Gary Tressider was one of the most beautiful teenagers I have ever seen. I and every other girl in Ottawa in the '60s. Think Troy Donahue, Brad Pitt, Paul Newman, Robert Redford, a Beach Boy...golden and lean, with a killer smile. And there he was in last Saturday's Calgary Herald. My heart literally skipped a beat, even though I had not thought of him in more than 40 years.
Back then he went to Ridgemont and I went to Lisgar, so I only caught sight of him when our football or basketball teams played each other. Rarely. But he was so beautiful you just could not take your eyes off him. He didn't know I existed -- in fact I don't think I ever met him -- but all of pubescent, female Ottawa knew who he was. Most of us just accepted the miserable fact that he was completely out of reach.
The Gary Tressider in the Herald was still long and lean, but his once-perfect face was craggy with the cowboy life he must have been living. But, man, he still looked good in that cowboy hat and jeans! Funny how the emotional memories you don't even know you retain leap to the surface and grab you with the same intensity as if you had just caught a glimpse of him in the bleachers across the 50-yard line.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Four hours was a little much
I managed to sit through two hours of Mozart's 'Don Giovanni', but could not muster the fortitude to endure four. B had bought tickets to a live broadcast from the New York Metropolitan Opera's performance of this gem, being shown in a local movie theatre. I was amazed that so many people were there at 11 a.m., prepared to skip lunch and hang in for the entire opera. Calgary is a city of youth, but I would wager every senior in the city was at this performance yesterday.
Thankfully, subtitles translated the Italian, but a lot of the dialoge was strangely archaic. "Beat me for what I have done and I will kiss your hands," sings one heroine to her jilted fiance. Don Giovanni romps through the opera, raping and attacking thousands of women -- all seen as our hero simply being "irrestible" in the extreme. I think I would have preferred it in the Italian without the subtitles.
To love opera one has to summon up the retro brain; I snuck out after Act I.
Thankfully, subtitles translated the Italian, but a lot of the dialoge was strangely archaic. "Beat me for what I have done and I will kiss your hands," sings one heroine to her jilted fiance. Don Giovanni romps through the opera, raping and attacking thousands of women -- all seen as our hero simply being "irrestible" in the extreme. I think I would have preferred it in the Italian without the subtitles.
To love opera one has to summon up the retro brain; I snuck out after Act I.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Nellie McLung and I....
...have something in common: we seem to be non-persons. Found this out when I attempted to apply for an Alberta driver's licence this morning. Armed with a passport and several pieces of mail addressed to me at my new address, I was blithely dismissed because I was not recognized in Alberta, according to the ID I had presented. B was breezed through, but I had to leave empty-handed. Man, was I more than annoyed.
Here I was, a retired executive, having worked all my life, paid lots of taxes and made sure I was never dependent on a man, only to find out that because my name was not on a utility bill and our bank statement was electronic, I was not recognized. I could not produce the type of "official" mail with my name and address on it that the Alberta Ministry of Transport insists upon. This all came about because B -- in "hunter/gatherer" mode -- had done all the running around and sorting out of our various household accounts; naturally, everything ended up in his name and his alone. So I slithered meekly out of the registry office in a quiet rage. I was actually talking to myself all the way to the car. It was very depressing to see my husband chatting at another wicket, getting everything he needed because his name was on the documents, while I was basically a nobody.
This put me in mind of the "Famous Five" -- those brave women in the early 1900s who fought as suffragettes: Emily Murphy, Irene Parlby, Louise McKinney, Henrietta Edwards and Nellie. They asked the question that was supposed to fix it all: "Does the word 'Persons' in the British North America Act include women?"
A hundred years later, as I was shown the door, that question still felt unanswered.
Here I was, a retired executive, having worked all my life, paid lots of taxes and made sure I was never dependent on a man, only to find out that because my name was not on a utility bill and our bank statement was electronic, I was not recognized. I could not produce the type of "official" mail with my name and address on it that the Alberta Ministry of Transport insists upon. This all came about because B -- in "hunter/gatherer" mode -- had done all the running around and sorting out of our various household accounts; naturally, everything ended up in his name and his alone. So I slithered meekly out of the registry office in a quiet rage. I was actually talking to myself all the way to the car. It was very depressing to see my husband chatting at another wicket, getting everything he needed because his name was on the documents, while I was basically a nobody.
This put me in mind of the "Famous Five" -- those brave women in the early 1900s who fought as suffragettes: Emily Murphy, Irene Parlby, Louise McKinney, Henrietta Edwards and Nellie. They asked the question that was supposed to fix it all: "Does the word 'Persons' in the British North America Act include women?"
A hundred years later, as I was shown the door, that question still felt unanswered.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Alberta's re-location tax
It's not official, but Alberta has a re-location tax. It's called "getting your out-of-province car certified for licencing". My daughter had warned me about how hard they were on "foreign" cars in Alberta, but I dismissively waved her off. "My car is in perfect shape, that won't be a problem for me. Was I wrong. What an ordeal! And costly. Granted, my Civic is a 2001, but it is the only car I have kept serviced perfectly, meeting all the service dates and replacing parts as required. I even had the Ottawa mechanic pull the entire service record before we left, confident that would be all I'd need to have it signed off in seconds and re-plated. Not on your life.
Decided to take it to a local Honda dealership, where the mechanics would certainly know the vehicles innards. For the certification exam, there is a flat fee of $190 -- but that just tells you if your car passes or fails. Confident my Civic would breeze through, I awaited their call. "We estimate it will cost you $2,200 to get your car up to Alberta standards." Whaaaaat!$%&%%^$%??!!! The item that caused me to pull the car and get a second opinion was an estimated $272 to fix a backseat belt that would not latch. How could it take 1.5 hours and nearly $300 to fix a buckle!!?? I smelled huckster.
What you have to know is that Calgary is a town of a lot of jalopies. It's only newcomers whose cars have to be up-to-snuff; the locals gaily motor around in big, honkin', smelly pickups and shaky, old pails. B hit the computer and found another small garage, also authorized to issue a certificate, and off we went. This time the estimate was under $1,000 -- including another $190 for a second inspection. A $1,200 saving. That is the size of the ripoff I was being handed at the dealership. Car people are still hucksters. If you're not a mechanic yourself, you are (un)fair game.
Outrageous. But $920 later, the Civic has a shiny new licence plate and a new lease on life as a cute, little cowboy car. I am happy.
Decided to take it to a local Honda dealership, where the mechanics would certainly know the vehicles innards. For the certification exam, there is a flat fee of $190 -- but that just tells you if your car passes or fails. Confident my Civic would breeze through, I awaited their call. "We estimate it will cost you $2,200 to get your car up to Alberta standards." Whaaaaat!$%&%%^$%??!!! The item that caused me to pull the car and get a second opinion was an estimated $272 to fix a backseat belt that would not latch. How could it take 1.5 hours and nearly $300 to fix a buckle!!?? I smelled huckster.
What you have to know is that Calgary is a town of a lot of jalopies. It's only newcomers whose cars have to be up-to-snuff; the locals gaily motor around in big, honkin', smelly pickups and shaky, old pails. B hit the computer and found another small garage, also authorized to issue a certificate, and off we went. This time the estimate was under $1,000 -- including another $190 for a second inspection. A $1,200 saving. That is the size of the ripoff I was being handed at the dealership. Car people are still hucksters. If you're not a mechanic yourself, you are (un)fair game.
Outrageous. But $920 later, the Civic has a shiny new licence plate and a new lease on life as a cute, little cowboy car. I am happy.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Girls and women
I was going to write something frivolous about how Vancouver is third on the list of worst-dressed women in the world (apparently because of yoga outfits) and how Canada fares little better, but lately the news has been full of autrocities against women. So I decided to mention a few of these. They are sickening.
The best thing in China, India and other similar cultures is if the doctor gets to your village in time to give you an ultrasound to determine the sex of your baby. If it's a girl, goodbye; she is aborted on the spot. If the doctor is too late and you give birth to a female, you can immediately throw her into a ditch -- dug for that purpose -- move on and try to have a boy. Dowries are the reason -- along with the male offspring who will bring his wife into your home and look after you when you are infirm. If you recklessly decide to keep the girl, the next step is to have her genitally mutilated. She may die, but if not then, probably in childbirth.
If you actually keep your daughters and emigrate to Canada, you can still kill them if they "dishonour" you. That happens if they want to be Canadian, fall in love, not wear the hijab, get an education, become a doctor...in other words, if they want to be "persons". This hit me like a ton of bricks when I read coverage of the trial of an Afganni father, his wife and son who are currently on trial in Kingston for the "honour" killings of their three teenaged daughters and the father's first wife. The crimes of the former were to be "Canadian"; the crime of the latter was to be barren.
This all happened in 2009, when the family lived in Montreal. The evidence is that the father, mother and brother pushed the daughters' car into the Rideau locks on the Kingston waterway and they all drowned. The father's story is that the girls took the car on a joyride, but police wiretap recordings show that the father and mother were proud of their deed and hoped that...."God would sh-t on their graves." They stuck to their belief that they had killed their evil daughters -- aged 18, 17 and 13 -- and that they would do it all over again "if the daughers lived".
Canadian authorities are not off the hook. All three girls pleaded at various times with both their schools and child protective authorities to take them into custody. All such pleas fell on deaf ears. Have we become so "politically-correct" that we let parents kill their children? I guess we have.
How sickening. But, as Christie Blatchford wrote, "These people might have well still been living in Afghanistan."
How lucky we Canadians are. No wonder there are a million backlogged cases of people who want to be Canadian citizens.
The best thing in China, India and other similar cultures is if the doctor gets to your village in time to give you an ultrasound to determine the sex of your baby. If it's a girl, goodbye; she is aborted on the spot. If the doctor is too late and you give birth to a female, you can immediately throw her into a ditch -- dug for that purpose -- move on and try to have a boy. Dowries are the reason -- along with the male offspring who will bring his wife into your home and look after you when you are infirm. If you recklessly decide to keep the girl, the next step is to have her genitally mutilated. She may die, but if not then, probably in childbirth.
If you actually keep your daughters and emigrate to Canada, you can still kill them if they "dishonour" you. That happens if they want to be Canadian, fall in love, not wear the hijab, get an education, become a doctor...in other words, if they want to be "persons". This hit me like a ton of bricks when I read coverage of the trial of an Afganni father, his wife and son who are currently on trial in Kingston for the "honour" killings of their three teenaged daughters and the father's first wife. The crimes of the former were to be "Canadian"; the crime of the latter was to be barren.
This all happened in 2009, when the family lived in Montreal. The evidence is that the father, mother and brother pushed the daughters' car into the Rideau locks on the Kingston waterway and they all drowned. The father's story is that the girls took the car on a joyride, but police wiretap recordings show that the father and mother were proud of their deed and hoped that...."God would sh-t on their graves." They stuck to their belief that they had killed their evil daughters -- aged 18, 17 and 13 -- and that they would do it all over again "if the daughers lived".
Canadian authorities are not off the hook. All three girls pleaded at various times with both their schools and child protective authorities to take them into custody. All such pleas fell on deaf ears. Have we become so "politically-correct" that we let parents kill their children? I guess we have.
How sickening. But, as Christie Blatchford wrote, "These people might have well still been living in Afghanistan."
How lucky we Canadians are. No wonder there are a million backlogged cases of people who want to be Canadian citizens.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Women and the French
Watched a bit of another French moving yesterday, 'La Loi', 1959. It was apparently "Yves Montand" day because he was also in this movie; so was Gina Lollobrigida. You get the idea. Macho male and sexy female vie for power; the former with his fists and the latter with her wiles. By today's standards, its depiction of women was inconceivable. Here was head honco, Yves, sexually attacking and slapping loose woman, Gina, around while she alternately egged him on with relentless teasing and then laughed off his viscious attacks. She was also sleeping willy-nilly with this one and that, which made Yves even more heated, if you get my drift.
In this film, Yves is the bossman of the village, but Gina has the real power because she is the wayward daughter of the local Don. The pecking order established itself early, with a sort of Greek Chorus of villagers sitting on the sidelines, commenting on the action. I was riveted watching Jules Dassin's depiction of the male/female relationship and how the power ultimately lies with the woman because she dispenses sex as required to further her ambitions. (Not much has changed there.)
In an effort to rein Gina in, her mother, aunts and sisters...get this...seriously...strap her to the dining table and take turns viscously whipping the life out of her! Nevermind, ever the brave heroine, Gina refuses to cry and is finally rescued by one of her father's lascivious servants, who climbs on top of her in an effort to convince her that if she accepts his "advances", he will unbind her. Once again, Gina uses her sexuality to pretend she will let him have his way, but rejects him once he lets her go. More slapping.
Not restricting himself to women, Yves wallops and smacks his too-independent son around, along with anyone else who defies or disobeys him. I could not turn the tv off! In the end our Gina prevails by convincing her father on his deathbed -- again with her wiles -- to have Yves arrested. Oh yes, I forgot, there is another suitor -- Marcello Mastroianni -- who she sleeps with from time to time, because...um...?...I guess just for the heck of it(??!!).
Coincidentally, I watched this movie before I read that French prosecutors have now dropped all charges against Dominique Straus-Kahn, recently accused of the rape of a french journalist. You remember this guy -- the one who escaped the New York courts for allegedly raping a maid. Apparently in France, "sexual assault" and "rape" and miles apart and the fact that he claimed only to have "kissed" her a couple of times against her will was deemed to have been pretty harmless. Afterall, he didn't actually proceed to a full-on-Yves-Montand-style rape. Nice guy, he let her leave, so they dropped the charges. How considerate of him -- especially when he must have been in such an Yves-heated state.
All this is in stark juxtaposition to a new ad campaign here in Calgary. It features drunk young women being taken advantage of by horny young men. The caption reads, "Don't be one of those guys. Just because she doesn't say no, doesn't mean she says yes." This is a marked switch from the "she asked for it" refrain, whereby women are to blame for their rape. Now young men are also being held to account. Good thing, but ultimately both men and women have to behave appropriately. Being scantily-clad and drunk in a bar is still a dangerous thing to do because my guess is there will still be lots of guys lurking around in the shadows who haven't yet seen the ad campaign -- or who have, but raucously laughed it off.
Just to add yet another bizarro twist, today's paper also featured a story about a middle school in BC that has banned breast cancer awareness bracelets because they read, "I love boobies!" The bracelets are part of the "Save a Breast" campaign, but are apparently too edgy and offensive for some parents.
Go figure.
In this film, Yves is the bossman of the village, but Gina has the real power because she is the wayward daughter of the local Don. The pecking order established itself early, with a sort of Greek Chorus of villagers sitting on the sidelines, commenting on the action. I was riveted watching Jules Dassin's depiction of the male/female relationship and how the power ultimately lies with the woman because she dispenses sex as required to further her ambitions. (Not much has changed there.)
In an effort to rein Gina in, her mother, aunts and sisters...get this...seriously...strap her to the dining table and take turns viscously whipping the life out of her! Nevermind, ever the brave heroine, Gina refuses to cry and is finally rescued by one of her father's lascivious servants, who climbs on top of her in an effort to convince her that if she accepts his "advances", he will unbind her. Once again, Gina uses her sexuality to pretend she will let him have his way, but rejects him once he lets her go. More slapping.
Not restricting himself to women, Yves wallops and smacks his too-independent son around, along with anyone else who defies or disobeys him. I could not turn the tv off! In the end our Gina prevails by convincing her father on his deathbed -- again with her wiles -- to have Yves arrested. Oh yes, I forgot, there is another suitor -- Marcello Mastroianni -- who she sleeps with from time to time, because...um...?...I guess just for the heck of it(??!!).
Coincidentally, I watched this movie before I read that French prosecutors have now dropped all charges against Dominique Straus-Kahn, recently accused of the rape of a french journalist. You remember this guy -- the one who escaped the New York courts for allegedly raping a maid. Apparently in France, "sexual assault" and "rape" and miles apart and the fact that he claimed only to have "kissed" her a couple of times against her will was deemed to have been pretty harmless. Afterall, he didn't actually proceed to a full-on-Yves-Montand-style rape. Nice guy, he let her leave, so they dropped the charges. How considerate of him -- especially when he must have been in such an Yves-heated state.
All this is in stark juxtaposition to a new ad campaign here in Calgary. It features drunk young women being taken advantage of by horny young men. The caption reads, "Don't be one of those guys. Just because she doesn't say no, doesn't mean she says yes." This is a marked switch from the "she asked for it" refrain, whereby women are to blame for their rape. Now young men are also being held to account. Good thing, but ultimately both men and women have to behave appropriately. Being scantily-clad and drunk in a bar is still a dangerous thing to do because my guess is there will still be lots of guys lurking around in the shadows who haven't yet seen the ad campaign -- or who have, but raucously laughed it off.
Just to add yet another bizarro twist, today's paper also featured a story about a middle school in BC that has banned breast cancer awareness bracelets because they read, "I love boobies!" The bracelets are part of the "Save a Breast" campaign, but are apparently too edgy and offensive for some parents.
Go figure.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Celine is no Piaf
She's also no Judy. Edith Piaf was the original. Just flipped to an old movie, "Etoile sans lumiere", starring the magnificent French chanteuse. It made me realize what it was that set Piaf apart. Raw emotion. Forget Barbra Streisand and forget Celine. Both have glorious and resplendent voices, but they aren't the real thing. They just do not have the primal, gut-wrenching draw of an Edith Piaf or a Judy Garland.
Watching this sparse, black and white 1945 movie, with its primitive sound track, one-note muscians and rudimentary sets, I realized that Piaf was the first; she was unique. She played an innocuous background singer -- imagine Celine or Barbra doing that -- who was the real voice behind a famous singer. It was her voice they dubbed and she was grateful for the money. When the star dies, the promoters decide to feature the authentic voice of Piaf in a musical hall performance. The scene where she sings her audition is riveting. She actually "plays" the song and her gestures and expressions are almost painful to watch. She gives it absolutely everything and is exhausted when it's over. She does not break into a smile, or bow for applause. She remains in the state the song has induced for quite a while because she has really "become" the woman in the sad song she has just sung.
All looks promising, but when she steps on stage, visions of the dead star appear and she and freezes. Finally, terrible sounds come out of her, as she tries to continue. She can't, she faints. As they carry her off, the promoters are already dismissing her and talking about the next "star" they will feature. The last scene is Piaf walking alone out of the stage door, into obscurity. Very "French", I know, but can you imagine Striesand or Dion singing badly and ultimately failing?! Wouldn't happen.
Garland had the same electrifying effect when she took to a stage. It was impossible to watch either of these two women perform and not know they meant every word and had probably lived every line. People adored them in a viceral way. Watching that movie I understood why. Never having seen a live Garland concert, I have nonetheless seen many televised versions and my reaction to the naked vulnerability she revealed always made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.
I have seen televised concerts with Celine and, although her voice is magnificent, you just don't get the impression that she is living the songs. It's all about her and her image; same with Streisand. It's also all about money, which was never the case with their predecesors.
With the pipes, but not the soul, neither can hold a candle to Piaf, the original, nor Garland, the next and last in that line of tragic, yet stunning performers.
Watching this sparse, black and white 1945 movie, with its primitive sound track, one-note muscians and rudimentary sets, I realized that Piaf was the first; she was unique. She played an innocuous background singer -- imagine Celine or Barbra doing that -- who was the real voice behind a famous singer. It was her voice they dubbed and she was grateful for the money. When the star dies, the promoters decide to feature the authentic voice of Piaf in a musical hall performance. The scene where she sings her audition is riveting. She actually "plays" the song and her gestures and expressions are almost painful to watch. She gives it absolutely everything and is exhausted when it's over. She does not break into a smile, or bow for applause. She remains in the state the song has induced for quite a while because she has really "become" the woman in the sad song she has just sung.
All looks promising, but when she steps on stage, visions of the dead star appear and she and freezes. Finally, terrible sounds come out of her, as she tries to continue. She can't, she faints. As they carry her off, the promoters are already dismissing her and talking about the next "star" they will feature. The last scene is Piaf walking alone out of the stage door, into obscurity. Very "French", I know, but can you imagine Striesand or Dion singing badly and ultimately failing?! Wouldn't happen.
Garland had the same electrifying effect when she took to a stage. It was impossible to watch either of these two women perform and not know they meant every word and had probably lived every line. People adored them in a viceral way. Watching that movie I understood why. Never having seen a live Garland concert, I have nonetheless seen many televised versions and my reaction to the naked vulnerability she revealed always made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.
I have seen televised concerts with Celine and, although her voice is magnificent, you just don't get the impression that she is living the songs. It's all about her and her image; same with Streisand. It's also all about money, which was never the case with their predecesors.
With the pipes, but not the soul, neither can hold a candle to Piaf, the original, nor Garland, the next and last in that line of tragic, yet stunning performers.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Finally
Hit the pool yesterday for the first time in I-don't-know-how-long. Months. Way too long! It's a YMCA facility and immaculate -- unlike the Ottawa city pool in which I swam: disgustingly filthy. Howard Hughes would never have dunked a warped toenailed toe into it. Muscles have no memory, as Claude, the longtime manager of the Ottawa Y pool, used to say. Found that out, but it felt so good to be back swimming. Swimming and writing are two things I am compelled to do. So went back this morning and here I am blogging about it.
They have the "slow / medium / fast" lane thing going, but with a twist: the lifeguards switch the signs depending upon the speed of the swimmers. So, I was repeatedly swum over by a very fast, agressive girl because I hadn't noticed they had renamed the "medium" lane to "fast". I probably should have been flattered at having been deemed acceptably deft and nimble for the fast lane, but I felt too slow, so ducked into the medium again, only to be too fast because all the "slow" people had moved there. What to do, what to do?! I will figure it out, eventually.
A word about street names in Calgary. I love them. Trails with names like "Shaganappi, Sarcee, Nose Hill, Crowchild, Deerfoot and Stoney". Then there's the "12 Mile Coulee" and the "Calf Robe", not to mention all the Indian names. Yes, Calgary is a frontier city. But so progressive in so many ways, with a woman premier, a woman leading the Wild Rose Party and a Muslim mayor.
Just love this place!
They have the "slow / medium / fast" lane thing going, but with a twist: the lifeguards switch the signs depending upon the speed of the swimmers. So, I was repeatedly swum over by a very fast, agressive girl because I hadn't noticed they had renamed the "medium" lane to "fast". I probably should have been flattered at having been deemed acceptably deft and nimble for the fast lane, but I felt too slow, so ducked into the medium again, only to be too fast because all the "slow" people had moved there. What to do, what to do?! I will figure it out, eventually.
A word about street names in Calgary. I love them. Trails with names like "Shaganappi, Sarcee, Nose Hill, Crowchild, Deerfoot and Stoney". Then there's the "12 Mile Coulee" and the "Calf Robe", not to mention all the Indian names. Yes, Calgary is a frontier city. But so progressive in so many ways, with a woman premier, a woman leading the Wild Rose Party and a Muslim mayor.
Just love this place!
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Your tax dollars at work
Well, haven't been in Calgary more than a month and today I frittered away quite a few tax dollars. Started when I popped outside the back door to shake a carpet. I immediately heard the sickening "click" of the security post, as it efficiently slid into place in the door jam. Oh my g-d! No, no, no!!! There I was, locked out of my house in a pair of ratty shorts, a ripped T-shirt and barefeet. And it was very cold. What the hell to do now?! I stood there, stunned. All kinds of thoughts raced through my mind...did I leave the stove on? Was water running? Now what?
I started roaming the deserted streets in search of....what?? No clue. Finally a woman appeared, walking with her grandchild. She tried hard to avoid me and crossed the street, but up to her I marched, introduced myself and as she re-coiled from this mad-looking bag lady wandering the streets with a carpet in her hands, dressed in beach-wear, I politely said, "Good morning, I'm your new (mental) neighbour and I've just locked myself out of my house while shaking this rug." What the hell I thought dragging the rug around with me would accomplish I have no clue. Lend credulity to my story? The grandaughter took one look at me and promptly started wailing.
Explaining the situation, I asked if I could use her phone to call...who? 911 seemed ridiculous, but eventually we both agreed that with no phone book (thanks to cellphones), the only thing to do was to actually call 911.
"911, what is your emergency? Do you need police or fire?" That almost stumped me right there. Did I need the police or the fire department to get back in? Dread seized me, as I pictured my firefighter son-in-law being the one to arrive in a fire truck to find me dazed and wandering the streets in such a state. I opted for the police. "Uh, well I'm not sure if this is an actual emergency, but I have locked myself out of my house and I'm standing out in the public thoroughfare half-dressed." Pause. Oh dear, said the sympathetic 911 operator.
She told me she would send the police. The kindly neighbour went back into her house and emerged with a fuzzy, turquoise bathrobe. I donned it gratefully and went back to sit on my front stoop to await my fate. When two of Calgary's finest drove up 30 minutes later, they found me huddled in a garish bathrobe with a carpet wrapped around my frozen feet. Professional to the end, they politely introduced themselves and proceeded to try to pick the lock. Another half hour later, we all admitted defeat. They called a locksmith.
Sitting for the first time in my life in the back of a police cruiser, I tried to make the best of this nightmare and began to chit-chat with my two rescuers -- both young constables, both extremely charming and understanding. I tried to turn the whole thing into a sort of social event, babbling on about the new premier, the mayor, the traffic, the speed limits, the coyotes, the rabbits......and on and on. Another half hour and the locksmith arrived. Two minutes and $80 later, I was back inside my home. But wait. The whole thing -- although beyond the pale -- had yet to conclude.
Not five minutes later, a fire truck raced up to the door and three of Calgary's other finest banged for entrance. Whaaaaaaat??!! Apparently, the police had phoned in a natural gas alarm; we had all noticed the odour while sitting in the cruiser. Because they phoned from outside my door, my door was the one upon which they banged. Praying one of them was not my son-in-law, I opened the door. After explaining the whole sorry incident, they left to drive around the neighbourhood to see if they could find the source of the smell.
As I said, lots of tax dollars wasted this morning.
I started roaming the deserted streets in search of....what?? No clue. Finally a woman appeared, walking with her grandchild. She tried hard to avoid me and crossed the street, but up to her I marched, introduced myself and as she re-coiled from this mad-looking bag lady wandering the streets with a carpet in her hands, dressed in beach-wear, I politely said, "Good morning, I'm your new (mental) neighbour and I've just locked myself out of my house while shaking this rug." What the hell I thought dragging the rug around with me would accomplish I have no clue. Lend credulity to my story? The grandaughter took one look at me and promptly started wailing.
Explaining the situation, I asked if I could use her phone to call...who? 911 seemed ridiculous, but eventually we both agreed that with no phone book (thanks to cellphones), the only thing to do was to actually call 911.
"911, what is your emergency? Do you need police or fire?" That almost stumped me right there. Did I need the police or the fire department to get back in? Dread seized me, as I pictured my firefighter son-in-law being the one to arrive in a fire truck to find me dazed and wandering the streets in such a state. I opted for the police. "Uh, well I'm not sure if this is an actual emergency, but I have locked myself out of my house and I'm standing out in the public thoroughfare half-dressed." Pause. Oh dear, said the sympathetic 911 operator.
She told me she would send the police. The kindly neighbour went back into her house and emerged with a fuzzy, turquoise bathrobe. I donned it gratefully and went back to sit on my front stoop to await my fate. When two of Calgary's finest drove up 30 minutes later, they found me huddled in a garish bathrobe with a carpet wrapped around my frozen feet. Professional to the end, they politely introduced themselves and proceeded to try to pick the lock. Another half hour later, we all admitted defeat. They called a locksmith.
Sitting for the first time in my life in the back of a police cruiser, I tried to make the best of this nightmare and began to chit-chat with my two rescuers -- both young constables, both extremely charming and understanding. I tried to turn the whole thing into a sort of social event, babbling on about the new premier, the mayor, the traffic, the speed limits, the coyotes, the rabbits......and on and on. Another half hour and the locksmith arrived. Two minutes and $80 later, I was back inside my home. But wait. The whole thing -- although beyond the pale -- had yet to conclude.
Not five minutes later, a fire truck raced up to the door and three of Calgary's other finest banged for entrance. Whaaaaaaat??!! Apparently, the police had phoned in a natural gas alarm; we had all noticed the odour while sitting in the cruiser. Because they phoned from outside my door, my door was the one upon which they banged. Praying one of them was not my son-in-law, I opened the door. After explaining the whole sorry incident, they left to drive around the neighbourhood to see if they could find the source of the smell.
As I said, lots of tax dollars wasted this morning.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
More on high heels
Read an interesting view of high heels by Russell Smith in the Globe and Mail the other day. He said:
"This is a political question that a man dare not venture an opinion on (bad grammar there, but not mine). I came of age in an era in which high heels were denounced as instruments of male oppression. They hobble, damage the feet, distort the tendons in the leg and are deliberately painful, like corsets and all the other constraining female garb that men, not coincidentally, do not have to wear. In my 20s, the women around me would have considered wearing any kind of heel a betrayal of their most dearly held principles. And many of those women still feel that way. Like most guys, I react powerfully to the erotic charge of the elongated leg and outthrust buttocks that high heels deliver. But to this day, I feel vaguely guilty about it."
Nevertheless, I wouldn't be without them. I just love high heels.
"This is a political question that a man dare not venture an opinion on (bad grammar there, but not mine). I came of age in an era in which high heels were denounced as instruments of male oppression. They hobble, damage the feet, distort the tendons in the leg and are deliberately painful, like corsets and all the other constraining female garb that men, not coincidentally, do not have to wear. In my 20s, the women around me would have considered wearing any kind of heel a betrayal of their most dearly held principles. And many of those women still feel that way. Like most guys, I react powerfully to the erotic charge of the elongated leg and outthrust buttocks that high heels deliver. But to this day, I feel vaguely guilty about it."
Nevertheless, I wouldn't be without them. I just love high heels.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Ten pieces left over
That's how many nuts and bolts we had left after putting together an IKEA desk. Oops! And why does it always involve a lot of swearing and fighting? At least, that's how B and I put the stuff together. First of all, you have to pretty much strip down to your undies because you work up such a sweat. So, don't bother to shower first; that you do afterwards. What a bloody rigamarole!
Good thing B is a lateral thinker. It allows him to just pull out the screws we put in on the wrong end of a piece, instead of taking the whole thing apart and putting it back together with the screws in the right place...so the top will fit on...so the dowalls are in the right place...so the drawer fits right...oh hell, just forget those two screws. And out he yanks them.
We take on the roles of Jackie Gleason and Art Carney during these sessions. This morning I was determined not to get sucked into putting together his blessed desk. First of all, I didn't think he needed another desk in our small office. Lost that fight. So, the desk is delivered, but so heavy we can't even get it out of the garage, let alone up the stairs and into the office. Our son-in-law performed that task before dinner last evening. Nice one, Nancy. Invite your daughter and her husband over for turkey, but by the way, would you mind schlepping a desk upstairs first?
I ignored him for a whole half hour with my own puttering until he said..."I don't get this." History tells me that if I don't get involved at that stage, he will just barrel ahead and force-fit the whole thing into a complete jumbled mess. So, I grabbed the 400-page instructions and diagrams and started. I played Ralph to his Ed -- with all the attendant raving, calling each other stupid and idiot and moron and how-can-you-be-so-f-ing dumb! But low and behold, two byzantine hours later, the thing was finished.
Except for those 10 nuts and bolts....???
Good thing B is a lateral thinker. It allows him to just pull out the screws we put in on the wrong end of a piece, instead of taking the whole thing apart and putting it back together with the screws in the right place...so the top will fit on...so the dowalls are in the right place...so the drawer fits right...oh hell, just forget those two screws. And out he yanks them.
We take on the roles of Jackie Gleason and Art Carney during these sessions. This morning I was determined not to get sucked into putting together his blessed desk. First of all, I didn't think he needed another desk in our small office. Lost that fight. So, the desk is delivered, but so heavy we can't even get it out of the garage, let alone up the stairs and into the office. Our son-in-law performed that task before dinner last evening. Nice one, Nancy. Invite your daughter and her husband over for turkey, but by the way, would you mind schlepping a desk upstairs first?
I ignored him for a whole half hour with my own puttering until he said..."I don't get this." History tells me that if I don't get involved at that stage, he will just barrel ahead and force-fit the whole thing into a complete jumbled mess. So, I grabbed the 400-page instructions and diagrams and started. I played Ralph to his Ed -- with all the attendant raving, calling each other stupid and idiot and moron and how-can-you-be-so-f-ing dumb! But low and behold, two byzantine hours later, the thing was finished.
Except for those 10 nuts and bolts....???
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