They were right

When I was told flowers get tougher out here and harden off, they were right.  After buying my patio plants too early and covering them for a couple of weeks at night, they out-did themselves.  I think my flowers are the most beautiful I have grown.  Here they are, in all their glory:





We also celebrated my daughter's mother-in-law's 60th birthday.  Oh, to be that young again!

Reed's paternal grandparents, Brian and Dolly McArthur, wonderful people.

 



Daddy Colin, fresh from fighting a big house fire, with Reed.

Mid-summer adventures

On another jaunt to a race with daughter, Susanne, and Reed.  This one a "mud" variety.  Just this side of Canmore at a "real" ranch, with everyone on horseback and stuff.  Here are a few shots:

A tad filty after crawling through the mud.

We had fun.

Another letter to the editor.............

Wrote to The Calgary Herald about gun violence, here it is:

Creeping in

By Nancy Marley-Clarke, Calgary Herald
July 28, 2012 9:01 AM

Re: "Vigils will burn out, but gun crime won't," Naomi Lakritz, Opinion, July 25.

I don't think we can let ourselves get too smug about gun violence. Yes, Americans have far too many guns, but not long ago, gunmen rampaged through a mall and a picnic in Toronto, killing several people. We also had random, deadly gang violence right here in a Calgary restaurant not long ago. And let's not forget Vancouver's recent wave of gang violence, during which many were killed on city streets and their own front lawns.

We Canadians like to think ourselves as peaceful and law abiding, but the "sick mindset about guns in the U.S." that Naomi Lakritz describes is creeping into our own neighbourhoods with alarming speed. Scary.

Nancy Marley-Clarke, Calgary

© Copyright (c) The Calgary Herald

Not a pretty sight

So, there I was, draped atop an overturned grocery cart in the parking lot with my you-know-what hanging out.  I had exited the store, only to run up against the unforgiving gulf between sidewalk and parking lot.  My cart stopped dead; my corp continued.  Thus, the sight of me, flung over the cart, diet coke spilling everywhere, was the parking lot feature of the day.

Do you think red-blooded Calgarian teens would help me?  Not on your life.  They sniggered and walked past, as I struggled to right myself (unsuccessfully) with a tad of dignity.  No.  The teens who rushed immediately to my rescue wore head scarfs.  Calgarians, but not the kind we think of as native.  The young man immediately helped me up and then proceeded to check every can to see if it were leaking; I lost only two.  Those he threw in the trash and bagged the survivors.  The young lady helped me to my car and unloaded my groceries.  They were so charming and lovely.  I tripped-over-chairs to thank them profusely for their kindness.

Did not hurt myself, thank heavens.

It is always upbringing that defines or separates us, never race or religion.         

Vacuuming

Just finished a hard slog of it.  Now, I only do one floor at a time and cycle through the house.  As a result, it's never all clean at the same time.  Like I care.  As to outfits when undertaking this odious chore, it's underwear and an old t-shirt.  Remember?  That's the get-up I had on last Fall when I locked myself out of the house while shaking out a throw rug and had to call the police to get me back in.  Truly, a charming moment.  (See blog "Your tax dollars at work", October 11, 2011) 

Over the years, I have experimented with many varieties of cleaning ladies -- all ages, nationalities, shapes and sizes -- but have been happy with narry a one.  Oh, there might have been an exception, a young woman who came three times a week and did one floor each visit.  She also did laundry and ironing and taught me how to fold socks so they were perfectly flat -- not bunched up into balls.  But it used to irk me to fork over a lot of money to the others to have my house not-as-I-wanted-it. 

Calgary is the dustiest city I have had to vacuum in (or is that "in which I have had to vacuum").  Granted, I have only vacuumed in two others, Toronto and Ottawa, but it's astonishing how much dust piles up on everything here on the Prairie.  The only upside is that we don't get the wilting humidity that engulfs Ottawa when it's hot.  The humidity keeps the dust down there, but here it settles happily on the whole lot.

Every time I vacuum, I think of something a young mother I know said to justify the fact that she had a cleaning lady, but did not work outside the home.  "The only reason I have a cleaning lady is that I hate vacuuming."  "Oh come on, the rest of us love it!"  I replied, after picking myself up off the floor. 

Now, that is one of the more ridiculous remarks ever uttered by one woman to another.   

Why so many words for this sorry state?

"Drunk."  For some reason there are almost 50 synonyms for that word -- more than I have ever seen for any other when I use a thesaurus.  Why is that?  B and I were having a laugh in the car the other day, trying to think of as many as we could, but didn't quite hit 50, although we did come up with many not suggested by the thesaurus.  Here they are:

dead drunk
drunk as a lord
blotto
smashed
sh-t-faced
(well) oiled
plastered
sloshed
bombed
blasted
pie-eyed (my late Aunt Pat's favourite)
trashed
ploughed
feeling no pain
tidley
blitzed
tanked
stoned (high-jacked by the drug culture)
wrecked
zonked
ripped
legless (new to me)
under the influence
three sheets to the wind
one over the eight (also new to me)
inebriated
intoxicated
loaded
stewed
soused
crocked
cranked
buzzed
lit (up)
liquored (up)
pickled
high
tight
in the bag
tipsy
boiled
gassed
gunned
pissed
whacked
over-refreshed (love that one, originated in "Frank" magazine)
feeling no pain
out of it
pinned, and
canned

For the moment, that's all I can come up with, but I am sure there are many more.  Linguistically, I can't figure out why there are so many?  I wonder if other languages have as many?  I know in French, the expression "J'ai pris une brosse" means "I got drunk".  It translates literally as "I took a brush" -- guess that refers to how the head feels after over-imbibing.

The social stigma attached to being "drunk" may be the reason we use so many other words to describe the condition. 
What can I tell you?  Bizarre things such as this with language facinate me. 

Hair thoughts..........

Danny, the Ottawa stylist who did my hair for 22 years before we moved out here, (do yourself a favour and read his fabulous blog, "Beauty is an Ugly Business."  His moniker is "Hairburner") wrote back when I consulted him about growing my hair at my age.  Here's what he advised:

"Absolutely! Grow it!  Grey hair is the status symbol in the 21st century.  Even hair colour companies have jumped on the band wagon with silver permanent colour shades.  A really avant garde look is for people to go salt and pepper.  I kid you not.  You've already got it!

"Invest in some hairbands.  They will be your best friend in the coming year.  Pull your luscious locks away from your face and scrunch the curls.  You've always been a stylish dresser and an expert on accessorizing so in my humble opinion, I know you can rock it out (like the kids say!)

"Don't get frustrated (everyone does) and if you need a trim, go to a salon and tell them you need to get a shaping for the length it is as you're growing it out.  Ask them is there anyone here who will do that?  Trim it 2-4 times a year.  Good luck growing your hair."

Dan was also the guy who encouraged me to "go for it" back in '92, when I decided to stop dying my hair.  So I stopped right then and there.  I had to go through the "bag lady" stage, with roots and the like, but I remember the happy day he cut the final dyed bits away forever.  I felt completely liberated from the drugstore products I had been chained to for many years. 

Letting your hair "go" means freedom to wear anything you want.  The vision that prompted this latest desire to grow my hair was Emmy Lou Harris.  She is my age, one month older, and has the most beautiful long, grey hair.  Why the hell not?  I have been determined to do this for about five years, but sadly never get past the "yuck" stages.  Will I succeed this time?  No clue, but with Dan telling me to hang on and...."just wear a lot of headbands"....I may get through the hideous stages. 

I have grown my hair before and guess what?  When I find myself tying it back all the time, I just cut it off.

As I have blogged, "We are our hair, ladies."   

I bow to hats

Changed the title of my blog to "The View from Hats and High Heels", in deference to my love of hats.  Many women shy away from wearing hats because they tend to scream "look at me".  I don't care, I love and wear them anyway.  Nothing deals with a bad hair day like a hat.  The other reason is that I have had four skin cancers removed from my face and don't need any more problems in that department.

Every time I wear a hat I get compliments.  My daughter says it's because people stare and feel they have to say something, even though they may not like your "get-up", as my dear mother used to say.  "G-d, what a hideous hat," is not going to come out of their mouths, so they say, "Great hat!" 

Visiting my old friend Barbara in Toronto a couple of weeks ago was such a treat.  She is an original, to say the least.  The owner of many more hats than I, she wears them all the time.  We also share a love of jewellery -- both real and costume, which we mix and match with gay abandon.  Our get together started with Mass, after which we headed out to a great lunch in The Beaches.  When I lived in TO, The Beaches was a dump, but it has been reclaimed and is thriving.  In fact, I sacrilegiously bought my cowboy hat there -- a bargain at $10.

I first met Barbara 40 years ago when my late cousin introduced us.  Liked her immediately.  Later on I became re-acquainted with her through B, who was also a friend.  Problem back then was that she was also a friend of his ex-wife, so that chilled relations between us.  But she quickly saw the light, left the dark side and became our friend -- which she remains.  What a life she has had!  Raising two gorgeous sons on her own, she eventually married famous Canadian art collector, O.J. Firestone (God rest his soul), and toured the world with his collection.  I don't know which attraction people came to see -- Barbara or the art?  When you meet Barbara MacMahon-Firestone, you never forget her.  She says exactly what she thinks and boasts a laugh as raucous as mine. 

Back at her condo, enjoying champagne (I was, not she), she gave me two hats.  I think had I admired one of her fur coats, she would have handed it over.  She has done that on more than one occasion.  As I said, generous to a fault at times.  You can read her comments on this blog; she has also started one of her own.      

More "American" stuff

US television has turned the tragedy in Colorado into a reality show.  Every station I tune in features the governor or the mayor congratulating himself and his colleagues on what a great job they did in the aftermath of the shooting.  Just watched the mayor of Aurora introducing his entire city council.  Why? What for?  Last night watched the governor making a speech and actually.......actually..........cracking a few jokes!  It was unreal.

You know those "cringe" moments, when you want to hide under the chesterfield, there have been way too many about this mess.  How could the shooter have so many guns and rounds?  Well, that's the good, old American Rifle Association for you. 

In Canada, tragedies such as this -- albeit on a smaller scale -- are handled by the police chief, not by politicians.

So unserious.



  

Nail polish

Still crappy.  I haven't used a colour for years because nail polish always chips.  I use Revlon's "Pearl" because when it chips it doesn't show.  Yesterday I decided to apply a colour that matched my "outfit".  We had been invited to the 75th birthday celebration of a new friend here in Calgary and, after getting dressed, I painted on coat one.  A few minutes later, I added coat two.  OK for the moment, but only for a moment because "B" asked me to help him insert his a-little-too-large Wimbledon links into the French cuffs of his shirt.  After pushing and shoving them into the islets, I looked at my nails and realized I had to cover a couple of chips.  Done.  Off we went.

It was a wonderful party and started with Mass, celebrated at their son's gorgeous Elbow-River home by an old friend of their family.  The food and cheer were ample, this being a very Irish gang.  Having earlier told some of the family at another gathering about having met Her Majesty and the hat I had to buy for the occasion, they insisted I wear my "Queen" outfit to the party.  Naturally, I ended up being over-dressed.  No matter, we enjoyed ourselves immensely -- especially the excellent jazz trio.

Just thought I'd mention that for his 70th birthday, the entertainment was.....wait for it....Tony Bennet.  Can you imagine having Tony Bennet at your party?  I mean, that's the real deal. 

But back to nail polish.  Once home, I inspected my nails.  They were now a mess.  How home-applied nail polish cannot last at least one day amazes me.  I guess that's why there are so many Vietnamese nail salons all over Canada.  Nail polish remains a disaster.  Back to "pearl".   

       

Here's the autograph

Here's a photo of the boarding pass Theo Fleury signed for me on the way back from Toronto.  Pretty cool guy (see "I knew it was he" blog):

It says, "To Nancy, don't quite before the miracle, stay happy.  Theo Fleury"

A Day at the Races

Last weekend I accompanied daughter, Susanne, and grandson, Reed, to Invermere B.C. -- the heart of the Rockies --  where Susanne was doing an olympic-distance triathlon.  My role was to look after the baby.  Driving there, we inadvertantly found ourselves on an alternate route, which proved a good thing when it provided wonderful sights of moose, mountain goat and deer. 

The road through the mountains is extremely curvy, but that didn't stop every other driver from either speeding past way over the limit, or sitting on my tail.  Read the other day that this year, six black bears have already been killed by zooming drivers.  (I hope the bears left expensive damage on the cars of their killers as the innocent creatures expired.)

Invermere is picture-postcard beautiful, right on Lake Windermere.  Arriving at the venue around 7 a.m., I found a perfect parking spot.  But just before the race was to begin, who decides to take a HUGE dump in his diaper?  Our darling.  That meant I had to take him back to the hotel to hose him off.  But before I left, I spotted a tiny parking spot outside the back door of a camper that was annoyingly occupying two spots.  I shoved the stroller into it.  When we returned, none of the big SUVs and crossovers everyone here drives was able to fit into it, so I had prevailed. 

In a little more than two hours, in comes Mum, but we had no idea how she had fared, there being a number of relays and team races of differing distances on the go simultaneously.  I was sent to see where she had placed, but there were so many sheets posted for so many categories, I had no clue how to decifer the complicated overall results.  Turns out, Susanne placed third overall (first in her age category) and actually won some money.  Wow, a podium finish just after having a baby.  After she had gone up to receive her award, with Reed on her hip, a young woman rushed up and said, "You are a rock star!  Just had a baby and you come third!"  Very cool. 

Here are a few shots of our adventure:

Reed enjoying a picnic on the way.

Dinner the night before the race.

Eating a lemon(?)

Mum getting her award, or is it Reed?

I'll take the cheque, thanks.

 

Scooters and flutter boards

Both make men look, well, silly.  "Sorry Nancy, can't talk right now," said Gerry at the pool this morning.  "Have to time myself on the next few laps."  "No problem," I conceded, thinking he was going to pound it to the other end and back.  But no, off he takes on his flutter board!  Seriously, timing yourself on a flutter board?  Gimme a break.  I mean, how many swim meets and triathlons call for flutter boards!  And he looked somewhat ridiculous, with his little feet whirring away.  That's what I mean, a grown man on a flutter board just looks comical.  I had to duck under water to keep from roaring.

A few years back, one of our daughters was dating a guy who seemed relatively masculine.  Until she saw him on his scooter.  That was pretty much it.  There he was, sensible helmut on head, motoring along with his legs demurely pinched together on his little, feminine scooter.  Virility just drained out of him.  Guys buy motocycles to garner the macho personna that comes with spreading their legs over huge, powerful machines to roar off into the horizon.  Not that I am a big fan of noisy motorcycles, driven by lunatics at reckless speeds, but they do trump the scooter for machismo. 

Years later we still laugh about him on his scooter.

And the other thing men of any age look ridiculous in?  My old favourite, speedos. 

  

What a crock

Following the recent gang killings in Toronto, a wave of interviews with "experts" has hit the ether.  Half listening to the radio last evening, I wheeled around from the kitchen sink and snapped to it when I heard one guy, Amrit Mukerjee, head of some association or other in that city, say, "There are many organizations that should be doing a lot more to help these kids and keep them out of gangs.  The schools, community organizations, social support networks, peer groups, the police...........they all have a role to play."

In his exhaustive list of where the buck stopped he did not mention.......wait for it.........hard to fathom.......the parents!  Not once.  That's how ridiculous things have become.  Parents have now been taken completely out of the equation for the behaviour of their kids -- up to and including killing people.

The very saddest chapter is that of the two people who were murdered, one was an innocent 12-year-old girl and the other was a 24-year-old honours grad in criminology.  The gang members escaped.  So tragic. 

This one's for Faye, Elayne and Phil.....

A few years ago, I was in Vancouver with a few Canada Revenue Agency colleagues.  As we were enjoying a libation or two on a patio after a gruelling day of pissing field personnel off.  (They hate visits from HQ, as they always think we know nothing and they know everything.  They also think we exist purely to bug them and keep them from actually "working".  In many cases, of course, they are right; nevertheless, we have to conduct field visits from time to time to justify our existence.  When I first started I had to fake it for a while until I really did know my job, but I digress.) 

As we were being served by our waiter, obviously a relatively new immigrant, judging from his limited English, I said, "Excuse me young man, we are from Revenue Canada and I want to know if you are declaring all your tips."  He paled.  "I could go on the mainframe right now and look you up and I can guarantee you are not."  He turned whiter and grabbed the back of a chair.  (By the way, I could not go on the mainframe and look him up without a reason or I would have been fired.  That's so we don't look at the returns of celebraties and the like.  But he didn't know that.)  Here's how things work, I continued. 

"Taxes pay for things like health care.  You cannot get a heart transplant in the underground economy.  That's not how it works.    Everyone declares all their income and pays all their taxes, got that?  Now when you go home, I want you to tell all your relatives that's how it works in Canada."  He nodded vigorously and ran off as fast as he could.  By this time, my colleagues were killing themselves laughing, but I may have accomplished something.  If not, more audits such as the one conducted recently in St. Catherines will.

It seems that a pilot project targetting 145 servers in just four restaurants -- that's right, four -- found that in only two years, these servers managed to slide $1.7 million into their aprons without paying tax.  That's $12,000 per thief!  "The amount of unreported income was very surprising," the report concluded.  That's an understatement.   

It's about time we started hitting the underground economy, where an estimated $36 billion per year is pocketed by waiters, painters, plumbers, electricians, landscapers, handymen.............and the like.  I could never figure out why we didn't go after these taxes with more vigour?  Apparently my old friends at RevCan are now doing so. 

Sick of them

I used to love the Beatles, but after 49 years I am pretty sick of them.  Just thought I'd throw that in.

By the way, true story, when B was doing post-graduate work at The London School of Economics, he went to a Liverpudlian pub with his cousins where "guess who" was playing?  This was when Pete Best was the drummer.  B sat and chatted with the band, but as their last set approached, it appeared Mr. Best was in no shape to play drums, so George Harrison invited B to sit in and play drums. 

That's how B played drums for the Beatles for an entire set.

He recalls that George was very sweet, ditto Paul, but John was an a--hole.  So, there you go.

I saw many groups before they were famous, such as Led Zepplin, Jimi Hendrix, The Doors, The Plastic Ono Band, Janis Joplin, The Band, Bob Dylan, The Moody Blues, Sly and the Family Stone, James Brown, The Beachboys.............but groups were more accessible back in the day. 

So, our 15 minutes of fame.


.

Eight "per", or 16 a pair

That's how they divide "prairie oysters" for eating.  Anyone know what a "prairie oyster" is?  Yes, correct.  They are the testicles of a bull.  Had my first taste last evening at a BBQ at The Ranchmen's Club, where we dined before heading off to The Stampede.  The spread was unbelievable.  Everything was labelled and when I saw "prairie oysters", I knew what they were because my son-in-law had been involved with that, ahem, "operation" last Spring during branding time at the ranch of a friend.  "They were just lying around on the ground everywhere, Mum," said my daughter.  "Sometimes they would just throw them on the fire and people would eat them."

The teenaged grandson of a tablemate was ahead of us in line and I asked him what "that" dish was.  "Oysters", he said helpfully.  "Thanks," I replied.  Back at the table, as he was wolfing down the "prairie" variety, I said, "Do you know what those really are?"  "Yeah, curry oysters."  "No, they are bull testicles."  As fast as you could say "splat", they were all over his plate.  "Whaaaaaat??!!!"  He was dumbfounded.  I guess it's pretty difficult for a man to wrap his brain around eating testicles.  To me, they tasted exactly like kidneys and were delicious.  To the kid's credit, he decided to initiate himself and finished every last one.  Good on him.

I said to the chef, "They seem pretty small for bull testicles?"  He said, "Eight per side and 16 a pair."  I nearly died laughing.  That's how they cut them up for cooking.  Perfect.

Then it was off to The Stampede.  We were seated in the grandstand next to two women on my right and a middle-aged man on my left.  Friendly beyond the beyond, the women immediately took us under their collective wing and instructed us on how to bet on "the chucks".  Wendy even bought me a beer.  The chuckwagon races are amazing.  The horses are all thoroughbreds which, for one reason or another, can no longer compete in individual races.  They are bought by the chuckwagon(er-guys) and given a new lease on life for many years.  Without this event, they would be dog food or glue.  Contrary to what the freakish and deluded "animal rights" people claim, these horses are pampered and very happy. 

But back to the grandstand.  Dee told me I would have the fouth entry no one else wanted.  Guess what?  My entries won five out of nine heats.  Not that we were betting with money, just for the hell of it.  Everyone was slightly "over-refreshed" and I assumed Dee was a party girl.  No such thing.  Dee was a professional geological engineer.  Forgive me darling, I was not in "Stampede" mode.  She was absolutely awesome, so was Wendy.

The guy to my left was "Ole", a Danish-born plumber and long-time Calgary resident.  He talked to me as if we had been friends forever.  At one point, chatting about something or other, he said, "Geez, I don't remember that, how old do you think I am?"  I guessed 55.  "58," he said.  Then I said, "How old do you think I am?"  "55."  Man, he made my day.  You know that show, "How to Look 10 Years Younger"?  that was me last night.  Got a 10-year break.

The Stampede is amazing!                 

Family Visit

Had a great visit with my two nephews and their darling children while in T.O.  Here are a few snaps:

Jonathan and Michael Booth, sons of my darling cousin, the late Betty-Anne, with whom I toured Europe a thousand years ago.  We were brought up like sisters.  I miss her terribly.

My son, Gene, with his cousins.

Jonathan's wife, Jessica, a real doll.

Gene and Jonathan

Michael and his nephew, Jackson Roland Booth.

Michael's daughters, Lily and Sasha, with their cousin Chloe.

We had a wonderful family visit.   

I knew it was he

There was something very familiar about the man who came down the aisle in the plane yesterday.  When he had passed, it hit me.  When he returned I stopped him and said, "Are you who I think you are?"  He paused, looked at me and I added, "Theo Fleury?"  Yes I am.  "I am so thrilled to meet you!"  I stuck out my hand and said, "You are everyone's hero.  We love you."  He could not have been nicer.  Naturally, I asked for his autograph and he said, "Sure, what's your name?"  I fumbled around in my purse and the only paper I had was my boarding pass.  No pen, of course, but the lady beside me had one and handed it over. 

"To Nancy, don't quit before the miracle.  Enjoy life!  Theo Fleury"

He then squated beside me in the aisle and we had quite a chat.  He is such a genuine, lovely person.  You can tell there's not a phony bone in his body.  Charming.  His wife and daughter came along and she is absolutely gorgeous and the baby is a darling tousled toddler.  It was one of those moments.  When he left, I said to the man across the aisle, "Wow, what a privilege to meet Theo Fleury."  He looked blank.  "You know, the famous hockey player who was abused and wrote a book about it."  Captain America said, "We're from Washington and we don't follow Canadian hockey."  Oh of course, another typical American who has no clue what happens north of the 49th parallel. 

So, that was the highlight of my trip home.  Nice way to end a great weekend with my son.


 

There's no other way...

...to travel.  I am sitting in the Priority Pass Lounge at Pearson International, after a gruelling trip here from the other side of town.  Why was it gruelling?  Because I have absolutely no sense of direction.  None.  And don't bother with google-maps.  Useless.  Highways and ramps and feeder lanes and construction effectively mean that any directions you print today are "n/a" tomorrow. 

Having lived here -- albeit 40 years ago -- I thought I knew where the bloody airport was, but no.  Heck, it's right there, isn't it?! The upside was that being clueless meant I had a great tour of western T.O. (or as it is now called, The GTA, greater Toronto authority), Woodbine Racetrack -- where the great Northern Dancer of Windfields Farm won so many races -- and various dead ends and bizarre neighbourhoods.  I finally arrived at the airport, but do you think I could possibly find the rental dropoff location?  Not on your life!  So small and cute, the directional signs were definitely designed by a smarty pants just out of the Ontario College of Art.  I actually went into a parking lot, had to get a ticket and scoot out the other end in milli-seconds.  Happily, I was not charged.  Some airports I am sure would have levied a $50 charge for three seconds.

Finally found the rental.  Dropped off the car.  Handed over $1 million for three days.  Then trudged over to.........the wrong terminal.  I kinda' suspected I was in the wrong place when I encountered not one other caucasian.  (Oh, forgot to mention that turn signals on Toronto freeways mean nothing.  You activate one and are immediately aggressively horned by a 12-year-old male in a muscle car going 800 km/hr.)  But back to the terminal terminal.  Finally found "3", out of which 'WestJet' flies and checked in.

Wasn't I thrilled to be the delirious lottery winner standing just behind the roadie from some rock band, checking in a thousand amps and guitars and this-and-that-and-this-and-that.  He was about 50, skinny, with dyed blonde hair, greasy and balding.  I am sure he thought he was a complete dreamboat, but quasimodo, I have news for you.  After smoothing the way, he waved the rest of the band over who ducked under the rope that keeps the great unwashed and untouchables at bay.  (Bulletin:  the band members were the unwashed and the untouchable.)  They were so old, "ducking" was a bit of a challenge.  Why has-been rock stars have to dye their hair and try and cover up the inevitable is beyond me.  But on the upsdie, I have a few dyed blonde women they can meet!

The band leader was pathetically trying to put the moves on the check-in chick -- who was about 12 -- and kept asking her age and when did she get her break and why not meet them in the lounge for a cocktail.  Leaning on the counter with his big gut hanging out, he was beyond help.

Next step was security.  I absolutely refuse to take off my jewellry (some of which I cannot remove, such as a bracelet that has been on since I was a size 0), so I always "go off".  "Madame, would you mind removing your jewellry."  "Yes I would and no I won't."  So I always get the pat down.  Curiously, at Pearson they don't have the full body scan?  No clue why?  Got through that and finally...........

.......checked into The Priority Lounge.  Everything changed.  Soothing music played, food was laid out, wine was chilled, reading material was everywhere...........it was perfect.  So, here I am blogging about the ordeal I endured getting here.

But nevermind.  Cheers!     

Toronto

Thought I wouldn't be able to blog here, but my son has a fantastic setup and he's at work, so here I am tapping away. 

Back in the country's most famous city.  Not sure if it is the largest any longer, maybe Vancouver has claimed that spot, but it is the city everyone who doesn't live there loves to hate.  That's the one thing I have noticed living in Calgary:  people hate Toronto.  No need any longer because Calgary is way more successful than Toronto -- more people moving there, more people making big money, you name it, Calgary is booming.  And Ontario is a mess.  Huge deficits and bad management all 'round.  Thank you Dalton McGinty -- a guy without an economic bone in his body.    What has really destroyed Ontario's manufacturing sector is the protectionism of industry and the unions.  I mean, what is a guy with no education doing earning $50 or $75 an hour on an assembly line??!!

Nearly bit it on the 401 from the airport last night.  It was 10 o'clock at night and the lanes were jammed with lunatics (mostly young males) speeding and racing along as if it were 10 in the morning.  I even hit gridlock and didn't move an inch for half an hour.  At 10 o'clock at night!

But, ah, heat at last!  It is perfect here and I am loving it!  Off to the mall to watch a few people shows.  More later.

The most interesting part of my shopping excursion was the condom section of the drugstore.  Man, haven't looked there in a thousand years and has it changed.  I remember when you had to whisper to the druggist if you wanted to buy a condom.  They kept them hidden behind the counter in good, old Orange Ontario.  Not anymore.  They're displayed in all their colourful glory.  Two young guys were discussing the pros and cons, merits and drawbacks of various brands.  Absolutely no embarrassment whatsoever.  Now they have about a hundred varieties from "Fabulous Flavours" to "Ultra Thins" to "Extra Large" to "Fully Lubricated".  One of the guys bought the double/double, the "Extra large/Fully lubricated".  Too funny. 

Other than that, the big difference from Calgary or Cochrane is how rude Torontonians are.  They behave in the drugstore aisles as they do on the 401.  They just barge along, no "excuse me", no "pardon me", no "after you", no "please", no "thank you".  It's just "me first" as they push past -- expecially if you are of "a certain age".  Then it's really open season.

Mall shopping is no longer a spectator sport.  It's game on.

   

No blogs for a few days

Off to Toronto to visit my son.  Can`t wait to see him again after a year-and-a-half.  Way too long! 

Back late Monday with lots of material to bang on about.

More about hair

We went on an excursion yesterday.  Thought we were going to Turner Valley and Black Diamond, but ended up in Bragg Creek.  Oops!  All thanks to my bad navigating.  Nevermind, Bragg Creek is a gorgeous place.  Stumbled onto a great restaurant called "Infusion".  Sat outside and people-watched -- a favourite passtime.  A middle-aged couple arrived and the show began.

Firstly, she chose a table.  Then she didn't like it.  They had to be moved.  Then she didn't like that table, not enough sun.  They had to be moved.  Then she didn't like the seat she had chosen.  She moved again.  I mean, it was such a palaver!  She strutted around while her husband schlepped after her.  He was so hen-pecked he was practically dragging along the ground.

And the thing was, she was a dyed blonde.  That's what I mean about "we are our hair".  I think I have blogged before about dying hair blonde.  I think when a woman dyes her hair blonde, she has a personality transformation.  She becomes "a dyed blonde".

Sadly, with apologies, it's a universal truth.   

This is what I meant

Kathleen Parker, Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist with The Washington Post, captures what I was getting at in my "Not really" blog about the state of US health care. 

By the way, I don't think one is disenfranchised from having an opinion about American health care just because one doesn't live in the US and hasn't had to call upon it.  Thank God I don't have to avail myself of what is clearly a dysfunctional, arbitrary and unfair system.  I think most Americans are floored that a "foreigner" follows US politics.  Most don't have a clue about what happens anywhere outside of their borders -- except what goes on in Mexico; Americans care about that problem. 

Don't get me wrong, I love Americans.  I'm half American myself, my birth father being from Buffalo and my adoptive father, Kansas City, Missouri.  But, as I have said, overall they are very insular.

http://www.calgaryherald.com/health/Obamacare+leaves+president+bruised/6868804/story.html