The Esquire Show Bar

Does anyone remember the Esquire Show Bar? Located in Montreal, it was the hot spot for black acts in the 40'2, 50'2 and 60's. Every famous black act played there -- everyone from Little Richard to Chubby Checker to Martha and the Vandelas to........you name it. In deference to Brian's misspent youth in the smoky Montreal nightclubs, we went to the Esquire Show Bar Revue at the Casino Lac Leamy last Saturday night. Man, it was spectacular! Four men decked out in shiny silver suits and three women in flashy outfits and high heels singing and dancing their way through every rhythm and blues tune you ever heard. They went through...

Sweet Soul Music, Shotgun, Under the Boardwalk, Its your Thing, Nowhere to Run, Aint That a Shame, Lucille, Long Tall Sally, Unchain my Heart, Mustang Sally, I Feel Good, The Thrill is Gone, Proud Mary, Think, If you don't know me by now, Chain of Fools, Hold on I'm Coming, Lonely Teardrops, Nowhere to Run, Midnight Hour, Stand by me...........and a ton more. Are you singing yet! I know you are.

It took me back to my high school days and so many high school dances and budding young love moments flashed through my mind. They were so professional, but the guy who stole the show was the father of the lead singer. Out he pranced in the second half in his glistening tuxedo and patent leather shoes and he treated us to a performance that was astounding. He must have been in his seventies, but as he danced, sang and joked through his numbers he proved that this old man had lost none of his touch. The crowd went wild! No wonder they kept him backstage during the first half. His poor son took a back seat the rest of the evening as pops owned the stage and had the entire audience eating out of his hand.

Language

Just a couple of quick observations. Ever noticed how people mis-use the English language? Just heard a woman saying........."supposebly"...........another talked about..."fertography".........some one else used the word........."heith"..........."irregardless".....goes without saying.............it does go on and on.

Business usual in Haiti

We made the conscious decision not to send a penny to Haiti after the earthquake. The country was a failed state before the hurricane and if you thought the rulers of that country were going to pass on all the aid money to the victims, you're crazy. And now they have just had the usual illegal elections, with stuffed ballot boxes, people denied the right to vote, others voting many times and entire polling stations burned to the ground. The riots going on now are being blamed on people upset that democracy has been trampled upon. Come on, do you think starving people are worrying about the rule of law and lawful election practices!!?? No, they're looting to get food and aid that has been denied them. Oh yes, and then there is the cholera epidemic. It's sad to watch property just re-built being trashed and destroyed. Yes folks, these are your aid dollars at work.

Did you know that in the 18th century, Haiti was the richest country per capita in the entire world?

Spoiled brats and eating disorders

I guess I have always bought the theory that girls with eating disorders are afflicted with something beyond their control. The scales fell from my eyes when I watched a lenghty documentary about the affliction last week. The program followed a group of girls in a treatment program for several months and it revealed a bunch of spoiled brats who took delight in breaking all the rules, forming evil cliques, laughing at the staff behind their backs and generally defying every effort to help them. What really threw me was the naivite of the well-meaning staff, who didn't seem to realize that these girls were having them on at every turn. There were tearful scenes in group therapy where girls cried and passed around the "support" baton, taking turns saying how badly they wanted to get better. Mostly these were big lies. Once the sessions ended, many of them laughed at the sincere efforts staff were making to help them.

Of course, it didn't help that the professional staff and custodians were all fat slobs! How could these girls relate to fatties -- regardless of how many degrees they had? And how could they relate to the head honcho, a fat male psychiatrist?! There is no way a girl who thinks being morbidly skeletal is the height of beauty and control can think a fat woman, who never passed a donut she didn't ravish, could help or even remotely understand the obsession. I began to ponder how different this "treatment" approach was from AA, for example, where all the staff are recovering alcoholics and buy none of the BS the patients serve up. In that scenario, they've been there, done. In this group home it was "us" -- the superior, perfect thin people -- versus "them" the inferior, fat losers. There is no way that will work. These girls needed their butts kicked by recovering eating disordered women, but instead they got hugs and break after break when they were caught throwing out food, smoking, lying and purging. The scenes of the girls finishing a meal and then going to their rooms to purge were sickening.

Here they were, being molly-coddled in a luxury resort setting paid for by either their long-suffering and weeping parents or by insurance coverage and none of them wanted to be there. When a few got kicked out, after repeated warnings and tearful "support" sessions, it seemed to them a badge of courage and supreme superiority -- "I was so thin-obsessed I escaped and you have to stay here because you aren't as clever as I." It was the tearful parents I felt sorry for, as they begged the staff to keep their daughter there. Cameras followed the girls who left. Two went out for a dinner of nachos and junk and then we watched them back in their homes head straight for the toilet to..........well, you know.

I have a little inkling about that mentality because I used to be rail thin and obsessed with avoiding food. I used to enjoy feeling superior when I walked into a room and was the thinest person there. I don't think I was anorexic and I certainly was not bulimic, but I did everything I could to stay thin. I was jerked out of this one day by my daughter who as a toddler stood beside me, holding my hand as I looked in the mirror and said, "You know Mummy, you're like those people who look in the mirror and think they're too fat, but they're really, really skinny." She must have been no more than five at the time and I realized that she was trying to support me. Then and there I decided to dump the obsession. That was about 25 years ago and the pounds have crept on, but I don't care. As long as I am healthy and exercise, I don't care about the weight. Now I am actually afraid of dieting, having known so many people who have shed a lot of weight and then put it all back on and then some. The body knows when you are trying to starve it and it won't have it.

Blood and Passion

Rented the movie 'Blood and Passion'. It covered the life of a famous Spanish bullfighter on the 1940's called "Manolete". It's a pretty good movie about the bullfighting culture and its heros and horrors. But try as Imight, I could not get my head around the barbarity of the ritual. The bulls are literally tortured to death and the crowd loves it. But I guess all cultures love to see death -- witness car racing, horse racing, rodeos, dog fighting, cock fighting, boxing, hockey, mixed martial arts....I could go on and on. We just love to see people and animals being tortured or killed.

Watching an episode of 'The Tudors' last evening right after the movie reminded me that we were torturing and killing people back then with reckless abandon, all in the name of a maniacal King Henry VIIIth. In blood sport today, I don't mind the people part because they choose to do it. But the innocent animals I can't handle. But please don't ever ask me to conjure up images of abatoirs! I will continue to insist on a total disconnect between the meat I eat and the manner in which it is served to me. I dabble in vegetarianism via many meals -- and even contemplate the lifestyle now and then -- but I always chicken out (excuse that hideous pun) because I just love meat.

Underneath the fragile and thin veneer of civilization by means of which we co-exist lie barbarism and cruelty. It does not take much to release them.

Confusing!

Went to a reception recently and began to chat with a young man I had met on a couple of occasions. As I addressed him by his name, his mother interrupted and said, "Oh no, now he's Molly, he's becoming a woman." And sure enough, he was growing his hair out and wore women's clothes and had makeup over his beard and wore jewellry. Weird. He is their only child and good for them to be supportive. I silently thanked God that none of my children were doing this because I know I could not handle it as well as that mother was. Unfortunately, the father was scowling, so not all perfect in that household.

Don't forget to watch 'Battle of the Blades' tonight, CBC 8 p.m. Speaking of tv, why is it that Canadian rip-offs of British shows just don't match up? Now they have a local version of 'Come Dine With Me' that tries to ape the British version, but it is not as good. It's on at the same time as the British one used to air, so I can't watch the real thing anymore. Just tacky and not funny.

The joys of cortisone

Went this afternoon for my second shot of cortisone in a hip. For five or six years I have been suffering mightily with hip pain. Assuming it was arthritis, I tried to ignore it . Who wants the hassle of a hip replacement, unless it's to get smaller ones installed! Finally I could live with the pain no longer. Off I went for an X-ray and low and behold, I have neither arthirtis not osteoporosis. I have bursitis. This is a very painful ailment, but at least it's semi-fixable. A month ago I went for a cortisone shot in the worst hip and miraculously it subsided. Today I had the other hip shot up and guess what, it's so much better. To think that I suffered for so long with something two shots fixed.

Wandering through the General Hospital today was so depressing. Sick people everywhere. The ones who really slew me were those outside the cancer clinic in wheelchairs -- smoking. Sad, sad, sad. The whole place is a village of confused people. No one knows where to go; when they get there they have the wrong card and have to go somewhere else in another wing to get a new one; they have the wrong date for their appointment; they can't speak English...bewilderment abounds. The doctors, nurses and other staff wink and nod to each other as they walk the halls -- the only people in-the-know in the entire place. The rest of us are aliens and pretty much a huge bother to them.

The biggest movie going there is to be found at the parking machines. You better pay your multi-million dollar parking ticket before you head back to the garage because there is no staff out there to take your money. And just try to figure out how to pay your ticket in those rube-goldberg machines! I don't care how many university degrees you have, it can't be done! Having figured it out, I had to coach a bunch of mystified victims through the process. And when I got to the checkout, I had to back up to let a couple of cars back out because...........they hadn't figured out the parking payment machines in advance and their tickets would not let them leave. It was like the twilight zone --no one can escape. Yes folks, the hospitals are definitely designed for the staff -- not for the great unwashed.

More high heels in the jungle

Watched a 1953 movie, 'Mogambo,' last night. There was Ava Gardner, prancing around the jungle on safari in high heels! And not just high heels, beautiful outfits and masses of jewellry. She was joined in the plot shortly by Grace Kelly, who arrived on a barge in high style dressed in silks and satins. Both began fighting for the affections of Mr. Testosterone, Clark Gable -- big game hunter and macho male. The scene of all of them at dinner in a luxuriously adorned tent, complete with candleabra and the finest china was beyond it. Both Ava and Grace were fabulously decked out in elaborate evening gowns and the men were in black tie. It was hilarious! The movie consisted of Gable alternately bullying and passionately kissing both ladies -- the latter decidely without permission. These were the days when women really "wanted it", but pretended they didn't.

I googled Ava and learned she had been 31 years old when the picture was made; Grace had been 24. To think that I have a daughter 31 was mind-boggling. Both these women seemed so worldly, wise and experienced. They had seen it all. When he wasn't ordering the women around and sexually attacking them, Clark was capturing and tortuing animals. It was so cruel, but they all thought this the height of amusement. Man, the world has changed. Women and animals aren't the prey they used to be -- or are they? Think Russell Williams and the average zoo and you realize we haven't moved at all.

Marvin Gaye and Chinatown

I am listening to Marvin Gaye, 'Heard it Through the Grapevine' --what a great tune. The rest of the CD will be as distracting. Just to report that a movie I watched last evening prompted me to visit Chinatown today. There was a Chinese woman in the film who wore silk jackets. Ladies, head right to your local Chinatown, if you want to find a great deal. Parked the car in a very seedy part of the district and went into a tacky, grubby store filled with....well, everything...china, lamps, junk, junk and more junk. But hanging in a jumble on a rack were about 25 beautiful silk jackets. They were ABSOLUTELY stunning. Two men came rushing up and I started trying them on. The changing room consisted of..........the two men holding my coat while I stood inside the front door looking into a hand-held mirror. Bottom line: I bought a hand-made, silk-on-silk, beautifully-lined and hand-embroidered evening jacket for $39. Beat that. And that's $39 Canadian. I felt almost guilty as I left with my gem.

Every city and town in Canada has a Chinatown. Think laterally. Treasures are to be found there and this Christmas I will be building my wardrobe around this jacket. Back to 'Let's Get it on' with Marvin.

Who are they kidding!!?

Just watching another train wreck of a reality show, 'Sister Wives'. This spoiled chump of a guy has three wives and is about to marry a fourth. The psychological drama of it all explains why we don't have polygamy in this country -- and not in most others. It simply doesn't work. All the wives are all miserable, while pretending to be so supportive of each other. The one in total control is the passive aggressive first wife, Meri (yeah, I know, her parents spelt her name wrong). As the depraved history of these marriages unfolds, it becomes clear that whenever the husband gets too involved with the latest wife, Queen Meri decides it's time for another. Guess what, the other wives don't like it and they say so. But Cody, the drooling, infantile husband, just loves it! For a while after each marriage, they all settle into the new arrangement. But when Meri feels control slipping away, she decides it's time to take another wife. So, she goes out and picks one she can control.....for a while. Number four won't be the last, count on it.

This episode features Cody's courtship of wife number four, Robyn. And they all get into the act! Helping out, babysitting her kids so they can go out on dates........he even takes his two eldest daughters along on one weekend sleepover so they can look after her kids while they...um...er... ahem........get it on. It is just so sick. The crowning touch is the wedding, when all the wives and kids get gussied up, go to the hairdresser, get their nails done, put on new outfits and off they go. And while controller Meri is dressing loverboy for his "nuptials" he starts coming on to her and they start necking! It can't be true. But it gets worse. Out to dinner to celebrate her 20th anniversary with chumly, Meri breaks down and tearfully asks our hero how he would feel if she took a lover or another husband or two, or three. Indignantly he admonishes her that it....."would be obscene and grotesque and that he can't even think about it." Well, there ya go!

This chump has produced 16 kids and takes responsibility for none. As he arrives for an overnighter with one of them, he greets her with, "Hi, how's it goin'?" Can you imagine your husband coming up to you and asking that, as if he were talking to a buddy in the locker room?! The sad part is watching the wives pretend this is a great arrangement, while they all blubber into the camera. They claim it is because they are fundamentalist Mormon, but not once does anyone mention that this is all done because God decrees it. Not once is a higher power mentioned. Not once is this exploitation explained through scripture. This is just a North American version of an islamic practice. Please help us.

The protocol of the fast lane

Last night I went to my first evening swim at the local pool. Only recognized two people from three years ago; neither had changed. This time there were two fast lanes: a fast fast lane and a slow fast lane. Should I chance it? Decided not to because there were a lot a young folks there booting it -- or should I say booting it and then resting for five minutes. Soon both "fast" lanes filled up to the saturation point, so I remained in the medium lane. But there is a protocol that most people ignore -- there was even one slow poke with a flutter board in the fast fast lane! Please! I am surprised no one grabbed it and clobbered her with it.

Yes, I have been very spoiled with my own pool at the condo. And don't even get me started on the changing room! What a horror. Trying to do the dance of the devil getting shoes on without feet touching the floor was a real treat! But I will hang in there 'cause I am sure there will be lots of blog material to be had from the experience.

Sitting here in the Museum office today, very slow in spite of the fact that Remembrance Day is approaching. Office politics abound here too. One woman has officially complained about my perfume causing anaphylactic(sp?) shock. She has threatened to resign unless I stop wearing my Oscar de la Renta cologne. Please! again. I have been wearing the same cologne for 40 years and have not had a complaint. And this from a woman who smokes and breezes in trailing tobacco smell all around her! So, I have agreed not to wear it when she is in. Obviously, there is more going on here than cologne. I asked her if she had a problem with men's cologne and aftershave. "No, just your perfume." And my personality and everything else about me, I am sure.

Life in the fast lane

It's been three-and-a-half years since I swam at the local public pool. Having been spoiled by having our own here in the condo, I had to re-join the masses this morning; ours is closed for a month while they paint it. Arriving, I presented myself at the desk and waited while the clerk looked me up. Yep, there I was, so she re-issued my card with my old photo. Man, talk about a shock! Back then I had many fewer grey hairs and many fewer facial lines. Depressing indeed to see what gravity has wrought in just a few years. Then it was into the dressing room, where I took a few moments to recover from the sight of so many middled-aged and elderly, naked women all trying desperately to ignore each other's hideous hides. Brought back a gruesome memory of several years ago, when I bumped into one of the kids' grade six teachers in the locker room and she wanted to have a lengthy chinwag -- all while stark naked! What a surreal moment -- chatting professionally with an exposed and unprotected Mrs. ........... and trying to pretend we were both fully-clothed.

Once in the pool I had to decide which lane to choose. When I started back swimming about eight or nine years ago, I barely made it one length in the leisure lane before collapsing in a lung-less heap, gasping for air. But as my heart-lung capacity improved, I graduated to the medium lane and pretty much stayed there until we moved to the condo. Today, much to my delight, I realized I now fitted right into the continuous fast lane! What a thrill! Now, I would never try this in the evening, when all the young crowd are pounding mercilessly up and down after work. But in the middle-aged cohort, I am now the fastest one in the pool! At least today I was. I haven't felt that rush for a thousand years and it felt wonderful. I actually had to push myself because one middle-aged guy was convinced there was no way I could possibly be faster than he. But he was thwarted as I pushed the "pace", so to speak, and kept the lead.

So, I did my 50 lengths and emerged 38 minutes later with quite a buzz on! Score one for the middle-aged broads!

Really, really bad movie

Must be nothing much to rent these days b/c B brought home 'Sex and the City 2'. What a really, really, really bad movie. Even the shoes could not save it. Here are four skeletal, middle-aged anorexics schlepping their way through Abu Dabbi (sp?). These women are hideous. With portrayals of silly, obsessed women at this end of life and 'Tiaras and Toddlers' at the other, we have no hope of convincing young women to be strong and independent.

Just made the mistake of watching 'The View', which I assiduously never do. I think it may top that movie. Four screaming women ranting about nothing is what it is all about. You just want to cringe continuously. So, don't rent the movie, unless you want confirmation that celery is not a helpful meal hint at 45 years of age. And don't watch 'The View', unless you want confirmation that many women are basically hysterics.

Terror and table talk

Made the mistake of watching 'The Fifth Estate' last night. It was an hour of Russell William's confession and it was chilling. As the mother of a daughter who goes running (sometimes in the dark) I have always been fearful of what could happen to her. Even though she is married and safe, I cannot help but think that none of our daughters is safe. I know she will not like to read this, I don't like to write it, but evil and terror are with us. This was not a show I should have watched.

After my shift at the Museum today, went to lunch at the golf club and had a "monty python" experience, as I listened to elderly folks at the next table. "Hi George, may I join you?" "What?" "Are you alone?" "No, I'm not going home." "No, would you like company?" "Yes, I am very comfy." "What have you been up to?" "No, you don't need to tip-toe here, it's alright." "What's for lunch?" "You had a hunch?" "Is the special good?" "What?" "Are you enjoying your sandwich?" "No, I didn't have to use a sand wedge today." It was hilarious! It went on and on, yet both gentlemen communicated perfectly -- even if on different wavelengths entirely.

This is Britain

Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse.....it gets. Watched a Michael Caine movie this afternoon, entitled 'Harry Brown'. It made 'This is England' look like 'Mr. Roger's Neighbourhood' and 'Wife Swap' look like 'Romper Room'. Congratulations to the new Prime Minister for cutting what has enabled Britain to get into this state. This is a brilliant performance by Caine about council house life in England today -- resplendent in perfect and exquisite squalor and degradation. It is a film about a senior vigilante (Caine) and the 'Clockwork Orange' thugs who terrorize him. His best friend has been brutally murdered, after countless hazings and other unspeakable acts by aimless, murderous, shiftless, lawless, sociopathic, pathological and insane youths. Remember when we thought Stanley Kubrick's movie was ridiculous? How many years ago was Clockwork? Well, that movie has long arrived. These hideous people thrive and multiple in today's Britain. The Rule of Law is kaput; courtesy is "whaaaat..."; manners.........."huh??!!!"

Do yourself a favour and rent it. Rent it and weep.

Mixed Martial Arts

Well, here I am in Vancouver, blogging from my daughter and son-in-law's living room, watching Mixed Martial Arts. MMA should really be called "fight to kill". These crazy men battle each other mercilessly to the death, if it gets to that. As a mother, I find it hard to watch. Nothing is out of bounds, anything and everything goes, as they pound each other in the head, eyes, ears and every other part of the body. Watching the mat fill up with blood I find it hard to handle. Is there a point here, except to excite? And in that it succeeds.

Before we returned here, we had a delightful day driving up the Sea to Sky Highway to take a tour of the Britannia Mine, now closed since the '70s. A big thank you to the unions here.


Now I am back in my condo, after a great week out west. But a note of caution to anyone travelling to Vancouver. Is this the crime capital of Canada now? Three years ago I had my wallet stolen, with all my cards.......a huge hassle to replace everything. In two hours the thieves had racked up more that $2,000 worth of expenditures. This trip, I was contacted by mastercard after using my card once and they cancelled it on the spot. Then Brian had some unknown charges on his while we were on the government-run ferry! The crooks always seem to be ahead of the rest of us.

But seeing my daughter happy with her wonderful husband and adorable puppy was so gratifying -- even if puppy Pearl decided I was the target of the week and wanted to chew on all my jewellry and clothes. Colin and Susanne decided it was my "Cruella" look that attracted Pearl -- you know, long, flowing coats and lots of bling. Pearl was determined to either subdue me or win me over and she was relentless in her efforts. Colin helpfully sent me a cartoon depiction of Cruella, which I will now use for my blog photo, if I can ever figure out how to upload it (duh?).

I have decided that Vancouver is better off with my firefighter son-in-law in charge of a wee piece of it. He is so calm, cool and collected, so competent and polite -- not to mention devastatingly handsome and charming -- that all who come into contact with him on (and off) the job must feel immediately reassured. You just take one look at him and know all will be well when he takes charge.

Now back to my real life.

Beauty and The Beast

One of the best shows ever has started again this season: Battle of the Blades. Figure skaters are paired with NHL players and it is breathtaking. 'Beauty and The Beast' comes to mind. So do 'The Gentle Giant', 'The Frog and the Prince' and 'Cinderella'. Do yourselves a favour and watch CBC at 8 p.m. on Sunday and Monday nights. The gallantry of these brutes with their porcelein doll partners is magic. I blogged this last year, but it's even better this year.

I mentioned a photographic show we went to last weekend. It consisted of huge colour photos of women I didn't know going for $200-$300 apiece. Whaaaaaaaaaaa???? Why would I buy a photo of a woman I didn't know to hang in my home? I asked this of the photographer and he said it was for a good cause, breast cancer. OK, I get that. But still, why would I hang these women in my home? Did they have breast cancer? No, none of them did, he replied. So, duh, why would I fork over $300 to buy one?? I told him that only their mothers, kids or husbands would buy them. He admitted that I was not the only one who had asked that question.

Another show I have been enjoying is 'Come Dine with Me' -- a British show in which five strangers compete for $1,000 pounds for producing the best meal. Now this is a motley crew of misfits and ordinary folk. Rock stars they definitely are not, which makes the show facinating. Each participant prepares a three-course dinner and is then rated secretly in the taxi rides home by the others. The outfits some of them wear are beyond belief and as the evening wears on, they all get more and more tiddley until silliness reins. The narrator who provides the voice over is the best. He provides quips and retorts to each ridiculous remark the diners and hosts make. And talk about over-estimating their culinary skils! They all think they have won until the final dinner when the truth is revealed. The only problem with the show is that they run five half-hour segments back-to-back on Sunday afternoons, so I have to sit there for two-and-a-half hours to find out who wins and how they all react. But again, the show proves that the Brits are just head-and-shoulders above the rest of us when it comes to tv shows.

Except for Chuck Berry. Last night they re-played a 25-year-old show by the master that had originally aired back then on his 60th birthday. Peerless. He was so great -- and when he did his chicken walk, well forget about it. The fans went wild. This show had Keith Richards dressed in a matching backup suit playing backup guitar. Etta James, Linda Ronstadt and Julien Lennon were also on, but no one could touch the master.

The millions of other people don't want to work

We always think of people who don't want to work as "welfare bums" and the like. But I just figured out there are millions of others who don't want to work: artists, actors, musicians, extras...and the like. Think about it. Whenever you turn on the TV or go to a movie or a concert, there they are -- the tons of people who don't want to work. We see them in movies, on the stage, on TV, in specials..........there are bags of them. Anyone who wants to be an entertainer simply does not want to work. Now, think about it again. And for that, the rest of us reward them handsomely in the millions. The economics are that you and I slave for a paltry (or reasonable, middle-class) wage and give money in our spare time, in an effort to be distracted from our humdrum lives, to those who don't want to work. I am no economist, but I think the math works here.

Love the show 'Steven Seagal, Lawman'. Apparently Steve has been working as a deputy sheriff in Jefferson County, Louisiana, for the past 20 years as a cop. Now he has a reality show and it's fabulous. Here's Steve, now fat and lethargic like the rest of us, but still a hero to everyone. I love the guy. We see Steve in the car with his partner, sporting a bullet-proof vest (unlike in his movies, where he wards off bullets with a mere piercing glance), chasing bad guys. The riot is that when they catch the drug-dealer-murderer-rapist-burglar-drunk-druggie-dealer, the guy stops in mid-arrest and says, "Man, Steven Seagal! Are you really Steven Seagal?!?! I love you, man, you're my hero!" "Were you expecting someone else," says the coolest of the cool, Steve. And the guy rolls over and submits. It is fantastic!

The other show I love is 'Dog, The Bounty Hunter'. More about that later.

Let's also talk about the BBC show 'Come Dine With Me' -- in which five strangers prepare meals for each other in a competition to win $1,000 pounds. It's almost as good as 'Wife Swap' -- more about that later too.

I also have to talk about a photographic show I attended. Stupid. And the Commonwealth Games -- breathtaking.

What "you look great" really means

Went to my old hairdresser today. I have abandoned him because he charges waaaaaaaaaaaay too much for my short short-hair cut. I have been going to First Choice for an $11 special for the past three years. The only reason I can manage with the sh-t haircuts one gets there is that I keep it so short I can personally manage each and every stand with precision, spray, gel and dogged determination to camoflage a very bad haircut. Anyway, we are going to Vancouver and I wanted a proper cut. So, back to Dan I loped, hat in hand. (Why is it that we feel guilty about abandoning our hairdressers?) Anyway, I had told Dan a few years ago I was going to go for the $11 deal because I swim every day and need a 'no-hair' hair cut. He was very sweet and agreed totally -- in spite of the fact that I had been going to him for 20 years. Yes, he knows every secret of my life, yes he has seen me very thin, yes he has seen me fat, yes he has seen me working, yes he has seen me retired, yes he has seen me dealing with my children and step-children, yes he has seen me coping with all my bosses.............and yes he has tried to duplicate every stupid hairdo I have presented him with -- including pictures of 20-year-olds I thought I could look like. Ha! The guy is a saint.

Today I arrived and he greeted me with a huge hug and the news that it had been exactly one year to the day since I had been to see him! Yes, I remember, I wanted a proper hair cut last Thanksgiving before we visited Susanne in Vancouver. Here's the deal: when I walked in, he rushed over and gushed! "You look great!" But what that really means is..."For an old bag it's great to see that you have actually put on makeup and dressed up a little. And you have even tried to harmonize your outfit, earrings, shoes, etc..........never mind that you're fat, you're still hanging in there!" That's what "You look great" really means. You don't really look great. You look "great" in comparison to the many women who stay in their pyjamas all day.

Something to ponder. (By the way, I love my hair cut; he is a genius.)

High heels and the GG's spouse

I was delighted to observe that David Johnson's wife sports high heels. Our new GG's spouse is a doctor in her own right and assertively attended every event in gorgeous high heels. Very impressive -- a gal after my own heart. When he was officially sworn in in the Upper Chamber, he embraced his wife and they actually kissed on the lips. Only Kathleen Petty, duh-CBC-hostess-with-the-leastest, had the poor taste to announce........"Well, what a kiss! I guess we can see why they have five children! Ha, Ha, Ha!" Quelle Bete. Thankfully, her male colleagues ignored this unfortunate and well...... pretty much stupid.... slip into the abyss of.....whatever?@!#?!?! At that moment, instead of admiring the sight of our new Governor General and his wife -- and conjuring up all their collective brilliant accomplishments as they entered Rideau Hall as Vice-Regent and Consort -- all I could picture was the two of them creating the 45 months of pregnancy required to birth five daughters. The obtuse Ms. Petty had effectively reduced an august occasion to a tawdry circus of anyone-can-do-that...and added a "ha-ha-ha" to further diminish the serious affair. The whole mess jarred. Annother media "genius" asked the GG if he wasn't disappointed he had had no sons, after five daughters. Duh, duh and duh again!^#!! Wisely, Mr. Johnson said, "Obviously, you have not met my daughters." Well said. See, what have I been trying to tell you people! We have not come far by any stretch as women.

More from the Deaconate

Talking about the sainted Dr. Keon and his mishap reminded me of a dinner we went to a few years ago. We were seated at a table with two Catholic deacons and their wives. Both men were dressed in elaborate robes and had large, bejewelled crosses around thier throats; their wives were door-mice. Well, as we were all sipping wine -- or was it gulping -- I mentioned that I had given a wino money that afternoon. "Excuse me, m'am, but do you have .23 cents?" he slurred. "Why .23 cents?" I asked him. "That's all I need for a bottle," he replied. I was so bowled over I gave him the money. He wasn't being greedy and I always give money to beggars -- be they drunks or whackos. I told this story to my pious dinner companions and between generous swigs of the grape they denounced public drunks and stated that they never...glug...glug...gave money...glug, glug...to bums...glug, glug...for booze. "Oh I will certainly take them out for a meal, but if you give them money, they just spend it on booze," admonished one of the virtuous, draining his goblet.

That prompted me to explain why I always give money to beggars -- you know, there but for the grace of god..............etc. And who am I to judge what they need it for? But I then added, "You know, shocking and unbelieveable as it may seem, I have actually been drunk myself -- maybe even more than once. The only difference is most of us learn pretty quickly when to put the cork in the bottle. These unfortunates don't." They stared at me mute and turned the colour of their robes. Both wives sniggered. And that was the end of their righteous denunciation of street drunks.

Prostitutes and Pillars of the Community

A few years back, a renowned Ottawa heart surgeon, Dr. Wilbur Keon, was picked up for soliciting a prostitute. Unfortunately for him, it was an undercover policewoman. Well, Dr. Keon was a sainted member of the community and his sanctimonious mug was everywhere. No charity event was too small for him up at which to show, no fund-raiser ever turned down. Yessiree, Dr. Wilbur Keon was a godly man 'round the Ottawa Valley. He and his family attended our parish church and the bowing and scraping that went on when he graced the pews was beyond the beyond. Too lofty for the lowly Knights of Columbus, Dr. Keon was a revered officer in the Knights of Malta and he was to be found at every fellow knight's funeral bejewelled and be-costumed as befitted a king.

The reason his follies were uncovered and hit the morning press was because every "john" is required to attend "john school" when they are caught hiring prostitutes. So, an attentive reporter attended and there he was, smack dab in the middle of the class! Being lectured by a host of experts about the evils of hiring prostitutes -- you know, disease, drugs, crime..........that kinda stuff. The thing that killed me was the outpouring of sympathy for poor old Dr. Keon. I mean, the poor guy was over-worked and just needed a little "relaxation" and "stress relief" after a few tough heart transplants. I remember being blasted at a Knights of Columbus dinner by an old Valley boy just because I wondered about the prosititutes he was hiring. Did anyone give a sh-t about them? You would have thought I'd maligned Jesus Christ himself! "Back in my day, the police chief would have had a little chat with him, bought him a coffee and driven him home. I mean the poor guy, there was no need to expose him to the humiliation of john school!," this chap raved.

Me being me, I wrote a letter to the editor after a tearful Dr. Keon held a press conference to express his Jimmy-Swaggart confession about how he had..."sinned just this once" and caused such harm to his wife and family. And there she sat, stony-faced beside him with a murderous look in her eye. Again, I kept thinking about the poor prostitutes he had used over the years (as if this had been his "first time"). No one gave a damn about them. So, I wrote a letter to the editor in which I expressed sympathy for the prositute. "No mother looks at her newborn daughter and says her burning ambition is for her to grow up to be a street prostitute," I wrote. Well do we? Of course not. Naturally, because it was the sainted Dr. Keon, they did not publish my letter.

This all came back to me with the striking down of the prositution laws. I never could figure out how it was legal to be a prositute, but illegal to solicit?? I guess that law was written because so many of us effectively are prostitutes -- we get money for sex, whether we are wives or lovers or friends. I mean, you can't say that a respectable wife and mother who exchanges sex with her husband, boyfriend or partner for money is a prostitute, so it had to be legal. But now soliciting is legal. Not that I think that's a great idea, but at least logic has now prevailed. What has prompted this blog was a column I read recently by a man who said exactly what I had said after the Keon affair......"No mother gives birth to a daughter and prays that her daughter will grow up to be a street hooker." Precisely and absolutely. Prostitution is very sad and very destructive to so many people. It will be interesting to see how this all plays out. Forgive the idiom, but 'A Pig in a Poke' comes to mind.

Booze and birds

Next time you uncork a bottle of wine, think about the cork and how it is responsible for saving the habitat of many important threatened bird species. I don't know why, but in spite of the thousands of corks I've popped, I have never wondered where the cork comes from? TVO provided the answer last evening. From the Portugese Cork Oak tree. There are 100,000 acres of protected cork oak in the Montado in Portugal, farmed by a few land-owners over generations. Every nine years, the entire outer bark of this tree is cut away and hauled off for processing into cork. And removing all the outer bark does not kill the tree. Amazing. Each tree provides 4,ooo corks and annual harvesting jobs for 60,000 workers. Who knew!? But equally facinating were the stories and footage of the 30 species of birds who thrive there, along with 26 species of bats. Then there are the rare wildflowers, the marshes, the frogs, deer and the Iberian Lynx. There is also a rare species of bee-eating birds found only in the Montado -- where thousands of tons of carbon monoxide are absorbed by these oaks every year.

I urge you to stay away from plastic corks because by 2000 1/4 of the cork forest had been lost because wineries were moving to plastic. And I nearly forgot about the cork oak acorns favoured by special pigs who provide sumptuous smoked ham from the region. The whole thing was beyond facinating.

In contrast to this wonderful program, I switched (very briefly) to America's Top Model. What a pathetic show. All these young girls under tremendous pressure to stay on the program. The scene where one was eliminated by Tyra Banks (really ugly legs, by the way) was nothing short of torture. The girl who was cut was devastated and began weeping and wailing. Who cares??!!

CBC radio had a facinating interview with a fellow who has written a book on the origins of the census in Canada. Until the flap about the elimination of the long form, no one gave a hoot about this guy. But the interview was illuminating to say the least. Apparently, the British started the census in Upper Canada to get rid of the French and the natives. They just categorized people as they saw fit and wiped out entire family names, replacing them with English-sounding names. Guess that didn't work out too well for them, did it!

Lunch minus 40 years

Was invited to lunch by my niece and her cousin on her mother's side. This was a shock to me because I have only spent time with my niece at family gatherings since she was born and now that she is in her mid-twenties, I was surprised she wanted to actually have a private visit with me. So, there I was, 40 years behind (ahead, but you know what I mean) these two gorgeous young women, sitting in a pub in Little Italy for the afternoon. I learned a lot, man. For the first time I found out what they really thought about this and that. Their parents weren't there to filter the truth. Took be back to my own twenties and all the things I thought I knew, knew I knew and didn't know I knew. These young women are certainly in control of their lives and their relationships and that is the one big change I noted. When I was in my mid twenties, I was worried about getting married (got that wrong the first time) and making sure my "career" was on the right track.

They were decked out in their casual finery and I was proud to have been sitting with them. I was also glad I could tell them what we had to deal with at their age -- you know, date rape and other quaint, old-fashioned leisure activities in the era of "no-means-yes" -- horrors they would never put up with. We are only as sick as our secrets and the older I get the fewer I have. In fact, I have none that I can think of. So, thank you darling girls. You opened my eyes and gave me a glimpse into a world of young women I don't get from my own daughters. I am not their mother and that affords me the leeway I enjoy immensely!

The Big Rideau Salad

Invited by her husband to do so, I am about to tell you about Helen's Big Rideau Salad. As you know, we spent a week at a mansion/cottage on the Big Rideau last week. But since I still have a "cottage" mentality about cottages, I neither buy exotic ingredients nor prepare gourmet meals when I am at one -- even if an expansive and luxurious abode may warrant it. So, our friends arrived for an early spaghetti dinner, prepared by Brian who makes the best spaghetti I have ever tasted (and I am not just saying that). Spaghetti demands salad in some establishments, so I pulled out what I considered cottage salad makings, i.e., a half a tomato, a cuccumber and a few lettuce leaves. "Helen, could you just make a little salad out of this?" Sure! And then she started. She rumaged through the fridge and salvaged bits and pieces of this and that and the salad grew and grew like the loaves and fishes. Trouble was that all the while she was building it, I kept having in interrupt what I was doing to find this and that with which to cut up and prepare this and that. G-d Helen, just stick to the lettuce and tomato! No, being a stubborn Ottawa Valley girl from the village of Eganville, Helen dug in further and searched even farther and wider for more accoutrements. Her husband kept giving me knowing glances and shaking his head, as if to say......"don't object or it will get even more complicated!" And it did.

In a disgusted huff she rejected my Kraft Thousand Island dressing and proceeded to make her own. But that demanded a special spill-proof vessel in which to mix it and naturally, after a time-consuming search, we failed to find one. Undaunted, she whipped it to death with a spoon. At last we were ready to eat. But wait, we have to have a candle. The search for matches began. No smokers and no matches to be found, a reluctant Doug was dispatched to the garage to see if a BBQ lighter might there lurk. No luck. At this Doug decided to ignite a piece of paper on the gas stove to light the blessed candle. With trepidation, we all huddled around the flame, water at the ready, while Doug tried in vain to light the wick. The paper went burst forth perfectly, but the wick stared dryly back and refused to cooperate. We finally abandoned this folly when I mentioned that if the smoke detector went off, the volunteer Perth Fire Department would be here in a Tay-River minute! To my grateful surprise, Helen (sort of) admitted a (slight) defeat and we sat down. After saying both the Catholic and Protestant graces -- having been raised a Protestant I know each -- in we tucked. Shocked, I watched in horror as Brian reached for the Kraft in an act of bold-faced defiance; ever faithful, Doug enjoyed Helen's homemade. Did he have a choice?

Bottom line here is that we had so much salad left over I insisted Helen take it home as a remembrance of her Big Rideau Salad concocted out of nothing by a well-trained and frugal Valley girl.

Today is International Punctuation Day and next I will have a field day on that subject!

Croquet tomorrow

It's off to the British High Commission tomorrow for the annual Alumni of British Universities' Croquet Tournament -- which I attend as a lowly hanger-on because B went to a British University to do post-graduate work. As a graduate of Carleton, I might get together with a few other ex-"party animals" at a dingy tavern in Hull now and then to remember our lost youth and missed classes back-in-the-day, but these folks take it up a few steps. Anthony Cary, the High Commissioner, is a lot of fun and always appears magnificently attired in pure wool, green and white striped original Cambridge trousers -- which still fit him perfectly, he brags. I can never quite figure out what to wear because some play croquet, while the rest of us watch. It seems croquet -- or "crow-key", as Anthony pronounces it (he also says "bally" for "ballet") -- is not for the great unwashed, of which I am a charter member. No, one must actually know how to play. As to the outfit, high heels will certainly figure in the mix -- regardless of how much pain I have to endure to stand on my tiptoes and not sink into the grass. Happily, I usually comandeer a bench and settle in to bore its other occupants.

The first time we attended I gamely grabbed a mallet and started lining up, only to be asked by Anthony if I knew how to play. "Well, I played as a child in our neighbour's garden on Sundays now and then." No, no, you must actually know how. I meekly beat a hasty retreat to the refreshment tent, where I really am an expert. Sides are chosen and the game gets underway with the seriousness of a professional match. A word about the guests. They are a motely crew of weirdos and professors and graduate students and old retired people and ladies of various ages and varieties. Any conversation I crash is always a facinating mix of bizarre theories and warm remnicences of the glory days back in England. And the competition among universities is a fierce as it gets. More about this after it happens.

When I was about 18, a girlfriend and I went to Montreal for the day to recklessly spend our fathers' money on a little shopping spree. Montreal, being the fashion capital of Canada at the time, was a mecca for those of us who lived in hope that a little of that French "mode" would touch us as we sauntered along Sherbrooke and Ste. Catherine streets. Outside Windsor Station (we always took the train to add a little sophistication to the excursion) an old man sitting on a bench began to chat with me. He told me his name was "Newsy Lalonde", an ex-Montreal Canadien hockey player. The name meant nothing to me, but he was very proud to tell me about his exploits, his records, how he was captain of the team and other remarkable achievements. I thought he was probably a crazy old fake, but when I came home and asked my father if he had ever heard of Newsy Lalonde he went wild. "Do you mean to tell me you actually met Newsy Lalonde! The guy was fabulous, famous, the best Hab ever. Just as famous as The Rocket.!" My Dad went on and on. I have never forgotten the encounter and my Dad's reaction. I googled him yesterday and his record is truly remarkable. He was also a champion lacrosse player and is in both the Hockey and Lacrosse Halls of Fame. He was captain of the Habs from 1915-21 and had a playing career that stretched from 1904-27. His scoring record held until Wayne Gretsky broke it. Unbelieveable.

I felt badly I hadn't told the old man that of course, I knew who Newsy Lalonde was and of course, you are very famous.........but I hadn't and I didn't. Last night an item came on the news about a statue they have erected in Cornwall 40 years after his death to the memory and honour of one of the greatest NHL players of all time: Newsy Lalonde. Well, I sat up and took notice and there followed a remarkable story about his exploits and fame. Some of the most famous Habs of all time were there to honour and remember Newsy and how great he was. I was floored! His aging grandson also went on about what a wonderful person he was, kind and loving. The memory of meeting him outside the Windsor Train Station came flooding vividly back, as I pictured a kindly gentleman, well-dressed, wearing a fedora and a suit and tie and an overcoat. The next time you meet an old man, remember this tale. Who knows who he was and what he accomplished? I feel lucky to have met him.

Off to a not-really cottage

Monday, we head out to the Big Rideau to stay at a friend's "cottage". Now, these people are extremely wealthy (think high-tech bubble before it burst) and she admits that we may be a bit disappointed because..."it's not really a cottage cottage." I think I can handle it, girl. For this week I will not have to bring any real clothes -- or high heels -- because it will just be B and me. For many years we went to another friend's cottage, but there were always two or three other couples with us, so that meant clothes, makeup and jewellry. I simply cannot submit people I don't trust to a face without makeup. Not that these women were bitches, but one still had to watch it. They were all American and appeared at breakfast with full-on makeup, sprayed hairdo's and "outfits". I should add they were all Texans and women in that state tend to pour it on. Being an avid swimmer, I did not apply makeup until after my morning laps around the island and too bad for them that they had to face my rosacae face and non-existant lips. No, this week it will just be my hubby and he doesn't give a damn. The only other couple who will visit for an afternoon is made up of a great gal who never wears makeup, so no worries.

Just watching one of my favourite shows, 'Sell This House'. How Roger transforms a dump into a gorgeous home for $1.98 is unfathomable. And I love Tanya, she is so genuine and cute. A complete contrast to the show that comes on next with that male chauvinistic pig Ricardo Montelongo and his door-mat wife. He bullys everyone and spoils his brat son mercilessly. Guess who's going to turn into another male chauvinist?! No matter if the project is $10,000 over budget; it's never Ricardo's fault. It's the foreman's, his wife's, the carpenter's........you name it.

Now it's off to decide which sweat pants to pack.

Sensible shoes everywhere

Went to a lecture last evening by Margaret MacMillan, the famous historian who wrote 'Paris 1918', Canadian-born, now lives in England. Ottawa's intelligencium were there en-masse. You get the picture. I thought I was at the Art's Centre -- all sensible shoes and hideous hair. You know, if you are going to let your haircut get untidy and straggly, at least keep it clean. The number of backs of heads I had to face sporting stringy, greasy bobs was too much. And if the shoes are "comfy", let's not worry if they are better suited to camping. Let's not worry they don't match your sequined jacket. Let's not worry if your mountain-equipment-coop-vest and cargo pants clash a little with your hiking shoes. In fact, let's not worry about how we look at all, as long as everyone knows we are so brilliant we can't be bothered to take time to have a weensy peek in the mirror before heading out to display our brilliance.

Her talk was very good, but being such a shallow person, I kept thinking about how much she looked like Martha Stewart. Really, right down to the hair that kept flopping into her face. Her accent was very mid-Atlantic -- you know, clipped from lips that barely moved -- kind'a like Margaret Atwood's, although Margaret takes the cake and frosting for hers. How a girl from Toronto speaks as does Margaret is quite a trick. And to think she can actually keep it up without falling into the occasional TO-ism, or dropping a "g" here or there.

I am impressed with Tony Blair's tell-all autobiography. Not that I have read it, but I have read several reviews and he admits to bearing the human weaknesses we all have -- like failing his family now and then and boozing too much. Although, how a couple of drinks before dinner and two glasses of wine now and then qualify as "too much" beats me? Then again, my family doctor of 30 years tells me that all doctors are instructed in medical school to double the amount their patients admit to drinking, so maybe that's what Blair's doing. (Remember that the next time you are lying to your physician about how much you imbibe.)

While dusting the CDs the other day -- a task I turn to every hundred years -- I came across a Led Zeplin box set. Didn't even know we had one? So, I cranked a few tunes and was immediately transported back via such greats as 'Your time is gonna come', 'Stairway to Heaven' and 'Ramble on'. G-d they are great still. I actually saw Zeplin live at the old Masonic Temple on Yonge street -- right across from Canadian Tire -- before they were famous, back in the late '60s. Robert Plant was beautiful then. Remind me to blog about also seeing The Doors, Sly and the Family Stone, Alice Cooper, John Lennon........to name-drop a few..........back in the day at Varsity Stadium. And all in one day. Or did I already blog this? If not, I will.

Decided to also play a little Gordon Lightfoot -- another guy so talented it stuns. A few years ago we were at an alumni dinner in Montreal and I was seated next to this still-gorgeous guy I chose to chat with aggressively (as opposed to the fat bore on my right, who reminded me of me, fat and boring). I mean, why not bask in someone else's glory!? Turns out he was one of Lightfoot's guitar players in the late sixties. Lightfoot was famous even then and the tales Henry told of their "adventures" were riveting. "Lurid" came to mind, although that fantasy was definitely made up in my imagination as I thought, "I wonder what happened after that show!" The 'Railroad Trilogy' and 'The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald' are classics you still never tire of. Henry (can't recall his last name) said Lightfoot was always writing songs, even on the golf course the odd time they hacked one. "He always had a little pad and pencil and we had to stop playing all the time while he wrote something down." Can't really imagine Gordon Lightfoot playing golf, can you?

De-caff only for the middle east

I was watching with growing depression yet another US president launch yet another round of peace talks between Israel and Palestine. Loved the new buzz words -- partnership quartet was one phrase that jumped out. What does that mean? The station played old clips of presidents-past launching "peace initiatives", "roadmaps" and other no-go's. It felt like another version of 'A Christmas Carol', only not as interesting or well-acted as the old Allistair Sim version. Switched to a show talking about the evils of caffeine and suddenly it hit me! Caffeine is the problem over there. Seriously! The arabs and israelis drink mud-consistency caffeine all day and night. No wonder they are so hepped up all the time. I am not kidding here people. Think about it. We all know that more than two cups at a time is murder on the nervous system. Think about that film footage of raving palestinians, rioting in the streets. Caffeine-induced.

The good news is that the pain in my hips is neither arthritris nor osteoporosis. The bad news is I have to live with it until someone can figure out what the problem is. Maybe bursitis. Now I won't get a hip replacement, which is a pity because I was going to ask for smaller ones.

My darling son has moved to Toronto. A couple of weeks ago he got a call from Shopper's Drug Mart, went for the interview, got the call and moved -- all within two weeks. I am still in shock, but so happy for him. God is driving the bus on that file.

'Picnic' is on right now. What a great movie. Have you ever seen anyone as gorgeous as William Holden? Well, maybe Cary Grant, but that's about it. Bite me Brad Pitt. And Kim Novak is breathtaking. I googled the movie and read that Holden demanded an extra $10,000 to do that dance on the dock under the picnic lanterns. Apparently he hated dancing and thought the producers wouldn't pay up. But they did and the results are about as sexy as it gets. And everyone fully-clothed with space between them. Ya gotta admit that Rosilind Russell steals the picture. She is fabulous.

Well, off to get lasered tomorrow. It seems my reading lens has developed membranes on it (thank G-d the word "mucous" is not in front of the diagnosis!). So, they zap them and that's it.

First episode of 'Rescue Me' is on at 10, Showcase. Do yourself a favour and watch it. I love that show. Denis Leary plays Tommy Gavin, a completely screwed up New York fire-fighter. The supporting characters are first-class, the writing superb. Now that I have a fire fighter son-in-law, I asked him if that show was true to life. Pretty much, he answered. Whoa! Not that wild, I hope.

Lots of kids

That funeral we attended the other week has stayed with me. That gracious late lady was 95 years old and had eight kids -- all of whom were there except the eldest girl who had died. Made me think of the bygone days of huge families. Sheila's first child, Patricia, was tragically killed in an accident in the train yard where she worked. Her next one, Joe -- the one we were all totally in love with in high school -- now seems to have a neurological disorder and is very shaky. If Sheila and her husband had stopped at two children, the funeral would have been very different. Only Joe and his wife would have been there and they have no children. So, a sombre affair it would have been. Instead it was a rousing, gay wake with children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren everywhere. After Pat and Joe came five boys and finally a second girl. One of the sons said in the eulogy that his parents decided to try once more for another girl and they got her. And this girl is a real corker -- sort of like her mother.

I had two children, but happily Brian had two so when we got together I ended up with four. I'm not saying it's been care and stress-free, but it has been busy and interesting! We had two couples over for lunch yesterday; one has four children, the other one. After yapping on about my children and grandchildren and after the other couple yakked on about all theirs, I realized we must be boring the third couple to death with our yammering. Their son has yet to marry and there are no grandchildren, so they didn't have much to contribute to the conversation. But I love them both dearly, so we shut up.

Happily, their son is a success. If you have one kid, it better be perfect.

Just saved $1,675.00

We are down to one car, having disposed of the GT Mustang. The car we are "down to" is mine. A darling little Honda Civic five-speed hatchback. Anyway, took it to a body shop and they told me they would re-paint it for a measley $1,700. Drove straight to Canadian Tire and bought a $25 can of Honda paint and did it myself. So, that's how I saved $1,675. While I was in there, I had the usual Canadian Tire melt-down -- you know, no clerks, no help and no logic. I was careening down the auto aisles talking to myself and sort-of-raving... "I hate place, I hate this place, I hate this place," I ranted. A sweet young man heard me and offered to find me Honda spray paint and he did. Being an old bag has its rewards.



How much do you have to hate your life to spend months and years cutting wine bottle corks in half so you can install a homemade cork floor. That was the feature in the "Homes" section of the Saturday paper. A guy spent a thousand years cutting up corks so he could have a do-it-yourself cork floor. When I saw the photo of his shrew wife, I sympathyzed. I too would have high-tailed it to the garage and either got corked or cut up corks just to get away from her.


This was a Paul Newman weekend and 'Harper' was featured. It was made in 1966, for me not that long ago. I was 19 and in university. I was schleping around in the kitchen and not really paying attention until I heard Paul say to Robert Wagner, "She's just trash, a nympho, fungus really, only look at her in the daylight and you'll get it, you'd never have children with that bitch." I wheeled around and paid attention at that point. Can you imagine talking like that about women today?! It was horrifying. But at the time, I am sure I agreed and wasn't jarred at all. Of course we all knew girls like that, how great was it that we were so superior to the neighbourhood sluts, remember? What a time warp that movie was for me.

Just want to say a work about the flooding in Pakistan. How come Pakistan doesn't have an infrastructure to deal with it? Why do all these countries look to Canada to solve their problems? That's where our taxes go: to infrastructure. The next time you are pissed off in a construction zone and swear at a flagman, remember these are your tax dollars hard at work. If you don't want road construction and infastructure, move to Greece.

Finks, creeps and nerds

Remember when a fink was a nerd or a creep? I can recall several boys in high school who we used to call "finks". Such nomenclature is now not used. These guys are now nerds or creeps, although "creep" was a term we also used back in the day. Having grown up here, I sometimes run into "finks" from high school. Guess what? They are still creeps. Yuck.

We just welcomed a grandaughter into the world in Houston. Big debate about names and it got me thinking about names that no one would consider using. How about starting with mine...and then there are:

• Nancy
• Helen
• Buelah
• Doris
• Linda
• Dorothy
• Cheryl
• Agnes
• Betty
• Hope
• Carol
• Gertrude
• Alice
• Maude
• Clementine
• Margaret
• Wanda
• Diane.....I could go on and on, but you get the picture.

Same with boys' names. Why is that?

Could not tear myself away from another episode of 'Teen Mom'. This time "mom" was having a hissy fit because the boyfriend/father had talked to another girl. All the while, their baby was crawling around, ignored and helpless, until it fell off the bed and smacked its head on the floor. They managed to notice the kid only after it started screaming bloody murder. Well, totally understandable because mom and boyfriend were getting it off in another corner of the room. For all I know, they were making another! How annoying that the kid hurt itself. Kinda wrecked the mood. Too bad it hadn't swallowed a tack or choked on a peanut and died. Seriously, that's how uninterested the parents were. But then a funeral would have thrust "mom" into the spotlight again on the local tv news. That would have been perfect. She could have had her 15 minutes of fame and headed straight for the bar to start all over again.

I talked to a couple of savvy teenaged girls the other evening and asked them about drug use in their circles. Both said that drugs were not the problem, but there was a lot of drinking and pregnancy. Yeah, right. Don't the two go together!? Get drunk and get pregnant.

A little grammar hit me the other night. I was listening to a tv reporter and she said, "A cyclist such as him..." Now, if you add the unspoken word "is", you know that "him" is incorrect. It has to be "he". I passed that little trick onto my students and I hope some of them remember it. It is very easy to know when to use "he" versus "him" or "she" versus "her". You just have to add the unspoken verb and you have it. You don't even have to know what particle of speech is required or what it is called.

I love 'As it Happens' -- that CBC radio show. Don't always listen to it, but last night they had a bird expert on who informed listeners that 400,000 acres of wetlands had been created in hitheto fallow farmers' fields by paying the farmers to irrigate fallow fields. What a fabulous initiative! Before the gulf oil disaster, an acre of wetland was being lost every 40 minutes. Who knew?! So, the disaster has spawned the creation of more wetlands. What beauty God has again generated.

The only other thing I want to rant about is that there are 425 gondoliers in Venice -- all male. Finally, they have allowed a women into a gondola. BUT. She can only take out a gondola if a male allows it. If he is sick or wants to take the day off, etc. What have I been ranting about?! Women are still in the same trench in so many venues.

Hideous hair, teenaged moms and other horrors

Came across an old ID card of mine from about 15 years ago and was struck dumb by my hair. What was I thinking! It looked like a ground hog had died and been buried on my head -- all swirls and waves and curls. Absolutely hideous. I must have thought I looked great, or I would not have left the house.

There is a new TV series called "Teen Mom" and if ever there was a way to scare teenaged girls straight out of the back seat of a car, this is the show! It follows the dismal life of teen girls who have made the dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb decision to have a baby and keep it. All of them are weeping testimonials as to what a dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb idea it all was. There they are, absolutely stuck at 15. And the boyfriends (I wonder how some of them were even old enough to have done the deed) are usually long gone. Most of them got pregnant to keep their boyfriends. Duh! If ever there was a reason for a guy to hit the road it's a pregnant girlfriend.

Ties into an article I read this morning about studies that show that, guess what, working mothers who put their children in daycare in the first year of life and go back to work don't have screwed up, unhappy offspring afterall. At least no more so than mothers who stay at home. Well, yeah, teenaged mothers in the projects on welfare are probably not the most stimulating parents on the planet. The teenaged mothers in the show I watched are not really Sesame Street mummies, brimming with creative water play moments and trips to the library for story time, all the while drilling their urchins with alphabetic flash cards and classical music. No, these girls can't wait to get out to the bars to get away from their drooling burdens and find a new boyfriend. So pathetic.

Apparently, mothers who have a partner and go back to work are, well, happier. No kidding. And being happier and more prosperous makes them, well, better mummies. I'll drink to that.

You can't make this up

After women were denied the right to compete in ski jumping at the Vancouver Olympics, it seems the Pan American Sports Organization (PASO) is still denying women the right to compete in canoeing, kayaking and numerous weight classes. It's unbelieveable, but not surprising. Afterall, PASO's committee is made up of 41 men and one woman. And apparently, just like the goons who run the Olympics, the coaches, sponsors and administrators simply help themselves to any female athlete they fancy. And why not, they are the ones who choose and sponsor the teams. It's still about money and sex, I'm afraid. Happily, a case against this mess is being filed at the Ontario and Canadian Human Rights Tribunals, but it's appalling that women have to go to these lengths to compete in their sports. Absolutely appalling.

I began my love affair with swimming and sports at good old Camp Davern, a local YWCA girls camp. I opened the paper this past saturday and there was a huge spread on Davern featuring letters the campers had written home. They were lovely letters, penned by 11 and 12-year-old girls. Put me in mind of the letters home I had written when I first went at the age of nine. I found them in my mother's things after she died and had a good laugh. The first letter was very nice and addressed them as "Mummy and Daddy". I was asking politely if I could come home because I was too homesick. I had signed it, "Love, Nancy". The next letter said, "Dear Mother and Father" and still asked nicely, but no "love" at the end. By the third I was demanding to be picked up. "Mother and Father", it started; I had dropped the "Dear" altogether and signed it "Your daughter". I do remember being very homesick, but it abated and I loved it.

After my expose and rant about Brian's ex, I started thinking about mine. He has been "lost" for about 10 years, but after a couple of calls to old friends, I found a valid phone number and left him a message. Gave the number to my son (and will to my daughter, when she returns from Europe) and my only hope is that they will contact him and he will be responsive. Or not. But my fear was that I would learn he had died without our children having talked to him in many, many years. His choice, but I know it would have been very tough to deal with. He drifted away years ago and lives as a semi-hermit and recluse. God's timing, as ever, is perfect because I don't think either of my kids would have been able to deal with him a minute earlier. So, I again turn it over to the Lord and let him work his magnificence.

The other news is that in the process of tracking down these other women, who knew him long before I met him and who still try and keep in touch, I have re-connected with them. One lives in Perth and when I called her, she screamed with joy; so did I. Visited her yesterday and I thought we would crush each other with hugs and weeping. Needless to say, I always adored her and now I have her again. We plan to keep this up and she is so anxious to re-connect with Gene and Susanne. As she said, just because Bob isn't in the picture doesn't mean people who need to be around the kids should be shut out. Absolutely. I am anxiously awaiting our next get-together.

Zen and Everything

I am reading a book about Zen. One comment that hit me was..."One of the things that you realize when you see the nature of the self is that what you do and what happens to you are the same thing."

That's about it.

D.H. Lawrence I am not

Just read a short story by D.H. Lawrence. What a great writer. It was called 'The Horse Dealer's Daughter' and dealt with relationships between men and women, as he usually did. But it was very erotic without ever getting into any physical stuff. Reading writers of his calibre, I realize that I am just a mediocre hack. (But they did publish my letter the other day.)

Watched a bunch of movies featuring Julie Christie yesterday. Man, what a beauty. Remember 'Darling'? I felt I was back in the sixties (it was filmed in 1965), when everyone smoked and drank and ran around -- but didn't have such a great time. I googled her and she is still alive, 68, and presumably still gorgeous. With that bone structure, how could she not be. Al Pacino called her the "most poetic of actresses", although what Al Pacino would know about "poetic" I have no clue. Just "Al Pacino" and "poetic" in the same sentence is alarmingly jarring.

Funny thing about 'Darling' was that her main lover was played by Dirk Bogarde, who was homosexual. His rival, played by Lawrence Harvey, was bi-sexual in real life, but both men were so gorgeous and sexy. I guess it was that bit of feminine in each that did the trick.

Went swimming last night and met the Chinese woman I have been teaching. The pathetic thing is that, due to her limited English, I find myself yelling at her in "baby talk". The woman is not deaf and about 40 years old, but I nonetheless yell in baby-talk and make ridiculous hand signals! Picture it. I also articulate every word, as if that would help her understand what I am on about. "Kick harder" is still incomprehensibly "kick harder" -- whether I exaggerate my lip movements or not. When I try to demonstrate how to kick by moving my arms up and down, she swims off moving her arms wildly instead of her legs, which she drags along like logs. But we never give up and are making great progress. I think we all do this with handicapped people too -- you know, yell at someone in a wheelchair, or at someone who is blind. What is that about!?

The latest scourge to hit the country are bed bugs. I kid you not. Heard a disgusting report on CBC this morning about how they are infesting homes, hospitals, hotels, nursing homes -- you name it -- everywhere. Spent the rest of the day peeking under the bed and scratching. Yuck. Apparently the reason is we all travel so much. But I began to wonder why bed bugs freak us out so much, yet a mosquito biting us in the middle of the night is just annoying? Both are blood-suckers, but I guess the difference is that the mosquito moves on to another target and out the window, while the bed bug snuggles under the mattress permanently.

Get your own

We have an aquaintance who always wants to borrow my husband. To her I say: get your own. Never married herself, she has hedged her bets for forty years by dating when young, almost getting married, but calling it off when she inherited a ton of money, keeping her friends for life in the sisterhood, picking up her nieces and nephews when she needed children for an occasion...etc. Now she has taken to inviting Brian here and there without inviting me. Now, that takes HUGE GALL. She used to include me, but now does not. I guess we both figured out a while ago that we were not alike -- although we appeared to have much in common for the first couple of years after we met. Not sure when that moment of truth burst forth, but women know instantly. Brian doesn't go to the BBQs and social events she slides onto the agenda, but he does play tennis with her because he loves tennis. And I don't mind because I don't play any longer and we may get some business out of the relationship. But it does take a lot of nerve to borrow people's husbands. I guess living with one would be too difficult. As I have said, marriage is an act of will.

Wifely was the watch-word today. I sewed all day, making a new Christmas tablecloth and napkins. Not that it is difficult, just straight sewing. But there's a lot of it when you include the borders and panels and other accoutrements I insist on.

I did manage to dash off a letter to the editor this morning and they called me to say they wanted to include it. It was about the cancelling of the long-form census. I said:

"It is breathtakingly Canadian that many of the same people citing privacy issues in objecting to the long-form census benefit mightily from the information it contains. The data obtained from the information we provide in the census drives federal and provincial social policy and the resultant benefits heaped upon Canadians. If you don't like the census, then we'd better scrap the tax form too. The personal and "private" information in the latter is much more confidential. But since taxes make the country go 'round, pay them and tick the census form boxes that decide where the money goes. Paying taxes and filling in the census are two of the greatest privileges all Canadians enjoy." Yours truly..........

I'll let you know if they publish it.

Why is it...?

Why is it that two minutes into a movie you can tell if it was directed or written by a man or a woman? Watched a really bad movie today called 'Helen', starring Ashley Judd and written and directed by a woman. It was about a woman suffering from depression and by the time I struggled through it, I was right in there with her. I think the give-away are the long, meaningful pauses in "chick flicks". Every thime her husband asked her if anything was wrong, the camera glided to a shot of her lying in a ball on the floor and then zeroed in on her face for about five minutes, as she contorted to sad piano music (of course, she used to be a pianist). At one point the only clue I had that I had not paused the DVD myself was the absence of those two little lines in the upper left-hand corner of the screen that tell you you have paused the film. It was just one sad walk along the beach after another crying jag in a restaurant washroom after another freak-out on the floor.........and you never knew why??!!

The scenes in the mental ward were just so unrealistic -- not that I have ever been a patient in one, although some days I am sure my family thinks it would be a great move. Patients were smashing their heads into glass offices and she just sat around not talking to the female psychiatrist treating her. I kept waiting for something to happen, but it never did. Eventually she agrees to the dreaded shock treatment and out of sheer relief I almost phoned in for a few jolts myself. Then she recovers -- sort of, but not really -- and goes back to her husband and her depressing jogs along the beach. The end. Don't rent it. I think if a man had directed it, there would have been fewer meaningful -- or should I say "meaningless" -- vacant stare scenes. I think there might have been a little more action and the husband would not have been the typical male ass who causes all her problems. He might not have been portrayed as a dolt whose only reaction to his wife's depression was to punch out a client (he's a distracted lawyer, natch) in a parking garage. Natch he is subdued by a female lawyer. It just sucked.

Spent an enjoyable morning at the war museum, doing my 'Quickbooks" thing -- although for me it should be "Slowbooks" because I take way longer than whiz kid Gillian, who taught me. "Just go in here and tab to there and input here and tab again and put in the receipt number and the client number and tab, tab, tab and that's all there is to it!" For you, maybe Gillian. For me it is check, check, check and check again. Part of the morning I yakked away with a woman volunteer guide I kept calling Phyll, instead of her real name, Marilyn. Don't you just hate trying to excuse why you can't get her name right!? And I have spent lots of time with this woman talking about very intimate things, like her divorce, and acting like I am her new best friend, but I can't get her name right. Duh! The kicker was that I was complaining about people who don't check to see if "Clarke" has an "e" on the end..."can't people just check out the name and get it right Phyll," I raved. "It's so pathetic, the inattention to detail, Phyll," I continued. Sometimes I am such a loser.

High heels and other ramblings.........

Watched the Tour de France presentations yesterday. Alberto Contador won. I am not a cyclist, but what galled me were the two females who stood alongside each winner on the podium, dressed like fashion models. What the hell were they doing there? How stupid is it to feature women who are not athletes in a presentation to iron cyclists? If the women chosen had been young cyclists themselves, striving for greatness in the sport, that would have been appropriate. But to have a bunch of broads standing there is insulting both to the cyclists and to their female counterparts. Just so French, I thought. If it had been a women's race, would there have been male fashion models or Chipmunk dancers standing there for the presentations? Maybe in France there would have been.

My daughter, a world-class athlete, thinks it's no big deal and that I am overacting. It's just a tradition, she says and shrugs. But she can enter any race, just as a man can, and she can beat thousands of men any time she wants. Women of my generation had to fight to create the opportunities our daughters now take for granted. Thank God for that. I guess their ho-hum means we succeeded.

Then I read an article praising shoes to the hilt. Yes, I do think high heels empower women in social settings. I did not know that over their lifetime, the average woman spends $26,000 on shoes. About seven pairs a year. I am way over that. High heels are the private domain of women; men can't get into this arena. It's the one attribute that we own, where we can make a statement. And we all know that when you describe a woman as wearing "sensible shoes" it is a damning comment. The article ends with a quote from a high-powered woman entrepreneur who says..."There's nothing like a killer pair of high heels to immediately boost your mood and make you feel strong and powerful. I don't leave the house without at least six inches under my soles. Some may say it's keeping me down as a woman, but I say just the opposite."

I totally agree.

Both sides of the Street

Ya know, ya can't work both sides of the street. This was brought home hard to me this morning when I was asked by the president of our tennis club to speak to the manager about her outfits. When hired, this young lady dressed "properly". In fact, her contract stipulated "proper attire". But she failed to get what "proper" meant and her outfits gradually morphed into pole-dancing attire. Before the meeting I looked up "proper" in the dictionary just to have something to fall back on. It says........"correct, suitable, appropriate, fit, becoming, decent, respectable, according to strict definition". Who wudd'a thought I would have had to tell the manager what "proper" meant?! But she is south american and I had to spell it out.

Man, cultural differences are HUGE. I guess in Columbia men rule the world and women have to attract them to get a bit of power. No, "guess" is not the word. I know that's the case. As a mother of daughters, I am so proud of the fact that they advance because of their brains and education. In so many other countries, women have no alternative but to advance because of their physical and sexual attributes (I was going to say "tits and ass", but thought that might offend someone). Truth be told, women can be trophy wives in Canada too. We all know them. But women can get ahead on their own steam and for that I am so grateful.

One of my cousins was a "trophy wife" and she suffered mightily. But in her estimation the rewards reaped trumped the related degradation, else she would not have struggled miserably through that life. My mother used to say it was as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one. I tried, believe me, I tried. I dated lots of well-heeled, eligible young men and even got serious about one of the richest men in Canada. But I could not fall in love with him. Now when I see him at weddings and funerals I wonder about what might have been? But I know what would have been. We both know. Our respective marriages have worked out for the best.

On a related matter of nature, I was sitting on our balcony watching with annoyance a spider climbing on the wall. Bone laziness prevented me from fetching the ladder and bashing it. So I sat and watched it. As it spun its web I became transfixed. What a lovely creature it was. Back and forth it went, round and round it went, spinning and spinning its web. To think I was ready to clobber it! Most of need to get into the brain of that spider and learn something about commitment and dedication.

Thoughts on cooking and grammar

I am trying to be more vegetarian. No clue why, except that I have never seen a fat vegetarian. That would be a benefit. I know people who won't eat anything with a face. Now that would be too tough for me. But the internet is a goldmine of recipes. Tonight I made vegetarian pie and it was wonderful. I have worked my way through vegetarian cabbage rolls, vegetarian stew, vegetarian lasagna and lots of vegetarian soups. But biting the bullet and giving up steak tartar would be just too tough.

I have been noticing people's speech habits. Listen and you will hear everyone saying, "the thing is is..." They repeat the word "is" for some reason??!! Worse is, "the thing was is..." It's everywhere and I hate it. Lots of people muck up idiom -- like saying they were going to "home in" on something, instead of "hone in". Or, something is a tough "road" to hoe, instead of a tough "row" to hoe. I guess hoeing rows is a thing of the past, but who hoes roads? I was talking to someone the other day and she ended every sentence with....."type of thing". Either that or..."and that". It was painful. A typical sentence would be, "I was coming in to work, and that, and I decided to buy a coffee, type of thing." Seriously. All I listened to were the "type of thing's" and the "and that's". I didn't retain a word she said. I kept waiting for her not to do it, but she didn't relent once!

Trouble is, I have always been a speech and grammar snob. I judge people by how they speak. Shoot me, but it's true.

Behind the Scenes at the Museum

'Behind the Scenes at the Museum' was a fabulous book I read at the cottage a few years back. A first novel by Kate Atkinson, it facinated me. Read it, if you haven't. It won a number of prizes, but what drew me in was her unique use of literary devices -- such as telling the reader in the last sentence of a chapter what horrible thing happens in the next. So one had to read on and was never disappointed.

Now, I am living "behind the scenes at the museum" because I work at the War Museum. What fun it is! I deal with aged vets who take their roles as "living artifacts" in the various galleries very seriously. Dedicated Canadians beyond belief, they come in for coffee when they have given a tour and I just love listening to them chat. They actually discuss real battles in which they have fought and their comrades died -- coupled with the state of the cookie bin and the coffee. The latter are my responsibility and so far I am keeping up. A couple of times I have had to navigate a vet's motorized wheelchair in and out of the office because backing up and making a three-point turn proved impossible.

My life over 40 years as a smarty-pants career woman has been outstriped by my work making coffee for these men and women. What the hell does any of it matter when every day I get a laugh and a ton of anecdotes from such great people!? Everything falls into place and into a proper perspective. Every day these (mostly) men get dressed in their finest, pin on their medals, get into their wheelchairs, lean on their canes or walkers and head into the War Museum to tell their tales.

As for me, I have learned a new skill -- Quickbooks -- and am now the bookeeper for the "Friends" office. I have also been promoted from coffee gal to Deputy Secretary to the Board. But believe me, if I had not earned my stripes making coffee and schleping office chores, I would not have been given my added responsibilities.

As to high heels? I am wearing them all in sequence and they are all happy to be once again trotted out in service. Since I retired, my high heels have been gathering dust, but they are proudly serving my outfits. We all feel at home again.

I was right about the Governor General

It seems that our Governor General and her husband do not deserve the honour bestowed upon them. They wanted the Queen and her consort to stay at a hotel!!!!!! They did not want them to stay at Rideau Hall. How incredible! She has never stayed anywhere but her rightful home here, Rideau Hall. I was right about the GG knowing neither her place nor her role. She and her French husband now believe their own press. Whatever you do, or don't, like about Stephen Harper, he was brilliant to send her to China while the Queen was here. God knows what other regal upstaging she -- or more likely her husband -- would have tried to pull off. Even more brilliant, he has made her Canada's UN envoy to Haiti. As i said, last time I checked Haiti was not part of the Commonwealth and so not part of the GG's responsibility. Yet she loves to visit there at the expense of the people of Canada, so now she will be posted there.

Read David Warren today to get a good analysis of the Crown as the lynchpin of the entire Canadian constitution. He rightly rails against the Liberal politicizing of the Crown over many decades. The Queen is above politics and her portrait should never have been removed from all federal buildings, as the Liberals have systematically done. He says...

"It was incredibly irresponsible to play at changing what cannot be changed without demolishing the whole Canadian constitutional order. It was incrddibly foolish to start stripping the lion and unicorn off public stationery and the Queen's portrait from all public places. Her Majesty, being above politics, it was an incredibly vile act of disloyalty to politicize her office."

Hear hear.

Cosmetic surgery taken way too far

I read today about Muslim women who are now getting surgery to repair broken hymens before getting married so they can appear virgins. It costs about $3,500 and is becoming quite commonplace. So, now we have young girls undergoing vaginal mutilation before puberty and then suffering hymen recovery procedures before they get married. This is sick. The procedure is necessary because the groom's family inspects the sheets after the wedding night to be sure the bride was a virgin. Must be a bunch of money involved, is all I can say.

But how far removed is this from the Chinese and Japanese women who undergo eyelid fold surgery? Any how different is this from the latest fad in India, where women are going under the knife to get dimples? In the west, our obsession is with breasts. Thousands of women have to get bigger ones. We are also obessed with plastic surgery of all kinds. Chin tucks, eyelid procedures, liposuction.......you name it, North American women are getting it done. And all to be more fetching. It is a sad reality that we think we have to change our physical appearance to be accepted. All sick. Remember my blog about 'Toddlers and Tiaras'? Well, that's where it starts. Thank you, Moms everywhere.

So, when my daughter does a half ironman, as she did this past weekend, and comes in first in her age category I am so proud. I stand in awe of this woman.

One little, two little, three little Indians....

Flipping open today's local paper I came across three different takes on what it means to be an aboriginal in Canada today. Amazingly, or not, each was completely different. The first was a letter-to-the-editor by a man talking about the many unique privileges afforded Canadian aboriginals. He cited everything from the non-payment of taxes and the many lawless road blockades to the smuggling and other criminal activities that are tolerated by the authorities simply because....well, simply because they are. This gent's bottom line was that unlike the rest of us, aboriginals consider themselves outside of and above the laws you and I have to obey. He concluded by noting that "the litany of apologies by federal and provincial governments for attempting to bring aboriginals into the Canadian mainstream furthers this notion...yet we hear a constant stream of accusations from partisan groups that the royal treatment accorded them is not enough." Well, no argument from me on that one. I nearly wrote a letter myself, but restrained myself (for the moment).

The second was an article by Matthew Coon Come, grand chief of the James Bay Cree and former national chief of the Assembly of First Nations. Now, if ever there was a guy with a vested interest in keeping his portion of the $8 unaccountable billion we give the natives every year -- yes, every year -- I'd say Mr. Coon Come qualifies. Anyway, his bottom line was that Canadians have been guilty of centuries of both official and unofficial "genocide, ethnic cleansing and cultural destruction". He asserts that unless all Canadians keep discussing this travesty and tragedy, reconciliation "will remain a distant and difficult goal." He is also including the residential schools and their original (legitimate) victims. The thing I have a big problem with is that most of the "victims" in the media today are two and three generations removed from the actual events??!! How does this work? Many people have experienced abuse, but encouraging it to continue to drag people down generations later is simply irresponsible. In fact it is complete b-llsh-t. I'd wager that Mr. Coon Come and his fellows have had a big, guilty hand in the genocide, ethnic cleansing and cultural destruction of their own people.

Before he gets to his conclusion, he rants, weeps and wails about "the oppressive laws and policies that resulted in the withholding of such essentials as clean water and education". Last time I checked, it is the native leaders themselves who withhold these necessities by not passing on the money to their band members. Simplistic, I admit, but when Ottawa gives the money carte-blanche to the native leaders and their people continue to suffer on and off reserve, where else can you point the finger? It always amazes me that the natives can't see this reality?! Now and then, a few band members will organize, hold a press conference and demand accountability from their leaders, but these fizzle and fade.

The third was an article tucked away on the back page entitled 'First Nations Women encouraged to pursue science'. Now this was a fabulous article. It featured a woman named Becky Code who graduated with a B.Sc. in geology and geophysics from the University of Manitoba. She did this thanks in part to a program called "Operation Minerva", run by the Alberta Women's Science Network, which encourages young aboriginal girls as they pursue their education. The successful graduates then become mentors to younger girls and so pass on the keys to a better life. This network also offers scholarships to woman for study in science and engineering with some targeted specifically to aboriginal women. Challenges and barriers for native girls are met head-on -- especially for those living on-reserve, who have to take a bus to classes. Living on-reserve means there is a disconnect between how they view their future opportunities. As we see so often, living on-reserve means drug and alcohol abuse, teenaged motherhood and suicide. Operation Minerva works against these demons to keep these girls in school. Too bad this article was hidden on a back page. I would have liked to have seen it juxtaposed right beside Matthew Coon Come's wail.

So, instead of following Mr. Coon Come's mantra and continuing to lament the dismal pasts of their grandmothers and great-grandmothers, these young women are getting off the reserve and into a productive life for their own children and grandchildren. Bravo to them!

The Queen and I will meet again

Very excited. Received a call this morning that I would be invited to attend the Tree Planting ceremony at Rideau Hall on Wednesday, where Her Majesty would be...of course...planting a tree. Sure enough, the invitation arrived. To meet The Queen once in a lifetime is wild enough, but twice! I am over the moon. This event will require a hat and I have one I plan to wear. Not a huge brim in case I block someone's view, but lots of plumes and feathers. There is quite an article in the local newspaper about wearing hats to meet The Queen. I also googled "hat etiquette" a while ago and learned a ton about where and when to wear them. One thing I did not know was that if The Queen is not wearing a hat, no one else can. Apparently, the hat is a substitute for The Crown, so if she has not donned her symbolic crown, no one else can trump that. Happily, she never appears without either a crown or hat during state visits. I gather the hatless rule is for those occasions when one visits her during the day at her place, Buckingham Palace, for example, and she is just wearing an old tweed skirt and cardigan. Then you will be asked to doff your hat.

Brian, being in Houston, doesn't get to go this time. Well, that's what happens when a daughter marries an American.

I have been dining out, as they say, on my original Queen-meeting story for four years; now I will have another one with which to bore people to death. Having been raised by strident monarchists, having spent lots of my childhood making scrapbooks of every visit, having waited for hours in sweltering sun with my mother and grandmother on the side of highways for a fleeting glimpse of her as she drove by...I know they are dancing up there at the prospect of their daughter again meeting the Monarch -- something neither of them had a chance to do.

So, more news at 11 on that file.