As the weather has morphed from a cold, wet, windy April to full bloom June, we have witnessed nature dress in her summer finery. Even though we were having a good workout, I couldn't help but wonder at the willows and maples on the river bank. The word <em>pastoral</em> comes to mind. <br />
<br />
I felt like I was in a classic painting somewhere. There were ducks and ducklings puttering along the bank. Canadian geese and goslings formed an orderly line headed north up the river while gulls flew overheard. There were paddlers and rowers sharing the waterway, and as the sun came to rest further on the horizon, the scene was absolutely breathtaking. <br />
<br />
As I set up over the water to "hit!", the beauty of it all fell in line with my technique, and all of the stress of the day was washed away with each stroke. Boy was I happy to be there. <br />
<br />
And then it happened. Behind me I heard, "Have an eye!" <br />
<br />
silence<br />
<br />
"HAVE AN EYE!"<br />
<br />
and then the more panicked and less proper, "WATCH OUT!"<br />
<br />
The sound of scraping and low screeching preceded my view of the small collision, as the lone rower careened into the side of our boat, his oar striking my teammates at the front of the boat, and finally, under some semblance of control, scraping down the length.<br />
<br />
"What the f@(k are you doing?!" the foul-mouthed rower yelled to our cute little coach,"Get out of the f@(k^g way! You're supposed to be on the f@(k!^g right! " <em>This</em> from the man who had taken up centre stage in the river weaving a suture-like baseball stitch in the water.<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry. We were stopped, and I wasn't sure whether you were going left or right." our coach said, rather politely under such f-bombing rapid fire.<br />
<br />
"F@(k YOU!" our neighbour from the rowing club expleted emphatically as he buried both oars in the water and carried on up the center of the river. <br />
<br />
Dude. Not cool. Dropping the f-bomski on a group of 20 women is NOT proper river etiquette. <br />
<br />
"It gets like this," our coach said, as we "took it away" for one last five minute ladder of paddling.<br />
<br />
It gets like this. <br />
<br />
Yes, yes it does. It gets like this, and then it passes. Isn't it nice to get back to the rhythm of the water and wondering at the beauty that we are blessed with? </div>McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9075720.post-10433358957463601442011-06-18T22:38:00.012-05:002011-06-19T08:25:33.146-05:00Expounding on Being a Weirdo #1 - Why Dr. Hook Rocks<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"We keep gettin' richer but we can't get our picture<br />
on the cover of The Rolling Stone"<br />
~Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show~</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
With lyrics like, "Smear my body up with butter and take me to the <a href="http://youtu.be/uo9bKdIG_Yw">Freaker's Ball</a>," and introductions like, "George is going to sing a song from it [<a href="http://youtu.be/ITEpwqwZ8NU">Penicillin Penny</a>] just in case you have V.D. ", it's not surprising that there hasn't been a mass demand for a sunset return of Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show. I hope this blog changes things. I <em>hope</em> I can do justice to the tacky, yet touching music that I love. This misunderstood band with a bad-ass reputation deserves some thoughtful analysis.<br />
<br />
Music provides the soundtrack for our lives. I remember hymns sung at my grandparent's funerals, the song that was playing when I was in a car accident, and the first lullaby I sang to my own child. Music is a powerful human interpretation of creation, complete with warts and all. <br />
<br />
In my life, Leonard Cohen is the great musical poet, Rod Stewart the great musical sex pot, and Jimmy Buffett the great musical partying pirate. I love Rachmaninoff, Elton, Aerosmith, Alison Krauss, Willie Nelson, Ella Fitzgerald, The Beach Boys and I could go on and on. What all of these artists have in common is that their art - music - stirs our emotions. The music and lyrics bring us back to the essence of who we are. <br />
<br />
More often than not, I use music to pick me up when I feel cut down. When I'm brought to my knees, a good laugh and a bit of silliness helps remind me of the impermanence of all things, and the happiness that comes with being in the moment. And what kind of life do we have if we're not silly during at least a few of those moments every day? <br />
<br />
This is musical genius at it's silliest; <br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/WfEmN-50el8" width="425"></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
In my best concert going form, you might find me shaking it next to the dude with the eye patch, and going home with the lead guitarist, if only in my rocked out imagination of course (seriously though, dig him as the lead singer in <a href="http://youtu.be/_D1gI5KWEkY">this video</a> and tell me he's not just an oozing sexy little piece of man-pie). But I digress....<br />
<br />
Dr. Hook and the Medicine show makes me laugh. One of my favourite 'isms goes like this, <em><span style="color: #a64d79; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"Anything that makes you smile, giggle or laugh; Marry it or Buy it."</span> </em>I'm not married and I'm not a shopper, so I have to settle for what's at hand. A lot of the lines in their lyrics make me laugh out loud. Good solid belly laughs; <br />
<br />
<em>"When your body's had enough of me and I'm layin' flat out on the floor. When you think I've loved you all I can, I'm gonna love you a little bit more."</em> What the hell?! If my body has had enough of you pal, just keep layin' flat out on the floor unless you're getting up to order pizza or get me a glass of water!<br />
<br />
OR<br />
<br />
<em>"Night falls on the city. Baby feels the beat. Slick and sexy angel of the street. The queen of all the night birds, watch her when she walks. She don't say nothin' but baby makes her blue jeans talk." </em>The queen of all the night birds? <em>Really???</em> Seventies slang all sounds so porn, and porn is just silly.<br />
<br />
OR<br />
<br />
<em>"Who's gonna water my plants? Who's gonna patch my pants and who's gonna give me the chance to feel brand new? Who's gonna iron my shirts?"</em> HAHAHA!!! I luvvvvvv 70's dumb-man-isms. 70's men are crowned the kings of all things man-dumb. Ironically, they are still alive and well today. You've heard the one about the man who asks his wife to do all of his laundry, and his wife's reply is that the next person to dress him is going to be the funeral director. Unfortunately, I <em>am</em> the funeral director, so it's not so funny at my house.<br />
<br />
OR<br />
<br />
<em>"Grease your lips and swing your hips, don't forget to bring your whips..."</em> Ok, just funny 'cause who doesn't like to be greased and whipped once in a while?<br />
<br />
OR<br />
<br />
<em>"I could get myself a nose job. I could diet for a year, but I'll never be Robert Redford 'cause I'm much to fond of beer."</em> If the John Mellancamp fan is out there reading this, you'll also get a buzz from these blue collar lyrics.<br />
<br />
OR the classic,<br />
<br />
<em>"Now it took seven months of urgin' just to get that local virgin with the sweet face up to my place to fool around a bit. Next day she woke up rosy and she</em> <em>snuggled up so cozy and when she asked me if I liked it, it hurt me to admit; I was stoned and I missed it." </em>I need not comment on this little lyrical gem. The words paint a thousand pictures do they not?<br />
<br />
In the style of Ray Stevens, Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show tells a story with many of their songs. <a href="http://youtu.be/Z1_xe5p42IU">Roland the Roadie and Gertrude the Groupie </a>is a classic example.<br />
<br />
Besides having wonderfully silly lyrics and funkadelic beats like we hear in, "<a href="http://youtu.be/CJ3DWa_QLO4">Sexy Eyes</a>", or "<a href="http://youtu.be/bDciFvBG8a4">Walk Right In</a>", the band cuts to the heart of things with songs we can all relate to in our broken-heartedness like, "<a href="http://youtu.be/cSZIpeB1MKU">The Things I Didn't Say</a>". With lines like, "Instead of saying sorry babe, we'll work it out, I said, if that's the way you want it I won't stand in your way. I said good-bye, good-luck, god bless you and then she walked away. She's gone and now I'm hearing all the things I didn't say." <br />
<br />
And then there are songs like, " I don't want to be alone tonight";<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/UOgzyJALD6M" width="425"></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
We've all felt like this. We can all relate to songs like, " <a href="http://youtu.be/q-ix49V_0fo">I Don't Feel Much Like Smiling Today</a>", and, "<a href="http://youtu.be/0C9lzkXcw9Q">Life Ain't Easy</a>". Life ain't easy sista, I can testify to <em>that</em>!!! I love the lyrics, " Here I am in the wind again, blowing wherever it takes me. Laughing and splashing in the summer sun, until the alarm clock wakes me.....Life ain't easy and nothin' comes free."<br />
<br />
<br />
In their 1969-1985 heyday, Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show was touted as a Rock, Soft Rock and Country band from New Jersey. Most famous for their song, ``<a href="http://youtu.be/-Ux3-a9RE1Q">The Cover of the Rolling Stone</a>``, and their subsequent success as the cover photo, Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show came into their own after their tape was demoed for the obscure 1971 film, "Who is Harry Kellerman and Why is he Saying Those Terrible Things about Me?". Shel Silverstein, the popular children's poet wrote the music for the screenplay, and thought that Dr.Hook and the Medicine Show had the right sound to sing songs like, "<a href="http://youtu.be/XYcxa-0J8zc">I Never Got to Know Her</a>", and "<a href="http://youtu.be/kqMqfejlX5I">The Last Morning</a>". <br />
<br />
Believe it or not, Shel Silverstein, author of one of my favourite children's books, "<a href="http://youtu.be/1TZCP6OqRlE">The Giving Tree</a>", also penned, "Penicillin Penny" and "<a href="http://youtu.be/z4asAOyglCc">Sylvia's Mother</a>". When I was in public school, we were treated to a viewing of "The Giving Tree", once every year. Little did I know that Silverstein was the writer of such genius lyrics that I sang my heart out to on the pier with my high school friends. With the trademark soul-rasping voice, Dr. Hook sang our adolescent heart songs.<br />
<br />
The band produced over a dozen albums between 1970 and 2007. If you happen to eye one somewhere, be a good lad and pick it up for me will ya? Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show has given generations simple beats, great lyrics and endless entertainment. Buy my ticket, sign me up, and get me a front row seat next to Gertrude the Groupie. I'm in for a road trip!<br />
<br />
One last piece of tacky kitsch for all the sentimental (aka hormonal) romantic chicks out there like me;<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/_D1gI5KWEkY" width="425"></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
</div>McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9075720.post-46583815156743985322011-06-17T12:57:00.001-05:002011-06-17T16:43:23.044-05:00Joy Makes you Excellent<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"> <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPsWp4lURTwUZB4FdbhFtGaa3uC4cqHuQQjscDYjA6UF8i_TJ71QBE7bs3MieDrKkVCwx3qwWtnolTJifOwuidFsLJZnrkwwUVCEjEW3ZKlXZ3rXXdrtdXfWYbyA1R-6gSqck0wA/s1600/joy.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132px" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPsWp4lURTwUZB4FdbhFtGaa3uC4cqHuQQjscDYjA6UF8i_TJ71QBE7bs3MieDrKkVCwx3qwWtnolTJifOwuidFsLJZnrkwwUVCEjEW3ZKlXZ3rXXdrtdXfWYbyA1R-6gSqck0wA/s200/joy.bmp" width="200px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Joy is a net of love by which you can catch souls"<br />
~Mother Teresa of Calcutta~</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Life becomes monotonous. <br />
<br />
We fall into our daily, weekly, monthly and annual patterns like robots. We work, we exercise, we celebrate birthdays and Hallmark holidays (which in my opinion are highly underrated). Days bleed into weeks and weeks into months. Before you know it, we're saying to our best friends and colleagues, "Can you believe it? It's been five years already!" Life slips by, greased to lightening speed by our work/life routine. <br />
<br />
<br />
We know from year to year who we will spend our time with. But when that changes, when our relationships are in flux, whether it's due to changing life stages, death, marriage or other major events, our routine is held hostage. We must step back and consider the relationships in our life and re-prioritize. I don't know about you, but I'm not so good at this, and as I age, I'm not getting a whole lot better. It's often during these times when we're in flux, unstable, and redefining ourselves that we mine our joy. <br />
<br />
At hospice, I am repeatedly called to witness life changing circumstance. When people ask me about my work, I'm never quite sure what to say. Whether to say I'm always surprised or never surprised. I suppose this is the conundrum of witnessing life transition to death. And what do we really know about those last breaths but that it is part of the mystery of being human? As with birth, there is beauty in this stage of life that cannot be found anywhere else, and I will argue, for anyone experiencing loss it is a significant time of creation . <br />
<br />
Recently, I read a <a href="http://www.thestar.com/news/article/1010263--want-to-have-a-great-death-have-a-great-life">Toronto Star review about Stephen Garrett</a>, a speaker and hospice worker. He is quoted as saying, "You’re going to die. That should give you some juice to live", I couldn't agree more. <br />
<br />
So while we're here, what is it that gives us that juice? Some people may ask, "What is your <em>passion ?</em>". Quite frankly I'm tired of the over-use and watering down of "passion". Everyone says that their <em>passion</em> is their project du jour, or uses it as an excuse to be the expert-ruin-everyone-else's-experience-jack-ass in social situations. Passion means a strong emotion, love or adoration, and I believe that when we ask what someone's passion is, we're trying to get at something that has developed over a lifetime. Passion is the wrong word. What we want to know is about something or someone that you adore. It is something that you've learned about through experience - making mistakes, attesting to the experience of others, and being humbled by the very vast expanse of everything which that "<em>passion</em>" encompasses. Being passionate about something goes beyond enjoyment. It goes beyond self. <br />
<br />
Since the word "passion" is so overused in our society of over-grown-self-indulgent-adults, let's find another word to work with here shall we? How about joy - what brings you great happiness and pleasure? What is your joy? <br />
<br />
Joy is exuberant. Joy, by it's very nature wants to reach out and embrace everyone and everything in it's midst. Joy cannot be caged or contained. The essence of joy is to be jubilant, euphoric and triumphant. It may have been years since you - the average Joe/Josephine out there has felt anything close to "euphoric" or "triumphant". Then again, I feel euphoric when I wake up well rested, and manage to read the newspaper during the day. Triumph comes when I have remembered to put underwear on and am on time for work. Ahhh...it's the simple things. <br />
<br />
So instead of that overworked, kinda spoiled-I-have-everything-I-could-ever-ask-for-and-more-adult-whiner-word <em>passion</em>, let's start feeling the joy that comes from being good at something. We're all good at <em>something</em>. Sometimes it's just hard to separate what we're <em>good at</em> from what we <em>do; </em>What we do for a living to pay the bills, what we do to keep food on the table, our cars on the road, and have a holiday once in a while. <br />
<br />
For instance, I'm notoriously durable, which is a nice way of saying strong and determined, which often comes across as hard. Just ask the love of my life. So, in relationships, this isn't always a great thing, but it makes me really good at being able to help people die in a way they feel is dignified. I am not brought to my knees by the pain and suffering of others. Instead, it is my "durable" nature which makes me good at remaining steadfast and able to function under circumstances where the individuals and their loved ones experiencing the end of life feel too weak or fatigued. I am able to fearlessly go into the mystery of last words, wishes, confessions and breaths. <br />
<br />
Do not mistake this for me getting joy out of someone's dying. Do understand this as me getting joy out of the moments where my strengths allow others courage to say and do things they didn't think were possible. Sometimes that looks like simply saying, " I love you," or " I forgive you," or "I'm going to be ok." These moments may not make daily headline news, but they are life altering. <br />
<br />
Because I'm able to glimpse the light of joy amidst the suffering of grief, I believe I am a valuable resource for anyone who has experienced, or will experience loss. That's a whole heck of a lot of people. To be able to provide some comfort to the dying and their loved ones brings me joy, and so, I will continue to do this, whether it's by the bedside, or speaking to large groups and businesses to promote end-of-life care. This is <em>my</em> juice.<br />
<br />
My good friend and mumster finds joy in being helpful, connecting people, and helping them reach their potential and achieve their dreams. Her CV does not include the titles; motivational speaker, teacher or public relations expert, yet she fulfills all of these rolls from the job description that she has and lives by. This is <em>joy</em>. <em>This</em> is leadership. This is the <em>juice</em> that makes us really go about the business of living. <br />
<br />
Both my friend and I have a way of knowing beyond the logical. <a href="http://www.amazon.ca/Ethical-Imagination-CBC-Massey-Lectures/dp/0887847471/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1308332352&sr=8-1">Margaret Sommerville discusses ways of knowing in her book, The Ethical Imagination</a>. She speaks of knowing through logic, and intuition and experientially. All of these ways of knowing are as valid and valuable as the other. So, more often than not, we do not have a PhD in what gives us joy, but we <em>are </em>excellent at it. <br />
<br />
When you are joyful, you cannot help but create joy for others. Whether your joy is inherent in your nine-to-five, put-food-on-the-table work, or not, there is a way to nurture it in yourself and others. Observe yourself, listen to your friends and colleagues. When mining your joy, you won't have to dig too deep because it will be close to the surface. Your joy has not wandered off and gotten lost forever. It is tethered to you and you to it. You <em>will</em> find it. When you do rediscover your joy, you won't be able to help but share it.<br />
<br />
</div>McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9075720.post-26444825943277220242011-06-14T21:23:00.004-05:002011-06-16T17:39:08.257-05:00You're a Weirdo<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglzKC1ehjq04bDfUt2foCklJqcMT4CTXKwWMgLXma2ILIEPdLo5LwXvHs4PIKeZqczVvQlA6bN_0KISvpecW1M1ccMysE6nRJ0K-TDV-Yl5jLnPurmSMKUkioq7I7LmJ2WvsC5zg/s1600/Cover_of_Sloppy_Seconds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglzKC1ehjq04bDfUt2foCklJqcMT4CTXKwWMgLXma2ILIEPdLo5LwXvHs4PIKeZqczVvQlA6bN_0KISvpecW1M1ccMysE6nRJ0K-TDV-Yl5jLnPurmSMKUkioq7I7LmJ2WvsC5zg/s1600/Cover_of_Sloppy_Seconds.jpg" t8="true" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Life isn't weird, it's just the people in it"<br />
~Author Unkown~</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;">We’re all so cool aren’t we? We wear the right clothes, have jobs, equip ourselves with holiday experiences to be envied in our day to day conversations. We’re current. We read the news. We're just far enough left to be considered kind, and far enough to the right to maintain the status quo. We buy organic and complain about the lack of environmental legislation to keep us healthy, all the while popping manufactured vitamins and drinking from plastic containers while talking on our wireless headsets. <br />
<br />
We’re <em>so</em> cool.</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">You know what’s really cool though. Well, what<em> I</em> think is really cool. I think our weirdness is cool. We’re all a<em> little</em> bit weird. Come on, you know who I’m talking about. No, no, not the woman at the office who wears the hippy skirts and yoga tops. Nope, not the dude with the weird haircut and bad breath in the cubicle next to yours. And no. I’m not talking about your kids’ school bus driver with the teddy bear strapped to the front grill (what the heck is that freakish phenomena about anyway, besides scaring the hell out of 4 year olds who still believe in the tooth fairy and tuck their teddies in before they leave for their half day of free daycare-aka-education?).</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><em>I</em> am gloriously weird sometimes. Despite what may be on the seasonal menu of “normal”, we all tend to tip the scale sometimes. Our tastes vary. Our opinions come from unique experience, and although the majority of us who don’t call prison home, manage to walk our lives on the balance beam of the accepted norm, with only the occasional toe dip into the realm of weird.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">This morning, as I drove up the airstrip-wide streets of suburbia, I rocked out to one of my favourite albums. As I was singing along, reminiscing, I thought to myself, “I would <em>never </em>listen to this with anyone who didn’t know me really, really well.” The kind of really well that knows under which circumstances they may be called upon to, “Hold my hair up!!!!”, or has been with me on my wedding day, or me with her, standing terrified in our crinolines bawling our eyes out. Yep, you’d have to know me pretty darn well to get a glimpse of my secret weirdness.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">But, today is <em>your</em> luky day. As I was driving along I thought, "Why not?" Why not share some of my secret indulgences? The PG rated version of course. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><strong>Number One</strong> on my list of weird crap that I like (which inspired this little piece in the first place), is Dr. Hook’s Greatest Hits album. Who can’t relate to Sylvia’s Mother, or <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Ux3-a9RE1Q">The Cover of the Rolling Stone</a>, or A Couple More Years? A Little Bit More conjures hilarious images of classic 70’s ‘stache lovin’ and I roll my eyes and giggle whenever I hear it. When I listen to this album, I can’t help but be in a good mood. Ditto for Bat out of Hell, which I have dubbed, "The Greatest Album Ever". </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><strong>Number Two</strong>; canned mushrooms. Deadly good, and every once in a while I crack open a can and eat the entire thing – sodium and carcinogens from can lining and all. Mmmmm.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><strong>Number Three</strong>; stretchy pants. Yep, we all have those fat days. If I have a day when I can get up, not do my make-up, hair or bother getting dressed properly (these days have only happened a few times in my life), I want to be in something fabulously comfortable. If I ever wore these pants in public other than at a gym or paddling, I would condone the sniping of myself by the fashion police. Still, I love them ( and you do too, but you’re just too darn cool to admit it, you go-green-or-go-home-organic-cotton-wearing sissy!). You know you also love granny panties and tightie-whities too.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><strong>Number Four</strong>; curlers. What could be more girly than walking around with curlers in your hair, those pedicure thingy-ma-bobs between your pretty painted toes (do those things have a name?), and singing Peggy Lee’s, “ I Enjoy Being a Girl”. None of that is possible without the curlers. I think listening to Peggy Lee should get it's own number here on the weird list, but let's just refer to that as Four B.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><strong>Number Five</strong>; Cheese Whiz and oysters on Ritz crackers. ‘nuf said. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><strong>Number Six</strong>; Tacky art. I have a tacky art collection much to the chagrin of some of my nearest and dearest. I have my Cuba Lady, My Whatever Happened to the Girl from Iponema, and a handful of feminist art. I almost snagged a photo of the Queen. You know the one I'm talking about -like the ones that hung at the front of every classroom within the "dominion" in the 70’s and 80’s. It was going to be mine until the “seller” caught on that I was buying it because it was gloriously tacky. He got insulted and refused to let me buy it. Jerk.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><strong>Number Seven</strong>; I will gut a fish but not kill it. Gut a fish but can’t bait a hook. Gut a fish but can’t clean a fish tank because taking a fish out of water freaks me out. I’m sure there must be some whatever-o-phobic name for that.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><strong>Number Eight</strong>; Caftans. On a man. On a man wearing slip on slippers who also sports a ponytail. Very dude. <br />
<a href="http://www.mapleclothing.com/apparel/product-details.asp?designid=k212108&itemid=9993"><img alt="Cotton Caftans" border="0" src="http://www.mapleclothing.com/upload/items/k212108T.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><strong>Number Nine</strong>; 80's love ballads. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><strong>Number Ten</strong>; quoting sacred text in arguments infuriates me to the point that when anyone does this I immediately write them off as a nitwit and disengage. Sheesh! Get off your soapbox and give the world a big hug you ding-dongs. If you think you know what scholars and mystics were saying a bazillion (that’s slightly more than a billion) years ago, get a Ph.D and teach me about it. Otherwise, shut your pie hole, breathe deeply and be nice.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><strong>Number 11</strong>; I think wearing underwear to bed may be unhygienic, but I think we all need to do it anyway. Except of course if you’re crashing at my place. Under those circumstances, please do not introduce your nether-flesh to the fabric on my furniture.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><strong>Number 12</strong>; I hate cleaning the bathtub, but I find cleaning the toilet cathartic.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><strong>Number 13</strong>; Wearing costumes. I love Hallowe’en, Buffett concerts, theme parties, and being a little quirky. People, it’s not about fashion, it’s body art. It's play time for adults.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><strong>Number 14</strong>; I can’t sleep if there’s an animal in the room. Don’t be smart, you <em>know</em> what I mean. If a man in my room is being an "animal" I definitely will sacrifice my sleep for that.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><strong>Number 15</strong>; When I'm really sad I go to Hallmark and read the cards.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><strong>Number 16</strong>; I will not end a conversation with a loved one without saying " I love you." It's just bad mojo. I refuse to celebrate birthdays until the day of or after the specific date. It's the same idea as saying I love you. You can't just assume someone knows this always, especially in a heated argument or under less than ideal circumstances. Without saying it you're taking them for granted. Just like celebrating birthdays too early - you're <em>assuming </em>you're going to make it to that date, thereby taking your life for granted. Pretty arrogant.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I could have written an entire blog on my tasteless taste in music and art. I could have went on about how I love Boxcar Willie, my own watercolour paintings, and how I despise eating tuna sandwiches without a thick layer of sour cream and onion chips beneath the top slice of bread. Instead, I painted a little rainbow of weirdness for you, so you might feel better about your own dirty little uncool secrets. <br />
<br />
I've shown you mine. Are you brave enough to show me yours?</div>McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9075720.post-61168315479439975902011-06-13T23:17:00.016-05:002011-06-16T17:44:24.089-05:00Our Creative Nests<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjINTqPl21bOCUFjdV-luvLcMNAeRcjtKraB47FsXVVuUpSm_u_ZvhmmCdOSxWWJVLI0HjwB0lXDk3dxKXidlb9J_KLwRA8tvYMFQMUfyq3OceXhP-28mBJYv4xgPmAbq0a011L9Q/s1600/marta+jimenez+sculpture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjINTqPl21bOCUFjdV-luvLcMNAeRcjtKraB47FsXVVuUpSm_u_ZvhmmCdOSxWWJVLI0HjwB0lXDk3dxKXidlb9J_KLwRA8tvYMFQMUfyq3OceXhP-28mBJYv4xgPmAbq0a011L9Q/s320/marta+jimenez+sculpture.jpg" t8="true" width="214px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Great indeed is the sublimity of the Creative,<br />
to which all beings owe their beginning <br />
and which permeates all heaven. "<br />
~Lao Tzu~<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Given the right conditions our creative selves can explode, burning energy like a matchstick jungle. The more oppressive the atmosphere, the more powerful the art. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It was during a holiday in Camaguey, Cuba that I had that omniscient sense of <em>knowing</em> art was an unstoppable expression of the human spirit. Martha Jimenez's sculptures grace a tiny parkette in Camaguey which has been protected as a World Heritage Site because of her art. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">In the small space of Martha Jimenez's studio, the expression of the universal creative spirit was screaming .Within a small area, no greater than 800 square feet, I entered Jimenez's home and studio. No matter how oppressed, abused, marginalized or exploited, the creative spirit cannot be extinguished completely. It exists only in fullness, and bursts the boundaries of any physical space.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">In the front room, pieces of sculpture were humbly displayed, but beyond that, past a drawn curtain that separated public space from private, like many of the store-front/homes, I had the privilege of entering Jimenez's courtyard. Drenched in the heavy July sweat of the tropics , the courtyard was wild, the centre piece,a pint-sized sculpted fountain of a woman. Local myth held that any man who rinsed with the water that flowed between this woman's legs would be lucky in love. All of the men left with wet hands that afternoon.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I left with four original oil paintings. Strung up with clothespins on a wooden drying rack, they were gems tucked away in a city hidden behind the teeth of the forced communist smile. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ironically, not too far, far away in our global history, Jimenez was honoured by the Chinese government in Shanghai. Her work, two clay pots with rough outer exteriors mimicking Cuba's royal palm ironically comes from a series called, "What I Carry Inside". What Jimenez carries inside represents what we all, as creative beings, carry within us. The seeds to create, inspire and connect from a place within ourselves of universal knowledge.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Enter Chinese artist Ai Weiwei. A closet architect-wanna-be, I was captivated by a recent article in the <a href="http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/arts/lisa-rochon/ai-weiwei-planting-originality-reaping-beijings-fury/article2055653/singlepage/">Globe and Mail</a> about the lasting effect of Wei's collaboration with Herzog and de Meuron. Their masterpiece is the Bird's Nest Stadium which was built in Beijing for the 2008 winter Olympics. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">To be quite honest, it was the photo of countless sunflower seeds above the headline, " Ai Weiwei: Planting Originality, reaping Beijing's Fury", that caught my attention. The sunflower exhibit includes countless individual porcelain sunflowers made and painted by Chinese artists. The sheer brilliance of engaging hundreds of artists in a traditional craft ( porcelain ) which would receive global recognition is inspiring to say the least. Wei managed to water the seed of the creative human spirit, deep in the underbelly of a nation of famous for silencing it's artists. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Part of the exhibit, as displayed at the Tate Museum was the ability of patrons to walk over the sunflower seeds, breaking the seeds as they walked. Rather symbolic, no? Just ten days after the exhibit opened at the Tate Museum, Asthma UK kicked up a fuss about the kicked up dust caused by the interactive exhibit. The exhibit was changed so it could be viewed, but not interacted with, effectively disconnecting spectators from the art. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This must have been Director of Research at Asthma UK's 30 seconds of fame; "Leanne Metcalf, Director of Research at Asthma UK, said the Tate had made the right decision. "This new installation at Tate Modern has understandably attracted a great deal of interest and Asthma UK is relieved to hear that concern over the potentially damaging effects that the exhibit can cause to those interacting with it, especially people affected by asthma, is taking priority," she said. " I have to wonder, when the political wagging of the dog settles on this one, in what form the made-in-China political bone will be tossed to the UK. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">I hope that the irony of breathing in silica dust was not lost on anyone. Ironic that a Chinese artist should inadvertantly create and exhibit art which reflects the reality of life in China? The very dollar-store-infatuation that the world has with goods made-in-China is rather poetic. The silica dust was gagging spectators. Kind of like gagging artistic expression, political freedom, and the human spirit...hmmm....?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">So, despite his unkown whereabouts, Wei is still making headlines, as powerful and influential (if not moreso) than before. Unlike his demolished studio in Shanghai, the Bird’s Nest Stadium is a mark on the political landscape of China, and a globally recognized symbol for Beijing. I have been told that the symbolism of a bird’s nest in China is in it’s careful construction, one piece at a time, creating a protective, insular environment. Standing as two independent structures, and weighing in at 42,000 tonnes of steel, The Bird's Nest stadium has one inner ring for seating, surrounded by another protective ring, it is indeed a symbol for the insular social and political make up of modern China.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">Despite various degrees of man-made oppression, the creative spirit of “artist” remains alive and well within each individual. Wei found pleny of artists willing to help create his exhibit. It must have been like watching lava flow from an erupting volcano, watching the creative process ripple across the rural landscape.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">The creative spirit is something that is hard to express in language. It goes beyond the physical. The closest I have come to understanding it is reading Rudolph Otto’s, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Idea-Holy-R-Otto/dp/0195002105">Idea of the Holy</a>. It is best described in a paragraph from Amazon’s description; "Otto, following the tradition of mystics, gave careful consideration to an oft-neglected aspect of theology: the non-rational aspects of God. In doing so, he coined the word "numinous" to depict that which transcends or eludes comprehension in rational terms. It suggests that which is holy, awesome, and 'wholly other.' He also applies the expression "mysterium tremendum overpoweringness of an ineffable transcendent Reality. "</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">Artists like Wei and Jimenez work dilligently at their art. I write. You may paint or sing, or create in other ways. Why? I believe we make art to communicate in a universal language. We are here sharing this experience together. We are all connected. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">It is the very dust of life that we stir in our living that is the creative energy flow between us. This is where we draw our inspiration. It keeps us connected and thriving. It is beyond the skin and blood and bones of our bodies, wrapped up in the wonder and mystery of life.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div>McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9075720.post-48610973049117512902011-03-23T18:48:00.002-05:002011-03-23T19:27:20.099-05:00Tell Me Your Story <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxDiDe9e2Xuq6DB0D62H0YYSfGpCg4e9WZWZgXA3DN92RKnYl0XtW-IQ4hk6JWJTAvsAIREmNYjXyKsoYosJ1fhlsCJbRPbHnIapQ3D1tXeyUeUIQ5FAplZkTxFBqBF6c1Auvu3Q/s1600/stories.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxDiDe9e2Xuq6DB0D62H0YYSfGpCg4e9WZWZgXA3DN92RKnYl0XtW-IQ4hk6JWJTAvsAIREmNYjXyKsoYosJ1fhlsCJbRPbHnIapQ3D1tXeyUeUIQ5FAplZkTxFBqBF6c1Auvu3Q/s200/stories.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
~It takes a thousand voices<br />
to tell a single story.~<br />
<br />
Native American Proverb<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table> This is a "cheat" blog. I've gotten away from blogging and am actually doing some not-so-serious-<em>serious</em> writing thanks to my bestestest friend in funeral service, Mrs. Carrie-I-Am-the-proud-mother-of-the-cutest-happiest-baby-ever-Ewen.<br />
<br />
Today I read a reflection at a conference and I thought I would share it with you. I know, I know, it's much more entertaining when I'm actually <em>with</em> you having a visit, but this will have to suffice.<br />
<br />
A truly inspiring colleague of mine was doing a presentation about the importance of storytelling in hospice spiritual care. She asked if I could share a reflection, and this is what I wrote (give or take a sentence or two, after all, I do take poetic license wherever I see fit);<br />
<br />
Preparing for this talk, I <em>scoured</em> the Internet looking for people's stories about what they learned while providing care for the dying, either as professionals or as friends. After scrambling for half an hour, I thought, "McDishy!", You have your own stories to tell." Sometimes I am a bear of <em>very little</em> brain.<br />
<br />
I have worked directly with people who are dying for over ten years. I have spent countless hours listening to, and assisting people who are acutely aware that they are dying. We're <em>all</em> dying, but my clients are much more aware of their limited time to do what they need to, and to tell their stories.<br />
<br />
Whenever I share time with someone who is dying, not the time I take to do my assessments, or organize care, or give information, but the time that I spend listening, I feel like I've provided a priceless service. Nurses, OT's, PT's, Case Managers, and Physicians come and go with a list of tasks to complete. When one of us stops and makes time for silence, that's when we, as caregivers give our true gift of self and are offered that same gift from our clients.<br />
<br />
I have had the honour of listening to the stories of young children, and seniors who have lived through, and remember both of our great wars. I have have been taken away by my clients to different countries, cultures, families, and time periods by way of their stories.<br />
<br />
Most people bound to bed, are treated as if they have only ever been sick, weak and fragile, but the reality is that they have all lived vital, vibrant lives. They still have the mortal desire to stamp their presence on the world, and often, storytelling is the last vehicle they have to do this.<br />
<br />
I will never forget the story of a woman who spent her early married life by the seashore in England. For her birthday every year, her husband would cook lamb and they would drink champagne. He read poetry to her every night.<br />
<br />
Thanks to her I believe in true love.<br />
<br />
I remember another lady telling me about having to buy a wedding dress before her husband went off to war. The family had no money, and by way of her youthful good looks and charm, she was able to convince a designer to <em>give</em> her a dress so that she could marry her sweetheart before he left for the war.<br />
<br />
Thanks to her I believe in determination.<br />
<br />
A gentleman stubbornly allowed me to visit over a period of a year, continually asking what on earth I could help him with, insisting that he was alone and he <em>didn't matter</em>. For a year, I visited faithfully. On the day that he died, I made a visit, not knowing that it would be my last. We discussed the death of his younger brother, and how he felt at that time. It was only then that he realized he <em>had</em> been loved, and was loved <em>now</em>. <br />
<br />
Thanks to him I believe in hope.<br />
<br />
A young man, suffering from extremely hard to control pain and symptoms always had a joke for me when I visited. He smiled because he said there was no point complaining if this was all the time he had left. He ate candy, and held parties from his hospital bed. He smiled and laughed, and cried when he needed to.<br />
<br />
Thanks to him I believe in the power of positive thinking.<br />
<br />
My work is a blessing because I have the benefit of hearing my client's stories. Each story is a gift with a timeless message. Each visit is an exchange of stories and energy that cannot happen during any other time of life. <br />
<br />
For every practical thing I can do when I walk into someone's home as a care provider, I learn an infinite number of lessons about humanity, and I hope that my clients learn that they are <em>not</em> forgotten, they are <em>not</em> given up on, and that through their storytelling the meaning of their life becomes more clear. <br />
<br />
Every one of us is a master "Storyteller". We need to take time to tell our stories, because it is by way of this storytelling we create and enrich our world.<br />
<br />
Help Hospice continue to hear those stories. Click <a href="http://my.e2rm.com/personalPage.aspx?SID=2888267&Lang=en-CA">here</a> to donate.McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9075720.post-49704829111180926092011-03-06T15:39:00.002-05:002011-03-06T21:15:23.278-05:00I Have a Story to Tell You<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQPnHloS6IQRnreBI4jXa9HyCtVPZb9i0Vd1I3WfUk546iMBs3HWYoymz_v8H7pgoeQHzvfgdapWK4V_ZgGnZGHWsoBcD_Mdg8dFC0tLDS9LQkuBQQ0sCvD7xREKs8J6rpXMJKfg/s1600/trish+kiddo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" l6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQPnHloS6IQRnreBI4jXa9HyCtVPZb9i0Vd1I3WfUk546iMBs3HWYoymz_v8H7pgoeQHzvfgdapWK4V_ZgGnZGHWsoBcD_Mdg8dFC0tLDS9LQkuBQQ0sCvD7xREKs8J6rpXMJKfg/s1600/trish+kiddo.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Like all the best families, <br />
we have our share of eccentricities, <br />
of impetuous and wayward youngsters <br />
and of family disagreements."<br />
<br />
<br />
~Queen Elizabeth II ~<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">It is Sunday March 6, 2011 and I am at a cafe table in the middle of a mall. I know, not my "uje", but I thought the shops opened at ten not eleven, so here I am waiting for one of the great sins of our time - the modern shopping mega mall - to lurch to life.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">My throat is sore, and I'm congested. Opting for the lesser of the evils I'm having some sort of unsweetened iced drink to try and keep my throat from drying up and dying. Surprisingly, there is a starling in here, hopping from table to table. Not quite like the cafes of St. Germain, but the bird helps create at least a quirky, if not convincing atmosphere.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It reminds me of the afternoon I spent a few years ago channelling Hemingway at Les Deux Maggots. <em>Ahh, April in Paris!</em> I remember surfacing from the tangled beauty of the Paris metro into a postcard of red geraniums standing at attention in wrought iron window boxes. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">There in the cafe, across from the church, I found a little table under the canopy and began to write. As the afternoon wore on, I managed to make my way through lunch, completely backwards. I began with a cafe americano, followed by an espresso with chocolate cake, followed by chicken, salad, and finally, a lovely glass of french wine. Actually it was more than one glass of wine, but when you're with Hemingway in spirit, who's counting? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">That was one of the most perfect afternoons of my life, and I'm sure, if you were here beside me sipping a cup of tea and munching on some homemade treaties, the story would take much longer to tell. I would fill in the gaps of the story; like how it was the first time I ever saw geraniums and liked them, that the energy and people in the cafe were amazing, that the waiter was a grey-haired, balding sweetheart whose patience allowed us to converse despite my merciless butchering of his exquisite mother tongue, and why I felt compelled to travel to Paris in the first place.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But this isn't the story I want to tell you. I want to tell you a story that you already know. After all, what are we but manufactured characters of our own stories? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">We go back. Despite our absorption into the individual self, the entertaining tales of our shenanigans in friendship and love are second to the narrative soil of the genes in which we are rooted. Our mind reaches back in time as tree roots burrow deeper into the rich earth.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Despite our dysfunction, the skeletons tap on the closet doors of our mind and threaten to tumble out along with our heirloom scars. Despite this delicate balance, we long to know we came from love. Greater than the shallow love of skin on skin, greater than the dutiful love of being fed and clothed, we long to know we are from a love that binds eternity and purpose.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This morning, enjoying a breakfast of cheese, figs and pastry, a collection of long lost family photos stared back at me from my laptop. Seven of us, in perfect two-or-three-year-gapped chronological order smiled back at me from my past. Not one of us was older than 18. We knew our place in that order, and we held each other up like each thread holds together a tattered blanket.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">We knew our stories; That Peter fell asleep under a box on the porch when he was a toddler. Unable to find him, a panicked mom warranted a full search by our local police constable until rolly little Peter stretched and yawned after his nap and inquired as to what the fuss was all about. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And there was quiet Melanie, with her Holly Hobby infatuation and collection of Tetley tea figurines lined up on her bedroom window sill. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tim, eldest, quiet, and gentle. Its' funny how the most tender of souls are damaged and lost in the teenaged jungle of feel good temptation. I looked up to Tim, and I loved him because he was good. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Paula. The second oldest of the crew. Athlete, blond beauty and fashionista. Her dream was to live in the city one day.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Donald. He was my age, but an old soul. Many have said I have an old soul, but if I have an old soul, Donald's was ancient. Even in kindergarten he was repentant. He hummed constantly with the stress of religious guilt. The other five of us would rib him, but God save you if you weren't blood and wanted to take a swing. We stuck together.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The baby was Matthew. He will forever be the image of the curly blond baby holding up the end of the family helix as the seven of us paraded in front of the video camera and up the staircase one Christmas eve.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The group of seven. Sharing stories only the seven of us will know, along with all of the plot twists, treachery and jubilation that all families experience. But these are <em>our</em> stories; before the drugs, the alcohol, the pill, marriage, divorce, breakdowns, and birthing another generation.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This morning as I ate my breakfast, those seven children looked back at me. We were smiling. We were innocent. We <em>did</em> come from love. Despite the individuals we are now, and giving the world another generation, <em>we go back</em>, weaving this new blood into the family story.</div>McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9075720.post-41598351054996077022011-02-21T17:18:00.003-05:002011-02-21T18:05:56.297-05:00A Gnomeo and Juliet Family Day<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEKPny9KFduBA0c9NYD5dCYl_tFy9-IK38sTeKijkCwzlLE0QvYU5SbmLXRcboGV_bpWjc_AzAmzruOePrmX6B4safwLUJ9Bj0lCXIPc6n_9vasin5ZH23sbjhDdWv1YRjkl-yxA/s1600/elton+gnome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="115" j6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEKPny9KFduBA0c9NYD5dCYl_tFy9-IK38sTeKijkCwzlLE0QvYU5SbmLXRcboGV_bpWjc_AzAmzruOePrmX6B4safwLUJ9Bj0lCXIPc6n_9vasin5ZH23sbjhDdWv1YRjkl-yxA/s200/elton+gnome.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
"If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, <br />
you may as well make it dance."<br />
<br />
<em>~George Bernard Shaw~</em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Ah, good old Family Day. The proverbial bone thrown from a connivingly dictatorial provincial government. Not as conniving and dictatorial as their blue cousins, but <em>very</em> close. Family day, the holiday in the middle of the vast January-February-March winter doldrums landscape we all look forward to. It was either a day off, or 50% off at the LCBO on Superbowl weekend. This is much less expensive for the government to fund. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">What an awe inspiring idea - a day to spend quality time with your family. As I watched my now almost-taller-than-me-son set up our Wii for the Amazing Race game (which we lost after the second challenge), I got teary. <em>This is it</em>. My family of four never happened. My huge extended family has disbanded, and here I am on <em>Family Day</em> with my family of two. <em>Two</em> is a bit ridiculous to call a family -<em> isn't it</em>?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I looked at my son's frame, his long legs the spitting image of mine at his age, and I smiled. Yes, this <em>was</em> it. This tall pre-teen, my dopey white cat, and my cantankerous parrotlet were my family. Tucked in for the afternoon, we were all happy in our cozy little home. Kitty the bird was perched half in, and half out of her bird bath, Leonard was curled up on the stool at my feet, and my son was giggling about creating Mii's of myself and his dad. Life is good.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The morning started with a good sleep-in, which, as you know, is quintessential to any fabulously lazy day. We struck out for the movie theatre to see, what I'm sure will become a film classic, "Gnomeo and Juliet" (Elton John the executive producer no less). Surprisingly, the film was a hit with both myself (middle-aged mom and my pre-teen son). Just enough stupidity and kitsch to hook us both and make us laugh. The previews set us up to see another four films; Hoodwinked Too, Rio, Rango and Winnie the Pooh. Talk about culture vultures! We're so <em>cool</em>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="195" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/iVny39y-MGo" title="YouTube video player" width="320"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">If you know me, you can count on my uncanny ability to screw up movie times. I can look up movie information in the paper, on the web, by phone, and always manage to get the times mixed up. Today was no exception. We arrived 45 minutes too early. With the long sleep-in, I had skipped breakfast hoping to grab a diet pop and popcorn at the theatre. Nothin's says you're an adult like popcorn for breakfast, but hey, I'm just a <em>very</em> old kid. My son, entering his I-need-to-flex-my-preteen-man-muscles has been bugging me for a couple of weeks to take him out for wings. Nothing says "I'm-a-dude" like chewing meat off a bone. Ick. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">With our 45 minute wait, I noticed a Wild Wings restaurant just across from the theatre. I didn't even bother to ask. I was screwed. There was no avoiding the tearing-the-meat-off-the-teeny-tiny-bones-with-my-teeth now. I was starving, and heck, it was family day after all. Being the cool mom that I am, or the embarrassing mom (depends if you ask my kid, or you ask me), I said, "C'mon kiddo, let's get some lunch". </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"At Wild Wings?", the little man said surprised. "Yep, I'm starving". </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">We bellied up to the manly wooden tables, complete with paper towel roll and bucket for the bones. Oh lord. Our selection of wings were the "Brown Eyed Girl". We chose them because they weren't supposed to be spicy, and the song reminds us of my crazy gal-friend Monroe. Wings and potato skins ordered, we watched some curling and read our horoscopes in the paper. My son felt sufficiently satisfied that this was a guy's place to eat, and I sufficiently regretted filling my stomach with greasy wings and potato skins. I would have much rather tucked in with my popcorn and diet coke, although it likely would have cost more, and left my stomach feeling the same as it felt now - ready for revolt on all borders.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The movie was pretty cute. The story of Romeo and Juliet retold in the land of garden gnomes, except (spoiler comin' up....), no one dies in the end. The Elton John soundtrack was a bit awkward, but how can it be too bad when it's Sir Elton? I mean <em>really</em>, the man is a musical genius, and I love him. There was on-line dating (Find a Bird), that I could relate to, and monster-truck-like garden tractors that my son could relate to. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I think the lawn tractor was my second-favourite character after the red-over-the-shoulder-thong-wearing-male-gnome. The lawn tractor is "The Terrafirminator - a weapon of grass-destruction". If you watch this and don't laugh, you seriously need to lighten up.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="195" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/3HlV4snJSl0" title="YouTube video player" width="240"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dinner is on the stove now; my son's favourite sauce and pasta. We'll have some gooey dessert, get out the scrabble board and call it a day. A <em>great</em> day. Macho wings, silly movie, video game, miserable parrotlet, stunned cat, pre-teen kid and mom all added up to one happy family day. So, <em>two</em> isn't such a ridiculous number after all. <em>Two</em> counts. <em>Two</em> makes one great family, with a couple of fuzzy characters tagging along for the ride.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I hope you enjoyed your day, and counted your blessings, whomever they are. How did you spend your Family Day?</div>McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9075720.post-23694782268015334792011-02-19T19:13:00.001-05:002011-02-19T19:59:04.971-05:00The Madam <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV0BTjyuCPvV_D5kdJhmHoANwZlAOk94IscoAu0hqaCGfc955xi1ck3hzk98cX6f7rvDkgRFMl0_tKKBHYN1Ra3zGh1y3nRH2pBmKlLmM4OMSzUHDsGpJdVY2DvVP-rJ3xdutXIw/s1600/madam+martini.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" j6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV0BTjyuCPvV_D5kdJhmHoANwZlAOk94IscoAu0hqaCGfc955xi1ck3hzk98cX6f7rvDkgRFMl0_tKKBHYN1Ra3zGh1y3nRH2pBmKlLmM4OMSzUHDsGpJdVY2DvVP-rJ3xdutXIw/s1600/madam+martini.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I don't pretend to know what love is for everyone,<br />
but I can tell you what it is for me; <br />
love is knowing all about someone, <br />
and still wanting to be with them more than any other person, <br />
love is trusting them enough to tell them everything about yourself,<br />
including the things you might be ashamed of, <br />
love is feeling comfortable and safe with someone,<br />
but still getting weak knees when they walk into a room <br />
and smile at you."<br />
<br />
~Anonymous~ </td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Aptly named, I would say, "The Madam", the cocktail of the weekend as revealed in the Globe's Style section. I will sip this lovely little delight as I ponder the events and tales of Valentine's week. <br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I get a kick out of Oscar Wilde. I always chuckle at the truth in these words, " <em>How can a woman be expected to be happy with a man who insists on treating her as if she were a perfectly normal human being</em>?".</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">By now, I was <em>supposed</em> to be well-mired in a loving, mutually enriching relationship with a man of appropriate age, education, interest and means. I was <em>supposed</em> to be on my way to co-habitating bliss, perhaps a beautiful ring on my left hand that I could swoon over during the daytime drudgery of work, errands, housework and lazy candle-lit baths. I was <em>supposed</em> to be tucked in cozily, with a smile emanating from my heart because I was so damn blissful in relationship. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Enter the Madam. Vodka, pink grapefruit juice, rose syrup, ground white peppercorns and Himalayan sea salt. It sounds delicious doesn't it? Les pieces de resistance are the rose petals in the drink - apparently the ones I'm supposed to have left over from Valentine's Day. Ah yes - <em>VD</em>. Ironic that it fell on a day that preceded the powerful full moon - the very week when PMS would be universally in full swing, and tears were right up there with the need for sharp knives and heavy blunt objects. Fucking fantastic timing. I raise my Madam to this cosmic irony.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Sitting in my tiny little pink office (no, that's not Freudian imagery) just before noon, my ever-cheerful colleague popped her head in and then produced a cardboard box duct-taped closed with the stem of a rose sticking out. Nothing says sweep-you-off-your-feet like black duct tape and cardboard. I knew who sent the box. I laughed immediately. Petal end stuffed down in the box was a single red rose. There were yummy chocolates, some odds and ends that I recognized as being mine - a book and some Cd's that I had lent out ages ago. There was also a gift card for the liquor store tucked in there with my own things. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Interestingly it was a "Vintages" card, with a sophisticated looking design including a glass of red wine. In reality, I knew that I was going to buy as much cheap hooch as possible with the little piece of plastic, and soak my chocolate-fattened-peaches in the bathtub listening to Leonard Cohen songs and generally just being a girl. I don't know that there's a gift card designed to subconsciously say, "It's ok lady. Go out and try to purchase material happiness - don't forget the ibuprofen and tissues too. You are going to be a lonely old woman with cats and cupboard full of canned pasta". If you do see one, please load it up at the LCBO and send it express.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The funniest Valentine I've ever received was in the box. Hand written on the back of a white envelope it included;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"...you will notice how I don't forget Valentine's Day....Anyway, my flower shop of choice surprisingly has closed down the street...I went to the more fancy-schmanzy one a few doors down and you would have killed me if I paid their dozen flowers' delivered rate. Here I am trying to be like cupid and these cocks think they have me over a barrel. So, I adjusted and made you a nice VD survival kit to get you through ...You'll find herein some stuff I've been trying to get back to you and some new stuff. Most of the new stuff you can enjoy <strike>shitting</strike> sitting in the bathtub...all things good and bad must pass...Happy VD..."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Way too funny. I'm certain cupid never anticipated phrases such as, "...these cocks think they have me over a barrel...", as part of a valentine - romantic or not. A couple of the ladies I work with shared a laugh with me, and the day carried on. The rose was sacrificed to the lone male who works in our office so he could take it home to his wife, this their first Valentine's day as a married couple. What on earth would we do without our girlfriends who lift us up and carry us through the crappy days, and celebrate with us during the good ones?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This year I played cupid. Last year my work-angel appeared in the form of another single woman. Until her arrival, I was the sole single person in my office. I can't tell you what a drag <em>that</em> is. Surrounded by marital bliss in the office is like being the crappy, coffee-cream-filled chocolate in the box of candies that no one understands why they even put it in there in the first place. You just don't fit. So, daily I exchange relationship and dating tales with my friend. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Like a lightening bolt, as I was planning my VD Sundae party, I thought, "OH MY GAWD!", my work angel would hit it off with my friend Todd. Todd, or "Hot Toddy" as he was known during our Forestwood-Flannel-All-Girls-But-Todd-nights. Determined to out-do the VD growl that rears its ugly head in my teeny tiny little shrivelled up cinnamon heart I decorated my place for VD this year. There were cupid streamers and hearts and candles. I supplied the ice cream (banana, vanilla, neapolitan) and brownies. My guests each brought at least one sundae topping. We had cinnamon hearts, gummies, skittles, caramel sauce, peanuts, sprinkles, bananas, gummy worms, smarties and crushed Oreo cookies. Ten of us got together for VD, and noshed on Sundaes. What better atmosphere to meet your sweetie in? A set-up at a Valentine-Ice-Cream-Sundae-Party. Yet again I'm convinced I'm a <em>genius</em>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'm keeping my fingers crossed that next week "Date #1" happens and Hot Toddy sweeps my single-work-friend off her feet. At the very least, I hope they make friends, and that their first date rises above any awkwardness. Little hint....just in case you're reading this...lots of wine and flowers.....and if you get a second date, a third date, whatever....keep the wine and flowers flowing (both ways!). </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">All right, all right. I'll fess up. I had myself a sweet little Valentine this year too. No pressure walking into a woman's house with a heart wreath on the door and an over-sized shiny cupid hanging from it. My son, what a sweetheart, gave me a stuffed, white teddy bear wearing a red shirt that has, "Hug Me", written on it. When you hug the bear, this sweet little voice goes on about how great your hugs are. Valentine's come in a variety of forms - funny notes from friends, borrowed roses, blind dates, dinners with new kindred spirits, and a rose drawn on the top of a personally delivered pastry box. Those are some of the places where Cupid's arrow struck this year.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">VD week behind me, along with five extra pounds attached to my fanny from drowning the heartache of singledom in wine and chocolate, I finish off the remaining drops of my Madam. I highly recommend the Madam ladies, although, it <em>is</em> ok to substitute the vodka for Bombay Sapphire Gin, and not be bothered with three twists of the pepper grinder, finding Himalayan sea salt, <em>or</em> adding the rose water or grapefruit juice. Rose petals - don't be foolish! Who has rose petals?</div>McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9075720.post-90725143629432921622011-02-07T21:26:00.003-05:002011-02-07T22:49:55.842-05:00Bikini Waxing - Grooming or Sport?<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_W2mONsQOoAE53S8Db48QU0ZEdmmQhbfNSsOzZPWNXoGRpTYZGqbWdX_dq_c-jhLBlftiGsgIhrR5UgUrDYfkDXtmGMt-dHoGn_xrGNbDpHHWjFoUYVnlKMI7F1OViavy9ceswA/s1600/bikini+wax.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" h5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_W2mONsQOoAE53S8Db48QU0ZEdmmQhbfNSsOzZPWNXoGRpTYZGqbWdX_dq_c-jhLBlftiGsgIhrR5UgUrDYfkDXtmGMt-dHoGn_xrGNbDpHHWjFoUYVnlKMI7F1OViavy9ceswA/s1600/bikini+wax.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Vanity is my favourite sin."<br />
~Al Pacino~</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">I haven't been to the gym in way too long. For the past two weeks I've felt sluggish and very blah. I believe "blah" is french for "crap".</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, tonight on my way home I had a super-hero-like flash of inspiration. I wasn't dreading <em>physical exercise</em>. Indeed, quite the opposite, I was <em>craving</em> it. What I <em>was</em> dreading was spending any more time cooped up <em>inside</em> in stale, furnace-heated-winter-air. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">As soon as I got in the door, I tore off my work clothes, and pulled on my "play" clothes. With my bright, fuzzy Jannie-P mittens on, and my make-up scrubbed off, I tromped into the snow. The snow was falling, not gently, but gingerly. The wind had picked up enough to make me bend my head down and forward to avoid snowflakes getting in my eyes. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I spent a wonderful hour out in the snow listening to Mr. Buffett, my mind wandering to the lovely ski weekends I have shared with my friends at Barbara and Dwight's. I missed the weekend this year, and last for that matter. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">One of my favourite memories is stumbling into their warm kitchen, the last one to arrive as the sun sank into slumber on the winter Bruce County horizon. Cold and wet I stumbled into the sounds of latin jazz and an outstretched hand with a freshly made mojito. Oh, I missed my friends tonight!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Nostalgic for my friends, I opened a lovely bottle of wine I bought with this ski weekend in mind. I had planned on taking it this weekend in fact. However....(don't worry guys - I bought two - I'm saving one for you!!!).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">After I came inside from my February frolic, I cooked up a new recipe that involved Red Snapper and lots of fresh parsley (I love fresh parsley), I sipped on my glass of wine. Almost half a glass in, I noticed that I was pretty relaxed. I chalked it up to my light lunch and long winter walk. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Nope. I was definitely more relaxed than I had anticipated when I uncorked the wine. I got up to check the wine label. Good old Cali-for-ni-A. 15% alcohol. A little much for this girl. I retired to the chesterfield, and decided to let the wine soak into my dinner as I watched Coronation Street. Holy mackeral, half a glass of wine, and my warm winter glow was not budging. <em>What to do</em>? <em>What to do</em>?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Bikini Wax!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">What a brilliant Sonoma soaked idea! I'm a genius. I heated up my wax...about 30 seconds too long. As I stumbled into my closet to disrobe I caught the faint scent of burning wax. Wrapped in my six sizes too big fuzzy blue bathrobe that makes my parrot think I'm her mother, I ran to the kitchen catching my left hip on the corner of the table. Ow.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">As a recent rebel in the Egyptian political coup said, "It's going to be long, and it's going to be painful, but in the end it will be worth it." Onward with the waxing!!!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> I took another sip of the rubbing alcohol wine. I had time after all - the wax had to cool. I didn't want to waste this unintentional buzz now that I had the wax heated up. That's what made my bikini waxing brain wave so brilliant. Numb the pain. AND - VD is coming. You <em>know</em>, the dreaded <strong>V</strong>alentine's <strong>D</strong>ay. When the fat man in the red suit shows up I'll be ready. Wait. No. When the big white bunny dies...whatever...wow that wine has some kick!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Into the washroom I went, with John Mayer serenading me. Jar of wax placed on a saucer, I had my hair-dye/waxing towel at the ready. A guest once pulled the offending towel out of my linen closet, and recoiled in horror, "Oh my gawd Trish! What's on this towel?!". Just bikini wax and hair dye stains lovey. Ignore that.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, I proceeded to do the deed. It's an unnatural adventure really. Legs contorted, skin pulled, renegade hairs popping up where you least expect them. When all you can safely wear lest you stick to it, or inadvertently tear it and small pieces of flesh off at the same time, is a pair of glasses and a hairband, you know you're venturing into a dangerous sport. If my eyesight was better, I wouldn't need the damn glasses. I'm always terrified they're going to get waxed up and I'll mistakenly pull my eyelashes out.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">That almost happened once you know. I came home from a late night shift at the funeral home and decided I'd wax my eyebrows so I'd be pretty during a hot date the next night. I didn't even have to look into the mirror after the accident. I knew something went drastically wrong when all of the skin above my brow bone screamed in torturous pain as I waxed three quarters of my eyebrow off all at once. My hot date the next night only was blessed to see my "good side". I remember what a cutie he was, and I was terrified he'd stroke the side of my face one morning and recoil in horror as he wiped my fake three-quarter, painted-on eyebrow off. This being gorgeous is harder than it looks.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tonight I found stretch marks I'd never seen before, all the while balancing on one leg, singing my heart out to John Mayer and drizzling thousand degree wax all over my waxing towel and the floor. Stretch marks don't seem so awful and tramatizing after you've had a glass of this wine. My friend calls wine "Mama Juice", I think she's got something with that code word. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I could hear my girly bits snickering, "Ha-ha you can't get me with your hot wax lady!". I waxed and pulled, pulled and waxed. Hopped around with my waxing/dye towel permanently attached to the ball of my right foot, and my left foot high stepping off of little blobs of wax shrapnel. It was a beauty war. War of the Smooth. War of the Wax. War of the 15% Wino. A Muma Juice Incited War if you will. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Full on into the waxing, every time I shifted, trying to access some spot only god should see, my thighs would stick together, and then try to stretch apart. Lovely. Thighs unstuck I proceeded with my waxing. The wine helps. I stopped when I shouted, "Ow", out loud. Somehow I had reached my limit. There were still vigilante hairs here and there, but nothing my fancy-five-blade-pink-warrior-goddess- razor couldn't fix.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I managed to get everything back in place - the lid on the wax jar, the tongue depressors (compliments of my favourite GP), the saucer back in the kitchen sink, and the dye/wax towel ripped from the tender bottom of my foot, my wiggly bits adjusted, all despite having hands layered with sticky, cooled wax.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now, for those who don't do home "grooming", they give you a little bottle of blue oil with the waxing kit. It's the only way to unstick the sticky bits when you're done. I always feel like a rubbed down butterball after I use that stuff. Oil manages to get in all the bits and creases and, like the hot wax, on the floor.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">As I stepped into the hot bath water, one foot on the bottom of the tub, one foot on the bath mat, I hit a slippery spot, and I scrambled to keep my naked, oiled up self from doing the splits and falling backward, hitting my head on my bath pillow, and drowning with a concussion and a blood alcohol level just below the legal level.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Freaking waxing! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">None of my married friends do this "blah" (see french translation above) any more. I don't know whether I'd rather be hairy, or smooth and inebriatedly concussed.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Happy VD. Be <em>smooth</em>.</div>McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9075720.post-41306457752651160092011-01-31T22:32:00.000-05:002011-01-31T22:32:54.421-05:00Top Ten Bath-Time Albums<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXyoD7W4Wg_2Sw5Tq1iCbIr_Gz4H8EzCWzIJiCGxY7BVXO65Bi8bvYEE4hyrUBDNH-BMxJJ3nFTEfKCcTdjlClfY-x5bgC63wP2qldkvsy_2MGfvRSVC3zbKJmvyIGJ0qTl1JkrA/s1600/Bath+Tunes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXyoD7W4Wg_2Sw5Tq1iCbIr_Gz4H8EzCWzIJiCGxY7BVXO65Bi8bvYEE4hyrUBDNH-BMxJJ3nFTEfKCcTdjlClfY-x5bgC63wP2qldkvsy_2MGfvRSVC3zbKJmvyIGJ0qTl1JkrA/s1600/Bath+Tunes.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Sorrow can be alleviated<br />
by good sleep, a bath, and a glass of wine."<br />
~Thomas Aquinas~<br />
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</tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>10</strong></span>. <span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Nazareth </span>-<em>Geatest Hits</em><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>9.</strong></span> <span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Meatloaf</span> - <em>Bat Out of Hell</em> <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>8.</strong></span> <span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Jimmy Buffett</span> - <em>Buffett Hotel</em><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>7.</strong></span> <span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Leonard Cohen</span> - <em>Dear Heather</em><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>6.</strong></span> <span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Andrea Boccelli</span> - <em>Vivere</em><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>5.</strong></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Leonard Cohen</span> - <em>The Essential Leonard Cohen</em><br />
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<strong><span style="font-size: large;">4</span>.</strong> <span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Chris Botti</span> - <em>When I Fall in Love</em><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>3.</strong></span> <span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Bonnie Raitt</span> - <em>Road Tested</em><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>2.</strong></span> <span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Marc Cohen</span> - <em>Listening Booth 1970</em><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>1.</strong></span> <span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Leonard Cohen</span> - <em>Live in London</em>McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9075720.post-36311120015692976222011-01-30T21:34:00.000-05:002011-01-30T21:34:42.778-05:00Intuition vs. Quantifiable Stuff<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitx1XmITuylgjfoICS6w0LrpbEIFDrO_bPoK7WkqBl3iehqOIfMqQTBnH0fGRw909r_bDZrD5wVeHbY4u3nHB71NLur2RWgQ7IFJo48ptnWKV_rcg-sRHhz5_GVxTVL8YHVPOzeQ/s1600/Vaccine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitx1XmITuylgjfoICS6w0LrpbEIFDrO_bPoK7WkqBl3iehqOIfMqQTBnH0fGRw909r_bDZrD5wVeHbY4u3nHB71NLur2RWgQ7IFJo48ptnWKV_rcg-sRHhz5_GVxTVL8YHVPOzeQ/s1600/Vaccine.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The only real valuable thing is intuition."<br />
~Albert Einstein~<br />
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</tbody></table>Will there always be a gullible right-wing-processed-cheese-eating population? Or someday, will there be a euphoric tipping point when the veil of our great-Canadian-political-Oz is unveiled before our very eyes? <br />
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The good old Globe and Mail did not disappoint this weekend. There were a lot of different viewpoints to consider. Margaret Wente, god love her, had the chutzpah to write about "Health Scares". <br />
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The headline, "If only there were a shot for irrational fears; Vaccination panic is strongest among educational liberal elites - the same demographic that votes green, drives a Prius and eats organic" captures the essence of her article. Great spirit forgive the human race for evolving into beings of consciousness. <br />
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Wente refers to a study by Andrew Wakefield published in The Lancet about links between childhood vaccines and autism. She sites sources that point to the faults in Wakefield's study. Wente writes, "The public is fed a steady diet of scare stories cooked up by rogue scientists seeking publicity, tort lawyers looking for a payday, environmental groups hungry for both publicity and funding, and gullible media ever eager for a good bad story."<br />
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Fascinating. I would say the public is fed a steady diet of highly, but very discreetly cooked up truisms by the powers that be, tort lawyers looking for a payday, environmental groups hungry for the harmony between humans and the planet <em>and</em> their share of the pittance of funding that's just enough to placate a generally apathetic <span style="background-color: white;">public and pretty-gullible-mainstream-media-turned marionettes by the great governing Oz. To think otherwise might be naive - non?</span><br />
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Ironically this very article is sandwiched between a story about a study by Kevin Milligan and Michael Baker (UBC and U of T respectively), that concluded longer parental leaves did not have a positive impact on child development. They measured temperament, achievement of milestones, motor and social skill development. Isn't that convenient for the government to use in defense of not paying parental leaves? <br />
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Now, in the case that was presented in the Globe, I do have to favour the government based on what is written in the article. Two parents taking leave at the same time and expecting to collect social benefits kind of has the stench of greed about it. However, I think that any well-educated liberal/conservative, Prius/Hummer, Anti-vaxer/gullible pharmaceutical zombie will admit that you can find a study that backs any argument. Data can be skewed, and outcome measurements may be a nice neat dish served on a silver platter to the decision makers in the land of Oz, but we all know in our gut what is bullshit and what is not.<br />
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Wente accurately admits that the concern over vaccinations stems from distrust of the very profitable, and therefore influential pharmaceutical industry, or Big Pharma. Wente says that "anti-vaxers" are hyper parents who are, "...obsessively worried that the world is full of hidden poisons that can harm their kids. They worry about the sun, or lawn spray, or trace amounts of chemicals in plastic toys". GAWD forbid we care about the environment and how we impact it. What on earth are people <em>thinking</em> being concerned about toxic chemicals coating the shiny little toys that little Billy chomps on as he cuts his teeth? Fools.<br />
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She is critical of this left wing hoo-hoo group who doesn't want their infants crawling around in fields of DDT with no studies to support trusting their intuition. Somebody please do a study to support that. <br />
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Wente's headline - "If only there were a shot for irrational fears." McDish's headline - "If only there were a shot for greedy goombas"...or something like that.<br />
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The headlines in print, on the web and on television were all over the unrest in Egypt this weekend. It all began with a university educated Tunisian whose life ended in protest over unfair governing. Another headline in the Globe read, " In a span of minutes, a country goes off-line; Government orders Internet service providers to shut down all connections, isolating 80 million people and revolt's leaders."<br />
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Hmmm. Yep. If we mindlessly swallow Ms. Wente's simple minded attack on non-vaxers or whatever condescending name she prescribed to them, we may not be too far behind Egypt in the grand scheme of things. Money talks sweeties, and Big Pharma didn't get the name Big Pharma because the CEO's wear red plaid lumberjack shirts and stand over 6'3". <br />
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This is my concession; so called Big Pharma does support non-profit work in healthcare, and profit itself is not a dirty word. But greed is.<br />
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Money whispers in the ear of our family physicians, our insurance companies, our government policy makers, and even in <em>my</em> ear. I do not profess expertise in vaccine science or autoimmune health issues (I bet there a heck of a lot of studies that link increased autoimmune deficiencies with environmental factors), but it would be truly ignorant to think that we, the general public can see any more than through a tiny crack in the theatre curtain of what is really going on politically. Check out movies like Wag the Dog or Charlie Wilson's War if you need to get a feel for what I'm talking about. <br />
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Don't get me wrong. I'm thankful for the likes of antibiotics, ibuprofen and the pill. I'm also a big fan of that inner voice we are all blessed with as human beings. That voice, or, I guess you could call it <em>intuition</em> like Ms. Wente does. You know, it's that little thing called a conscience (yah, yah, I get the little lingquistic irony there, just like pen is envy that we all learn in English 101) that tells us what is fundamentally right or wrong in any given situation. McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9075720.post-120803010760718132011-01-30T12:58:00.002-05:002011-01-30T13:10:13.986-05:00Winterlicious and Ladies Who Lunch<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC7L8JCf2twrx0IJZTgw_haBu7f5o5Fx9LEXJ9p3b0Nfqz_jOosS4gmin8uhHWnzWC-W8vnlq76xLTihJVEwGM6Tp-Z20NfLlV015EBx_bGE_frVtbwulFLijL1D4iRhCc6K8-HA/s1600/1Winterlicious.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC7L8JCf2twrx0IJZTgw_haBu7f5o5Fx9LEXJ9p3b0Nfqz_jOosS4gmin8uhHWnzWC-W8vnlq76xLTihJVEwGM6Tp-Z20NfLlV015EBx_bGE_frVtbwulFLijL1D4iRhCc6K8-HA/s1600/1Winterlicious.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Food is not about impressing people. <br />
It's about making them feel comfortable."<br />
~Ina Garten~</td></tr>
</tbody></table>During Winterlicious, Toronto restaurants roll out their red carpets to battle-worn-post-December-holiday-surviving-troops and offer up some interesting menus at fabulous prices. It's a great way to bolster business, and give the general public an opportunity to savour fare that perhaps they would never otherwise be inspired to taste. <br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Each year I try to rally the troops for a Winterlicious outing, despite the bitter, dreary, grey cold of January. We are still fabulous despite the ice and snow and slush are we not?! In years past, there have been as few as three, and as many as 15 of us for what has become our traditional "Ladies Lunch". There were six of us for lunch this year; Claire (the young newlywed), Darleen (the new lady), Tish (mother of the bride), Myself (event coordinator), Candy (phellow phan) and Cura (baseball mom extraordinaire). </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This year our destination was <a href="http://www.toularestaurant.com/">Toula</a>, a restaurant with a fabulous view from the 38th floor of the Westin Harbour Castle Hotel, just at the foot of Yonge Street. When I first stepped into the "lobby" of Toula, I instantly thought that there couldn't be a bad seat in the entire place. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">As we took our seats at the table, I chose the one with my back facing the window so that my friends could all enjoy the view. As it turns out, I think I had one of the best views because I had a clear view of the beautifully snow covered Toronto Island. With just a slight turn of my head, I could see the ice broken up on the lake, and the airplanes taking off from the island airport. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Unfortunately, the "new" lady, recently imported from Vancouver had a north-westish view of a tall condo that was still under construction. Methinks the view of the tarps and industrial cranes did not contribute to the ambiance. I can only imagine that the view of city lights at night would far outweigh any food disappointments. I'm now fantasizing about an evening dinner, looking out over the water reflecting the lights of our city.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I talk too much. It is my great desire to help people get to know one another. I love connecting people who otherwise would not meet but would be great friends, mentors and networking gurus. I love seeing people enjoying the company of others.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Winterlicious has never bowled me over with the food itself. I've gone to places such as the Rosewater Supper Club, Lolita's Lust, and Bodega. None of them have charmed me based on their culinary flare alone, it is the atmosphere and the company I keep during the meal that creates a lasting impression. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Had I been at Toula to strictly concentrate on the food, I would say that I would have been disappointed. The salad was well presented, but the gorgonzola dressing lacked umph. It's gorgonzola for goodness sakes - go for the gusto! The two walnut halves and small piece of cheese on the salad fell short. If veal medallions are on the menu, it's a sure bet I won't be considering anything else. The medallions that I was served were more like mother-of-veal-chunks. Veal should not come in "chunks". That's just my opinion. The best part of my entree was the polenta. How can you <em>really </em>go wrong with that? The asparagus was also lovely. My strudel was cold, but heck - it was strudel nonetheless. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Even though I was underwhelmed by the food, I was impressed with the company of the women who shared my table. Despite what I can't decide was either very careless service or very European service and mediocre food, I was very happy to be sharing this January afternoon with such wonderful people. Some new friends, some long-time friends, but friends regardless. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I had a chance to catch up with Tish and take a peek at Claire's wedding photos. Finally. What a beautiful mother and daughter team! After five years of parrotheading, this was the first time that I really had a chance to get to know Candy. Cura, my comrade-in-the-stands-sunflower-seed-sharing-baseball-mom, joined us for her first Winterlicious Ladies Lunch. It was nice to get to know her a little bit better too. Darleen, what can I say? I remember how challenging it is to just pack up and move and re-establish yourself with new friends and cities. I'm so glad that she came out and that we had a chance to meet her. I hope that there were some great, supportive connections made around our lunch table.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Winterlicious may or may not help you find a great new favourite spot to eat. I've heard compliments and criticisms; it's a great way to try new places and food, the patrons don't tip well and the service is bad because of it. There are benefits and drawbacks to everything.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Yes, the service might not be great. No, the patrons may not tip well because of the tempting lower priced menu. BUT, we're fortunate enough to live in a city where the food industry has been savvy and generous enough to host an event like this. AND we're fortunate enough to live in a city where customers support the food industry. So, why not call a bit of a truce? Enjoy the new menus, take a few food risks, and, at the same time, enjoy the company of good friends. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's January after all folks. We're in the dead of winter. Take refuge in the port of good food, wine and company. Bon appetite!</div>McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9075720.post-74687541438675251122011-01-29T23:35:00.006-05:002011-02-10T20:44:00.155-05:00McDishy's Version <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgraHOrajYG2HJRKzyLVsKv_dvtNxG4ZsyOxpXZYRekr78eO2jdr1_YGqygWd0XZWHvJ0hgBxjobnKsQ0zVyqFx9-yG-Ap6gFvmC8b17EGUUmxCHNi96HRxqAc7zAvyMnBDnxLeNw/s1600/Barney%2527s+Version.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgraHOrajYG2HJRKzyLVsKv_dvtNxG4ZsyOxpXZYRekr78eO2jdr1_YGqygWd0XZWHvJ0hgBxjobnKsQ0zVyqFx9-yG-Ap6gFvmC8b17EGUUmxCHNi96HRxqAc7zAvyMnBDnxLeNw/s1600/Barney%2527s+Version.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I'm an impulsive man, </span><span style="font-size: small;">one who believes in making his own mistakes</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">rather than regretting things not done..."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">~Barney's Version by Mordecai Richler~</span><br />
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Today the sun was shining and the birds sang. Metaphorically that is. Well, I'm sure the sun <em>really</em> came out and the birds <em>really</em> sang <em>somewhere</em>. But today that was how I felt inside. <br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">After a very, <em>very</em>, <em>v-e-r-y</em> long week, all I wanted to do today was curl up in a ball and hide under the covers. But, at the crack of 9:15am I hauled my flannel clad self to the kitchen and made a cup of tea. I perused my <strike>fan mail</strike> email, checked my phone, and continued dillying around for another couple of hours. I love non-rushed dilly time. There's far too little of it in our society at present. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">After singing my lungs out in the shower to a variety of hippity-dippity fun 60's mix songs and double washing my flowing locks, I wandered around the house for awhile in my underwear and socks. Lunch with the girls (all fabulous by the way), followed by a movie - that was the plan for the day. Simple enough.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I connected with my movie-mate, and via the interweb, we decided on a theatre and a time. Perfect. By the way, have I mentioned that this week I've started to lose my mind in larger than normal bits? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Off I zoomed to meet my gal pals. My movie mate was kind enough to speak to whomever one needs to speak to regarding free parking (Sergio, in fact is whomever you need to speak to) and I had a short, crisp walk to the restaurant along the lake at the bottom of Yonge Street.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">As I was walking through the parking lot, I almost walked into a cute little red car. What better way to end up with broken limbs and further brain damage than to walk into a cute little red car? I heard someone call my name. My Phellow Parrothead Bob stopped to say hello (he was dropping off his phabulous wife Candy to our ladies luncheon). It was nice to be stopped by a friend in the city. This, after a decade, has truly become home, I thought as I finished my chilly walk up the stairs and into the warm lobby. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">As the group of us talked, over an almost three hour long lunch, we learned about one another. We "networked" regarding careers and resume writing. We discussed health, spirits, husbands, mothers, memories and by doing so set about weaving together the threads of our friendships.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">After our lunch, I zoomed back across the city to meet my friend for our movie. He got the seats at the restaurant and I went to the box office to purchase our tickets. We have a pattern you see - movie tickets first, which leaves time for a chat over a drink before we head in to get prime seating. Not a bad plan. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now, I know that I'm a bit flighty sometimes. Despite my very serious and organized outsides, I'm a veritable tangle of anxiety lately on my insides. As the great pharmaceutical companies try to sort <em>that</em> out with help from Beringer and Sterling, my little mass of grey matter is wiggling around like murky jello trying to cling to some sort of sanity. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Surprise, surprise. I read the movie listings wrong. I like to think that they were listed incorrectly, however, I can't swing completely into insanity by blaming it on poor transcription. Or can I???</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The movie that was showing during the time slot that <em>I</em> wanted wasn't the one that my friend and I had agreed upon. Oh well. "Two for Barney's Version", I said, thinking that I would likely be coming back to see the flick solo. Actually, I was thinking, "Shit. Shit. Shit." Oh well. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">After having read the book, I expected to be not only disappointed in the movie adaptation, but <em>very</em> disappointed in the movie adaptation. A colleague of mine who has outstanding taste in art, literature and film said that she didn't care for the movie, and I based my decision to <em>not</em> go and see it on her critique. I'd just watch it at home. No sweat. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">My movie mate, who has the same twisted taste in literature as I do when it comes to humour, was going to be disappointed, or so I assumed. I had gone on and on about how much I liked the book, and that I thought seeing the movie <strike>might</strike> would be a let down. I had convinced him to read the book first. I was a big, fat, novel-reading hypocrite with two tickets to see Barney's Version in my pocket when I wandered into the restaurant. "I have a surprise for you, " I said, as I sat down grinning what I was hoping to be a cute yet convincing smile. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The movie was outstanding. Paul Giamatti is my new Hollywood boyfriend. I'm sorry Colin Firth, you tall, handsome, sexy, pensive pot of British man-pie, you've been bumped. Although the movie did not capture the entirety of the book, it did capture the essence of Barney, his father, and the emotion that transcends language in our relationships. That, <em>or</em> I shouldn't have had the vodka slushy drink before the show. No, it definitely wasn't the drink. This was a <em>fabulous</em> movie.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">You see, if the director/producer/writer/<em>whomever </em>had made the mistake of trying to capture everything in the book, it would have flopped. If you've ever read <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Snow-Falling-Cedars-David-Guterson/dp/067976402X">Snow Falling on Cedars</a> by David Guterson, and then watched the movie, you know what I'm talking about. There is often a discrepancy between the emotion of the written word and what is captured in moving images. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">In this case, the layers that propped up Barney's life were stripped away in the making of the movie, and the show concentrated on his human nature. Third child, hilarious forged letters, and cutting wit be damned - this movie was great. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Even if you see the movie, I would still recommend reading the book. Described in one review as having, "...an embarrassment of riches...", <a href="http://www.amazon.ca/Barneys-Version-Mordecai-Richler/dp/0676971741">Barney's Version</a> is a truly great work of literary art.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Driving home, I flicked on the oldies station. Barry White's, "My First, My Last, My Everything", came on. I was taken back to my days with the coroner. Being the facetious woman that I am, I would turn the volume up and do a quick little dance around my cubicle. Barry White's uber-sexy voice would drape across the office like leopard print satin sheets;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"We got it together didn't we?We <em>definitely</em> got our thing together don't we baby? Isn't that nice? I mean <em>really</em>, when you <em>really</em> sit and think about it. Isn't it really, <em>really</em> nice? I could easily feel myself slipping more and more away to that simple world of my own. Nobody but you and me.We got it together baby."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Just thinking of that, with me being a goof, and my mentor laughing her pants off at her desk, and the coroner shaking his head, well, we really <em>do</em> have it together. As together as it gets at any given moment in time I suppose. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The irony of <em>that</em> song playing in <em>that</em> atmosphere is one of those things that's hard to give voice to. Language doesn't quite capture the absurdity of thinking that any of us ever have it together especially as the contrast between the buttery voice and lyrics filled the spaces in that office between suspicious and untimely deaths that were neatly recorded on paper and stacked chronologically. A very nice way to create the illusion that we have it all under control.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Each of us have our stories happy and sad, funny and heart breaking. All of those stories are bundled up somewhere in that lost land that is being disputed by the pharmaceuticals, the drinks, the girl talks,solitary drives and the constant re-scrambling of how we define who we are. The stories that get tucked away somewhere in between 9-5, the groceries, flossing, getting to lessons and practice and church on time.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Barney is the balance of light and dark in all of us. This movie will prompt you to remember all of the friends you ever had who made you laugh and cry, who held your head up, kicked you while you were down, and all of the stuff in between. Barney's Version will make you thankful for what you have, for what you've lost, and for what we all remain hopeful for</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">What is<em> it</em> that we all hope for?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">You know what<em> it</em> is. As Barry White would say in that sexy baritone voice of his, "<em>You're my reality, yet I'm lost in a dream. You're the first, my last, my everything</em>."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Mazal tov.</div>McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9075720.post-60282729149757070912011-01-27T19:45:00.001-05:002011-01-27T19:45:49.237-05:00Heavenly ThursdaySome days are easier than others. Some days it's much more clear to see what's supposed to be happening, and other days, you are left to wander in the vast mystery that <em>is</em> this human life. <br />
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Today was one of those "other" days. My cousin Mark, knowing how much I enjoyed last weekend's performance by Patty Griffin ( as a member of Robert Plant's Band of Joy) passed along this link of beautiful photos set to Patty Griffin's Heavenly Day. <br />
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It was so inspiring I just had to share....just in time for Friday.....<br />
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Enjoy!<br />
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<strong><u><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Heavenly Day</span></u></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">by: Patty Griffen</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Oh Heavenly day</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">All the clouds blew away</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Got no trouble today</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">With anyone</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The smile on your face</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I live only to see</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">It's enough for me baby</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">It's enough for me</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Oh heavenly day</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Heavenly day</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Heavenly day</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Tomorrow may rain with sorrow</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Here's a little time we can borrow</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Forget all our troubles in these moments so few</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Oh we can right now the only thing that all that we really have to do</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Is have ourselves a heavenly day</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Lay here and watch the trees sway</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Oh can't see no other way</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">No way</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">No way</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Heavenly day heavenly day heavenly day</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">No one on my shoulder</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Bringing me fears</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Got no clouds up above me</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Bringing me tears</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Got nothing to tell you</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I got nothing much to say</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Only I'm glad to be here with you</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">On this heavenly heavenly heavenly heavenly heavenly day</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Oh all the troubles gone away</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Oh for awhile anyway</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">For awhile anyway</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Heavenly day</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Heavenly day</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Heavenly day</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Heavenly day</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Heavenly day</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Oh heavenly day</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>McDishyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08745539109502252361noreply@blogger.com1