"I lived in Ottawa for a time in the '60s," said the older-ish man I was talking to at a reception last evening. "Really?" "Yeah, I played for the Ottawa Rough Riders back then," he continued. Well, that peaked my interest because during the '60s and '70s, Ottawa was football-mad and my Uncle Elgin used to haul all six kids and cousins to practically every game.
We always had a ball -- freezing cold though it usually was.
At first his toupee put me off. Why men have to wear them I have absolutely no clue?! They are kidding no one. They look like someone popped a dead animal on top of their heads a hundred years ago, the real hair and the fake no longer sharing the same colour. But I guess if women can obviously dye their hair and wear extensions and wigs, men can have their silly toupees.
But I digress.
Apparently I was chatting with Jack Urness, who played third-string quarterback for a number of CFL teams, including Ottawa. "But the star of the family was really my twin brother, Ted," he added as we proceeded to run through all the greats of the Ottawa club, guys like Russ Jackson, Ronnie Stewart, Tony Gabriel, Ron Lancaster, Bob O'Billovich, Bo Scott, Bobby Simpson, Joe Poirier, Kay Vaughan, Whit Tucker, Tom Clements, Don Sutherin........and of course the great Frank Claire, after whom Lansdowne is named. The 1960s and
1970s were the Rough Riders' glory years, during which they won the Grey Cup five times, including their last victory in 1976.
Came home and googled Ted Urness. Yes, he was a star. Born in Regina, he was one of the best offensive linemen in the league and was inducted into the Hall of Fame in 1989. Got all this from the internet, but it sure was fun chatting to a player from my ancient era.
You just never know who you'll meet at a cocktail party out here?
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Thoughts on Justin and marijuana
This letter appeared in The Herald this morning, don't know why I can't find it on-line, but here it is:
Nancy Marley-Clarke
This makes 21 letters in 23 months. Naomi Lakritz wrote an excellent column on this the other day. Google her and have a read.
Dear
Editor,
‘Up
in Smoke’ is where many of Justin Trudeau’s votes have just gone after his
pro-marijuana stance. When his own kids grow up and if they “turn on, tune in, drop
out”, as the late drug advocate Timothy Leary used to say, I wonder how Justin
will react? Pierre used to say, “the state has no business in the bedrooms of
the nation”. Drugs? Quite a different story.
Nancy Marley-Clarke
This makes 21 letters in 23 months. Naomi Lakritz wrote an excellent column on this the other day. Google her and have a read.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Don't blame colonialism
Herald colmunist Karin Klassen wrote a column perfectly expressing what I blogged about the other day (see 'A pretty poor show', July 26)...................
"Fostering aboriginal responsibility
"Last week, among the heartwarming tales of pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps Albertans, there were two stories slipped into the back pages that turned my stomach.
"In Manitoba, an inquiry into the 2005 death of five year old Phoenix Sinclair heard a lawyer for First Nations leaders claim that her death was due to "colonialism". It's their case that the seizing of these children and putting them in non-Native homes has broken up families, leaving them in "deep and protracted poverty ... criminal lifestyles, substance abuse, mental health challenges .... early mortality ... tragic deaths."
"Well this argument might have made sense if this beautiful baby had died in foster care. Actually, Phoenix passed violently in the 'care' of her mother, at home, and after months of abuse which included being shot by a BB gun, starved, and then being forced to eat her own vomit. Left in a heap on a basement floor, Phoenix stopped breathing after a beating that broke most of her little bones, while her mother watched. Indeed, Phoenix had been in and out of foster care, damned colonialists, but had always been returned to her mom. You see, as one First Nations witness explained to the inquiry, apparently without irony: "The social workers failed her."
"In story two, a class-action lawsuit has been filed in B.C. (joining a similar action in Ontario), against the Federal government for the so called "Sixties Scoop". This term references the do-gooder taking of close to 20,000 First Nations kids from the early 1960s to the mid-1980s and fostering them into white homes. These First Nations families want compensation for this practice which they say has deprived them of solid, stable citizens.
"I take this personally. When I was growing up, we fostered a First Nations boy I will call "Billy", who came to us malnourished, with worms, rotted teeth, and emotional issues after losing both of his parents, one involving the ubiquitous "exposure". Billy had been living in a one room trailer with more than a half a dozen other relatives before joining us in grade two, the highest level we could get away with, given that he had virtually no previous education. We took Billy to see his family in the summers, the last time our vehicle was pelted with rocks and we were chased away. One day a pickup truck full of Billy's vague extended family drove up on our lawn, and demanded that Billy get in. He did.
My mom frantically called social services, but was told the climate had changed. These kids were being repatriated, and we would be unlikely to get him back. We didn't.
"I would worry about identifying Billy, but unfortunately his story is like many. I did manage to contact him years later and learned his horrible post-script. Billy was ostracized for his absence, his perceived uppityness, and his white experience. Back living in the trailer, he had been sexually abused, he said. Would it have been better if he hadn't come to live with us at all? We both wondered. In subsequent years my then husband and I paid for a certificate program Billy wanted to take. There was money on the reserve for education, but his family had fallen out of favour after an aunt had been voted off council. Subsequently trained, he would also not be given one of the jobs doled out on the reserve to those in favour.
"At least Billy can now join the class action for the ethnic cleansing my milquetoast family wrought. Have things gotten any better? The Sixties Scoop might as well tack on another three decades to the parameters because the situation of First Nations kids does not seem improved. In Manitoba for example, where Phoenix met her merciless end, 85 per cent of the close to 10,000 kids in foster care currently, are First Nations.
"At some point someone needs to stand up for these children and demand better treatment of them by their own communities. Sadly and oddly, this doesn't seem to be coming from First Nations leadership, and the lack of courage by the federal government to demand it is deplorable.
"To First Nations communities: I may be 'white', but I know what we did in the Sixties Scoop. We loved your kids. Parenting is a primal instinct for most cultures; doing it badly is not the fault of colonialism or social workers. It's time to take some responsibility."
"Fostering aboriginal responsibility
"Last week, among the heartwarming tales of pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps Albertans, there were two stories slipped into the back pages that turned my stomach.
"In Manitoba, an inquiry into the 2005 death of five year old Phoenix Sinclair heard a lawyer for First Nations leaders claim that her death was due to "colonialism". It's their case that the seizing of these children and putting them in non-Native homes has broken up families, leaving them in "deep and protracted poverty ... criminal lifestyles, substance abuse, mental health challenges .... early mortality ... tragic deaths."
"Well this argument might have made sense if this beautiful baby had died in foster care. Actually, Phoenix passed violently in the 'care' of her mother, at home, and after months of abuse which included being shot by a BB gun, starved, and then being forced to eat her own vomit. Left in a heap on a basement floor, Phoenix stopped breathing after a beating that broke most of her little bones, while her mother watched. Indeed, Phoenix had been in and out of foster care, damned colonialists, but had always been returned to her mom. You see, as one First Nations witness explained to the inquiry, apparently without irony: "The social workers failed her."
"In story two, a class-action lawsuit has been filed in B.C. (joining a similar action in Ontario), against the Federal government for the so called "Sixties Scoop". This term references the do-gooder taking of close to 20,000 First Nations kids from the early 1960s to the mid-1980s and fostering them into white homes. These First Nations families want compensation for this practice which they say has deprived them of solid, stable citizens.
"I take this personally. When I was growing up, we fostered a First Nations boy I will call "Billy", who came to us malnourished, with worms, rotted teeth, and emotional issues after losing both of his parents, one involving the ubiquitous "exposure". Billy had been living in a one room trailer with more than a half a dozen other relatives before joining us in grade two, the highest level we could get away with, given that he had virtually no previous education. We took Billy to see his family in the summers, the last time our vehicle was pelted with rocks and we were chased away. One day a pickup truck full of Billy's vague extended family drove up on our lawn, and demanded that Billy get in. He did.
My mom frantically called social services, but was told the climate had changed. These kids were being repatriated, and we would be unlikely to get him back. We didn't.
"I would worry about identifying Billy, but unfortunately his story is like many. I did manage to contact him years later and learned his horrible post-script. Billy was ostracized for his absence, his perceived uppityness, and his white experience. Back living in the trailer, he had been sexually abused, he said. Would it have been better if he hadn't come to live with us at all? We both wondered. In subsequent years my then husband and I paid for a certificate program Billy wanted to take. There was money on the reserve for education, but his family had fallen out of favour after an aunt had been voted off council. Subsequently trained, he would also not be given one of the jobs doled out on the reserve to those in favour.
"At some point someone needs to stand up for these children and demand better treatment of them by their own communities. Sadly and oddly, this doesn't seem to be coming from First Nations leadership, and the lack of courage by the federal government to demand it is deplorable.
"To First Nations communities: I may be 'white', but I know what we did in the Sixties Scoop. We loved your kids. Parenting is a primal instinct for most cultures; doing it badly is not the fault of colonialism or social workers. It's time to take some responsibility."
Sunday, July 28, 2013
Writing
"The two most important physical dimensions of the writing profession are time and space. Write every day at the same time and in the same place, whether you have anything to say or not. The very act of sitting at your writer's time and in your writer's place releases the writer's energy in you and begins to affect you automatically."
So said University of Notre Dame professor of creative writing, Richard Sullivan. He is correct. A writer for almost 50 years, I know how my creative juices flow. I must be at a keyboard. Otherwise the words do not come. I think this is because when I began to write seriously, while at Maclean-Hunter, I faced a typewriter and a ruthless editor who taught me so much about getting rid of words. That's the trick.
Jean Portugal was a brilliant editor. I was part of a group of newly-hired journalists who wrote for many business-press periodicals, as well as Chatelaine, Miss Chatelaine and The Financial Post. Mrs. Portugal, as we always called her (never "Jean"), edited our copy. Roy MacGregor sat opposite. I knew he would be a very successful writer, which of course, he is.
But the way I write is as professor Sullivan describes it. I remember the hated weekly deadlines. I would have an assignment and worry and worry the article around in my head for days until the last second. Then I would sit at the typewriter and out it would flow. I used to try and write as good writers write, imitating them, hoping my copy was as good as theirs. Often it was. That's the way I write today. I try to imitate good writers while communicating my own ideas.
I love writing. It is a mandatory passion.
So said University of Notre Dame professor of creative writing, Richard Sullivan. He is correct. A writer for almost 50 years, I know how my creative juices flow. I must be at a keyboard. Otherwise the words do not come. I think this is because when I began to write seriously, while at Maclean-Hunter, I faced a typewriter and a ruthless editor who taught me so much about getting rid of words. That's the trick.
Jean Portugal was a brilliant editor. I was part of a group of newly-hired journalists who wrote for many business-press periodicals, as well as Chatelaine, Miss Chatelaine and The Financial Post. Mrs. Portugal, as we always called her (never "Jean"), edited our copy. Roy MacGregor sat opposite. I knew he would be a very successful writer, which of course, he is.
But the way I write is as professor Sullivan describes it. I remember the hated weekly deadlines. I would have an assignment and worry and worry the article around in my head for days until the last second. Then I would sit at the typewriter and out it would flow. I used to try and write as good writers write, imitating them, hoping my copy was as good as theirs. Often it was. That's the way I write today. I try to imitate good writers while communicating my own ideas.
I love writing. It is a mandatory passion.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Eyelashes
"Your eyelashes are unreal," I said to a waitress today. "They're false," she admitted. Of course they were, so extravagantly did they enhance her beauty. Right there and then, I decided to get lash implants.
But I didn't.
Googled the place she recommended and read a few client comments. Oops. Apparently, your own lashes break off. Pretty scary. Is that because you will forever continue to require $45 "filler" treatments? I guess a lot of women want to take the chance because the earliest available appointment was..........August 13!
Think I'll stick to mascara.
But I didn't.
Googled the place she recommended and read a few client comments. Oops. Apparently, your own lashes break off. Pretty scary. Is that because you will forever continue to require $45 "filler" treatments? I guess a lot of women want to take the chance because the earliest available appointment was..........August 13!
Think I'll stick to mascara.
Friday, July 26, 2013
What's she wearing?
Looks like a gingham tablecloth. Alison Redford's outfit at the premiers meeting in Niagara-on-the-Lake doesn't work. Baggy, shapeless and hanging. Not too crazy about the Premier of Ontario's either, way too busy and distracting.
These women need to remember they are provincial premiers and should dress the part. Looks as if they mistook themselves for Shavian tourists.
These women need to remember they are provincial premiers and should dress the part. Looks as if they mistook themselves for Shavian tourists.
A Pretty Poor Show
A little research confirms that aboriginal children continue to be in poor health. Infants are 50 to 80 times more likely to be hospitalized than non-native infants. 50 to 80 times!
In the face of the latest extortion attempt by aboriginal interest groups to berate the government (read, get more money), charging that native kids were subjected to vitamin experiments in residential schools, I had a poke around the internet to see how much better off aboriginal children being raised by parents within their own communities are faring. They aren't.
Research shows higher rates of injury, accidental injury and sudden infant death in aboriginal compared with non-aboriginal populations. It also confirms they are at higher risk of chronic ear infection, respiratory tract infections, obesity, dental problems and tooth decay (five times higher) and hospitalization for asthma. The study covered 131,000 on and off-reserve children, age zero to six. Pretty comprehensive.
The hypocrisy of the street protests about studies done 60 years ago -- most likely with the objective of improving the health of aboriginal children -- is breathtaking because many of today's aboriginal parents are evidently taking abysmal care of their offspring.
So are many non-native parents, the proof of which jumps out and smacks you rudely in the brain during every trip to any grocery store. Overweight parents, lugging fat kids around the aisles, carts piled high with junk, the kids stuffing their faces with more.
Let's face it, parents raise and feed their kids, not "the government". I'm sick of the never-ending sham protests. The Herald carried a photo today of a group of native women, waving placards and drumming, as usual. The young woman who gob-smacked me was she of the flaming-red fluorescent hair. Mainstream job? Guess not. Any job? Probably not. Oh yeah, and she was grossly overweight.
In the face of the latest extortion attempt by aboriginal interest groups to berate the government (read, get more money), charging that native kids were subjected to vitamin experiments in residential schools, I had a poke around the internet to see how much better off aboriginal children being raised by parents within their own communities are faring. They aren't.
Research shows higher rates of injury, accidental injury and sudden infant death in aboriginal compared with non-aboriginal populations. It also confirms they are at higher risk of chronic ear infection, respiratory tract infections, obesity, dental problems and tooth decay (five times higher) and hospitalization for asthma. The study covered 131,000 on and off-reserve children, age zero to six. Pretty comprehensive.
The hypocrisy of the street protests about studies done 60 years ago -- most likely with the objective of improving the health of aboriginal children -- is breathtaking because many of today's aboriginal parents are evidently taking abysmal care of their offspring.
So are many non-native parents, the proof of which jumps out and smacks you rudely in the brain during every trip to any grocery store. Overweight parents, lugging fat kids around the aisles, carts piled high with junk, the kids stuffing their faces with more.
Let's face it, parents raise and feed their kids, not "the government". I'm sick of the never-ending sham protests. The Herald carried a photo today of a group of native women, waving placards and drumming, as usual. The young woman who gob-smacked me was she of the flaming-red fluorescent hair. Mainstream job? Guess not. Any job? Probably not. Oh yeah, and she was grossly overweight.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Bizarre to watch
The art teacher was painting 14-year-old students.........wait for it..........nude and...........wait for it again...........having sex with them. All in the spirit of good old-fashioned growing up in a Scottish private girls' school.
This was all part of the plot of 'The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie', which I just watched this evening after first seeing it in 1969. At the time, we all thought it was somewhat exciting, albeit dangerous, young girls having it off with the handsome, married-with-six-kids art teacher.
What were we thinking?! Probably that we knew teachers like that and suspected a few of the better-looking "mature" girls were up to something -- outside of their regular curricula that is. I also remember one of our young female gym teachers partying on the weekends with the senior football team! What did we think of it all? Titillating in a voyeuristic sort of way. That's how "normal" it all seemed back then. (I was going to say in more "innocent" times, but they weren't innocent at all.) Ironically, our mothers used to tell us never to get into cars with strange men, little suspecting the peril lay with men we knew and trusted.
As for Miss Brodie, she was having affairs with both the art teacher and another male teacher, while influencing "her girls" to grow up to be independent, strong young ladies.
Very bizarre to watch from the perspective of 2013. Disturbing.
This was all part of the plot of 'The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie', which I just watched this evening after first seeing it in 1969. At the time, we all thought it was somewhat exciting, albeit dangerous, young girls having it off with the handsome, married-with-six-kids art teacher.
What were we thinking?! Probably that we knew teachers like that and suspected a few of the better-looking "mature" girls were up to something -- outside of their regular curricula that is. I also remember one of our young female gym teachers partying on the weekends with the senior football team! What did we think of it all? Titillating in a voyeuristic sort of way. That's how "normal" it all seemed back then. (I was going to say in more "innocent" times, but they weren't innocent at all.) Ironically, our mothers used to tell us never to get into cars with strange men, little suspecting the peril lay with men we knew and trusted.
As for Miss Brodie, she was having affairs with both the art teacher and another male teacher, while influencing "her girls" to grow up to be independent, strong young ladies.
Very bizarre to watch from the perspective of 2013. Disturbing.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Two trips, two smash ups
Had to venture down Crowfoot Trail this morning during rush hour. As usual, a big six-car pile-up held everyone up. Just got back from an evening rush hour trip down the same trail and what held me up? Yep, another six-car pile up. Every morning and every evening, pile-ups occur on both the Deerfoot and Crowfoot Trails.
Why?
'Cause Calgarians don't know how to drive. They speed, tailgate and cut you off with gay abandon. Much has to do with the fact that the average age of a Calgarian is 37, which means they simply do not have enough experience to drive properly. Especially in winter, when they have no clue that icy roads dictate more distance.
Heard a guy the other day say there are no car "accidents". Each is caused by bad driving, nothing "accidental" about it.
My little, old 2000 hatchback Honda Civic required substantial servicing to the tune of about $800. But the way I look at it, it's still much cheaper than a new car, which I would also have to service. And they no longer make cars such as mine. As a friend of mine says, "The cheapest car you'll ever own is the one you're driving now." It's a keeper.
Why?
'Cause Calgarians don't know how to drive. They speed, tailgate and cut you off with gay abandon. Much has to do with the fact that the average age of a Calgarian is 37, which means they simply do not have enough experience to drive properly. Especially in winter, when they have no clue that icy roads dictate more distance.
Heard a guy the other day say there are no car "accidents". Each is caused by bad driving, nothing "accidental" about it.
My little, old 2000 hatchback Honda Civic required substantial servicing to the tune of about $800. But the way I look at it, it's still much cheaper than a new car, which I would also have to service. And they no longer make cars such as mine. As a friend of mine says, "The cheapest car you'll ever own is the one you're driving now." It's a keeper.
Monday, July 22, 2013
Elegance
Never dropped the spike heels. Who was more elegant than the Duchess of Cambridge while pregnant? No one. She always looked beautiful and put-together. She walked as easily in high heels pregnant as not. Never missed a step. I admire women who can walk in high heels as if they were wearing flats. I count myself among them.
But when pregnant, I was a slob, gaining 65 and 70 pounds, respectively.....and on purpose! Hey, let's have a cheeseburger after dinner, was my battle cry. No fat fix was off limits, I went for everything.
Get over yourself. Just "googled" Earl Spencer for a reaction to the birth of his great-nephew. Nothing. It's official, he's a jerk. Thought that when he delivered a self-centred eulogy at his sister's funeral. So inelegant.
But when pregnant, I was a slob, gaining 65 and 70 pounds, respectively.....and on purpose! Hey, let's have a cheeseburger after dinner, was my battle cry. No fat fix was off limits, I went for everything.
Get over yourself. Just "googled" Earl Spencer for a reaction to the birth of his great-nephew. Nothing. It's official, he's a jerk. Thought that when he delivered a self-centred eulogy at his sister's funeral. So inelegant.
Really Hugh?
As special envoy to the commonwealth, something he gets paid for, Senator Hugh Segal should know better. Interviewed a few minutes ago, he said..."As titular head of the Commonwealth, Her Majesty.....blah, blah." Really Hugh? The Queen is not the "titular" head, she is the Head of the Commonwealth; nothing "titular" about it.
I think he just likes saying the word, "titular", makes him seem very educated and erudite. Never mind that it's incorrect.
But aren't we all thrilled with the birth of the little baby prince who is third in line to the throne. And for such a thin woman, didn't she produce a big baby! Willow-waisted, The Duchess could almost have starred in an episode of 'I Didn't Know I was Pregnant'. How dumb do you have to be not to know you're pregnant!? Either that, or how fat.
Speaking of weight, I knew if half a cheesecake beckoned from my fridge after a dinner party, I'd eat it. Cheesecake is my one weakness -- well, in the food department that is. I love it. Sort of like, "If you build it they will come," my mantra is, "If it's in there, you will eat it." Actually wanted to drive to Cochrane to give it away, but that fell through.
So I have almost finished devouring it. Kidding myself, I don't even put it on a plate, just grab a fork and scarf a few bites here and there. The worst part is I haven't been near the pool for a week because I have quite the summer cold. That means 350 swims have not been swum.
Sickening.
I think he just likes saying the word, "titular", makes him seem very educated and erudite. Never mind that it's incorrect.
But aren't we all thrilled with the birth of the little baby prince who is third in line to the throne. And for such a thin woman, didn't she produce a big baby! Willow-waisted, The Duchess could almost have starred in an episode of 'I Didn't Know I was Pregnant'. How dumb do you have to be not to know you're pregnant!? Either that, or how fat.
Speaking of weight, I knew if half a cheesecake beckoned from my fridge after a dinner party, I'd eat it. Cheesecake is my one weakness -- well, in the food department that is. I love it. Sort of like, "If you build it they will come," my mantra is, "If it's in there, you will eat it." Actually wanted to drive to Cochrane to give it away, but that fell through.
So I have almost finished devouring it. Kidding myself, I don't even put it on a plate, just grab a fork and scarf a few bites here and there. The worst part is I haven't been near the pool for a week because I have quite the summer cold. That means 350 swims have not been swum.
Sickening.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Drug talk
"You have to drug them," I explained to my friend "I" last evening when she and her husband were over for dinner. "My G-d, you're a pharmacist, you should know about drugs!" We both laughed. We were talking about my potted flowers on the patio.
"What do you use on yours?" I asked. "Just dirt," she replied. Oh forget that, I explained, "You have to use Miracle Grow Starter when you plant them, then regular Miracle Grow every two weeks and your flowers will be as gorgeous as mine." And I have to confess, they are gorgeous. Having hardened off, thanks to brutal, unpredictable and callous Calgarian conditions, they are defiantly starting to bloom away. Here are a few snaps:
"I" and I also kicked the latest HRT theories around the living room. Having been on the patch for 17 years, I have consistently ignored one study after another, telling women HRT is harmful, not harmful, beneficial, cancer-causing, toxic..........you name it, I ignored them all. Her professional opinion? Stay on the patch. Things have again come full circle.
These friends are Nigerian and I asked her about the Trayvon (sp?) Martin case and Obama's statements about race. "The black culture in the US is completely different from ours," she said. "We don't relate at all." And Nigerians don't. "Why would he say he could connect with a black man in an elevator who causes a white woman to clutch her purse more tightly?" she asked. "He's the president of the United States, not some guy from 'the hood'," she added. I completely agreed with her. I think our friends feel embarrassed to be racially-linked to American blacks protesting a legal verdict in the public thoroughfare.
Born in Nigeria, but raised in the United States, she told me the culture she most identified with was Nigerian. "But I am a Canadian first, even though I also identify as Nigerian." When I look at my friend, I do not see "colour" and feel comfortable asking her black questions, cultural questions and racial questions -- something I would not dare ask an American black. As to my own cultural identity? "The Ottawa Valley all the way." Nonetheless, we are both now proud Calgarians.
"What do you use on yours?" I asked. "Just dirt," she replied. Oh forget that, I explained, "You have to use Miracle Grow Starter when you plant them, then regular Miracle Grow every two weeks and your flowers will be as gorgeous as mine." And I have to confess, they are gorgeous. Having hardened off, thanks to brutal, unpredictable and callous Calgarian conditions, they are defiantly starting to bloom away. Here are a few snaps:
This last one is the field of wild Prairie grasses we enjoy behind our house -- where the coyotes play.
"I" and I also kicked the latest HRT theories around the living room. Having been on the patch for 17 years, I have consistently ignored one study after another, telling women HRT is harmful, not harmful, beneficial, cancer-causing, toxic..........you name it, I ignored them all. Her professional opinion? Stay on the patch. Things have again come full circle.
These friends are Nigerian and I asked her about the Trayvon (sp?) Martin case and Obama's statements about race. "The black culture in the US is completely different from ours," she said. "We don't relate at all." And Nigerians don't. "Why would he say he could connect with a black man in an elevator who causes a white woman to clutch her purse more tightly?" she asked. "He's the president of the United States, not some guy from 'the hood'," she added. I completely agreed with her. I think our friends feel embarrassed to be racially-linked to American blacks protesting a legal verdict in the public thoroughfare.
Born in Nigeria, but raised in the United States, she told me the culture she most identified with was Nigerian. "But I am a Canadian first, even though I also identify as Nigerian." When I look at my friend, I do not see "colour" and feel comfortable asking her black questions, cultural questions and racial questions -- something I would not dare ask an American black. As to my own cultural identity? "The Ottawa Valley all the way." Nonetheless, we are both now proud Calgarians.
Friday, July 19, 2013
The ghetto
That's where the President of the United States has just placed himself. In the ghetto. How could he? In an effort to relate to the kid who was killed by a neighbourhood security guard -- in self defence, says the justice system -- Obama has now aligned himself with the victim. He has just disenfranchised all Americans who aren't black and downtrodden and revealed himself to be one.
How completely un-presidential. "Every black man in America has found himself in an elevator with a white woman who clutches her purse more tightly and can't wait to get off -- including me," said the President of the United States.
How dumb can you get? Believe me, he will never climb back up into the "presidential realm" with that remark. He has just revealed he is a "boy from the hood" with a chip on his shoulder. How dumb can you get?
A few days ago, he was praising the justice system for doing its job; now he is in the ghetto bemoaning the fact he feels inferior and put-upon because he is black.
What kind of President of the United States does that?! A decidedly un-presidential one.
How completely un-presidential. "Every black man in America has found himself in an elevator with a white woman who clutches her purse more tightly and can't wait to get off -- including me," said the President of the United States.
How dumb can you get? Believe me, he will never climb back up into the "presidential realm" with that remark. He has just revealed he is a "boy from the hood" with a chip on his shoulder. How dumb can you get?
A few days ago, he was praising the justice system for doing its job; now he is in the ghetto bemoaning the fact he feels inferior and put-upon because he is black.
What kind of President of the United States does that?! A decidedly un-presidential one.
The pusher man
"Gee, isn't it great Arnie always has cigarettes," I used to think at Carleton University when I smoked -- when everyone smoked. It was 1966 and I was in second year. Arnie was the boyfriend of my gorgeous, late cousin, B.A. and he was completely and totally cool. Never mind that he only audited courses and was not registered for any degree, who cared? But guess what?.............
Arnie was a pusher. For Rothman's. Seriously.
At the time no one realized it, but one Sunday afternoon we all gathered at his apartment and what did we see? Cases of Rothman's cartons stacked in one corner of his living room. "Wow, do you work for Rothman's?" we asked. "Well, sort of, in my spare time," he vaguely replied. Looking back I now realize Arnie's job was to get us hooked on tobacco. Out of smokes? Arnie would toss you an entire pack. What a great guy! Even though back then a pack of smokes was .52 cents, it was still expensive for a struggling university student.
My mind wandered back to those "glory days" in the wake of the death of Cory-what's-his-name of a heroin/alcohol overdose. Somewhere back there, he became addicted. Of course, he must have had an addictive personality and genetic problem, but some pusher somewhere tapped into it.
Thankfully, I quit smoking when I was 24. Yes, it was difficult, but even back then I was scared to death of lung cancer, a disease that claimed my natural mother at the age of 49. She was a dedicated chain smoker. Dumb.
Wonder whatever happened to our local pusher, Arnie?
Arnie was a pusher. For Rothman's. Seriously.
At the time no one realized it, but one Sunday afternoon we all gathered at his apartment and what did we see? Cases of Rothman's cartons stacked in one corner of his living room. "Wow, do you work for Rothman's?" we asked. "Well, sort of, in my spare time," he vaguely replied. Looking back I now realize Arnie's job was to get us hooked on tobacco. Out of smokes? Arnie would toss you an entire pack. What a great guy! Even though back then a pack of smokes was .52 cents, it was still expensive for a struggling university student.
My mind wandered back to those "glory days" in the wake of the death of Cory-what's-his-name of a heroin/alcohol overdose. Somewhere back there, he became addicted. Of course, he must have had an addictive personality and genetic problem, but some pusher somewhere tapped into it.
Thankfully, I quit smoking when I was 24. Yes, it was difficult, but even back then I was scared to death of lung cancer, a disease that claimed my natural mother at the age of 49. She was a dedicated chain smoker. Dumb.
Wonder whatever happened to our local pusher, Arnie?
Wither the car, wither Detroit, wither the whole North American economy
It's hard to figure out what happened to Detroit? Afterall, the federal government has given it $2 billion, not including the multi-billion dollar bailouts given to the auto makers. I guess it's a case of too-little-too-late; they needed the money before everyone panicked and headed for the hills.
Now the once-great metropolis has filed for bankruptcy. I visited Detroit a few years ago and it was a mess then -- looked like that show 'The World After People', with entire neighbourhoods abandoned and derelict. B and I had our 'Bonfire of the Vanities' moment driving back to Windsor around 11 p.m., when we missed the turn for the Ambassador Bridge and landed under it, surrounded by scary-looking, loitering black men. Our lifetime-height-of-dumbness moment occurred when B got out of the car and asked directions...wait for it.....outside a liquor store! How perfect was that at 11 at night?! God was hovering above us because the least-threatening guy he approached told us how to get out adding, "And you better do it fast, man," dressed as we were in our evening duds and finery. A serious "duh" moment.
Driving around with friends, we were instructed not to look at anyone while trapped at a stoplight. And this was in broad daylight! "Oh yea, I forgot, you people can carry guns," I realized, after staring too long at one very weird black guy. "Some of our neighbours have just disappeared overnight because they couldn't pay the mortgage," they also explained of folks in their affluent northern suburb.
No $$$ assistance is being offered by Obama, in spite of the fact that he was the guy who crapped all over Mitt Romney when he said, "Just let Detroit go bankrupt." Never gonna do that, he avowed! There is precedent. The feds bailed out New York City a few years ago, a town now thriving with all the money paid back.
It's a fact. A major part of the North American economy is tied to the auto industry. We are our cars. They are now pushing the re-set button; let's hope it works.
Now the once-great metropolis has filed for bankruptcy. I visited Detroit a few years ago and it was a mess then -- looked like that show 'The World After People', with entire neighbourhoods abandoned and derelict. B and I had our 'Bonfire of the Vanities' moment driving back to Windsor around 11 p.m., when we missed the turn for the Ambassador Bridge and landed under it, surrounded by scary-looking, loitering black men. Our lifetime-height-of-dumbness moment occurred when B got out of the car and asked directions...wait for it.....outside a liquor store! How perfect was that at 11 at night?! God was hovering above us because the least-threatening guy he approached told us how to get out adding, "And you better do it fast, man," dressed as we were in our evening duds and finery. A serious "duh" moment.
Driving around with friends, we were instructed not to look at anyone while trapped at a stoplight. And this was in broad daylight! "Oh yea, I forgot, you people can carry guns," I realized, after staring too long at one very weird black guy. "Some of our neighbours have just disappeared overnight because they couldn't pay the mortgage," they also explained of folks in their affluent northern suburb.
No $$$ assistance is being offered by Obama, in spite of the fact that he was the guy who crapped all over Mitt Romney when he said, "Just let Detroit go bankrupt." Never gonna do that, he avowed! There is precedent. The feds bailed out New York City a few years ago, a town now thriving with all the money paid back.
It's a fact. A major part of the North American economy is tied to the auto industry. We are our cars. They are now pushing the re-set button; let's hope it works.
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Almost forgot............
"Stupid shoes" are another no-no. Stupid shoes?
- Shoes that don't "go" with the outfit
- Shoes that are too "comfortable"
- Shoes that are "sensible"
- Over-priced sports shoes -- Oh yea, that's all of them
- Flip-flops anywhere but at the pool or beach
- Any shoes bought at "Payless"
- Any Bata shoes
- All orthopedic shoes
- All Birkenstocks
- All platforms
- All clogs
- All crocs
- Specialty running shoes that you only wear for.........whatever
- All wedgies, every single one of them
- All mid-high pumps
- All men's shoes with that too-long, squared-off toe
Stupid Hair
My previous blog ended with a comment about a woman having "stupid hair". What is "stupid hair"? In my book it's:
I remember in university long, straight hair was the only hair any girl had. The frizzy, white, afro-au-natural fad hadn't kicked in. Problem was, mine was naturally-curly. What did I do? Ironed it. One day, draped ridiculously and precariously over the ironing board, I experienced a moment of epiphany. "What the hell am I doing this for? This is not 'me'." I promptly went out and had it cut completely off -- and I mean "off", to an inch all over. Vainly I said to myself, "I don't need hair," meaning like the rest of you do to get a date. How big-headed was that!
The second epiphany occurred 25 years later at 45, standing in the bathroom with a bottle of hair dye, pointlessly trying to cover the grey. "What am I doing this for? This is not 'me'," I repeated. Once again, promptly went out and asked "Dan" to start the process of getting rid of the dyed hair. I know I have blogged this before, but it's worth repeating. The feeling of freedom and authenticity that comes from enjoying your "real" hair is exquisite.
But ladies, if you find the courage to go grey or white, for G-d's sake, have a style. Don't just let it hang in ugly clumps.
So, that's what I think of "stupid hair".
- Hair with no style, as if someone just cut it with no clue or "statement"
- Hair with no shape, see above
- Dyed hair with visible roots
- Short hair that's not really short
- Short hair that needs cutting
- Long hair that needs cutting
- Medium hair that needs cutting
- Flat blonde hair dyed too many times
- Streaked hair dyed so many times it's flat blonde
- Dark dyed hair on a woman way too old to still have dark hair
- Burgundy hair on anyone
- Any dyed hair
I remember in university long, straight hair was the only hair any girl had. The frizzy, white, afro-au-natural fad hadn't kicked in. Problem was, mine was naturally-curly. What did I do? Ironed it. One day, draped ridiculously and precariously over the ironing board, I experienced a moment of epiphany. "What the hell am I doing this for? This is not 'me'." I promptly went out and had it cut completely off -- and I mean "off", to an inch all over. Vainly I said to myself, "I don't need hair," meaning like the rest of you do to get a date. How big-headed was that!
The second epiphany occurred 25 years later at 45, standing in the bathroom with a bottle of hair dye, pointlessly trying to cover the grey. "What am I doing this for? This is not 'me'," I repeated. Once again, promptly went out and asked "Dan" to start the process of getting rid of the dyed hair. I know I have blogged this before, but it's worth repeating. The feeling of freedom and authenticity that comes from enjoying your "real" hair is exquisite.
But ladies, if you find the courage to go grey or white, for G-d's sake, have a style. Don't just let it hang in ugly clumps.
So, that's what I think of "stupid hair".
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
What?!
172 over 88. That's what the blood pressure device registered. Scary. B had bought a machine so he could monitor his and I thought I'd be a fit smarty pants and see just how low mine was. Wasn't. Rushed to the doctor and it turned out I had positioned the sleeve in the wrong place. Whew! All normal. She pronounced my heart very strong and I am ready for the 2K open-water swim in a few weeks. Yay!
In addition to hanging out with Tom Jackson today, I had the opportunity to observe the Calgary dress code. There is one in The Ranchmen's, no jeans and a collared shirt. Of the 13 men in the dining room today, two wore ties.
Calgary is informal.
One interesting, but depressing, sight was that of a "wife" who came with her husband who met two other businessmen. She was dowdy, fat, stupid hair and ugly shoes. The three men at the table -- including her husband -- completely ignored her. Completely. They didn't even glance at her and she didn't open her drab mouth. Why was she there?
It was so pathetic. Shoot me if I ever become a wife like that.
In addition to hanging out with Tom Jackson today, I had the opportunity to observe the Calgary dress code. There is one in The Ranchmen's, no jeans and a collared shirt. Of the 13 men in the dining room today, two wore ties.
Calgary is informal.
One interesting, but depressing, sight was that of a "wife" who came with her husband who met two other businessmen. She was dowdy, fat, stupid hair and ugly shoes. The three men at the table -- including her husband -- completely ignored her. Completely. They didn't even glance at her and she didn't open her drab mouth. Why was she there?
It was so pathetic. Shoot me if I ever become a wife like that.
Nobodies
"Excuse me, but I am a huge fan," I said, interrupting a gentleman dining alone at a table nearby. "If you're an actor, you must want the attention, so here I am to bug you," I reasoned. "Without you we'd be nobodies," said the tall, handsome man I was in the process of accosting at The Ranchmen's Club today. He rose, smiled a huge smile, took my hand and caressed my shoulder.
I nearly fainted.
"Don't bother the guy," said B adopting the usual "Canadian" attitude. "If you don't ask, it won't happen," I replied. So, over I ventured -- after first applying fresh lipstick -- and said, "Could I have my picture taken with you?" It was actor and singer Tom Jackson. "Of course," he graciously replied, leaving his lunch, rising and leading me to the lobby, where I gave one of the waiters my phone and asked him to take the shot. "I know I am bothering you, but you will never see me again," I said as I requested yet another couple of shots.
So, thanks to my brashness, here are a few snaps of me and Tom Jackson:
I nearly fainted.
"Don't bother the guy," said B adopting the usual "Canadian" attitude. "If you don't ask, it won't happen," I replied. So, over I ventured -- after first applying fresh lipstick -- and said, "Could I have my picture taken with you?" It was actor and singer Tom Jackson. "Of course," he graciously replied, leaving his lunch, rising and leading me to the lobby, where I gave one of the waiters my phone and asked him to take the shot. "I know I am bothering you, but you will never see me again," I said as I requested yet another couple of shots.
So, thanks to my brashness, here are a few snaps of me and Tom Jackson:
The guy is so tall! I hadn't realized that. And so polite. Shamelessly, I told him my great-grandmother was a Mohawk from Tyendinaga Reserve in Napanee. It's a sin how I use that to my advantage when it suits, yet mercilessly criticize the natives whenever I want. By the way, Mr. Jackson proudly sported his Order of Canada pin.
It was quite a lunch.
Footnote: Tom Jackson is Metis. His mother was a Cree and his father an Englishman, which may account for his impeccable manners (insincere apologies to anyone who may be offended). He is a year younger than I.
Monday, July 15, 2013
Ho Hum
96% of Canadians don't give a hoot about Harper's latest cabinet shuffle. Living for the past two years in Calgary, I'm with them. The Ottawa "bubble" is just that, a bubble. With talk shows and political "pundits" going on and on and on about who went where, who was promoted, who was demoted and why, the irrelevance of the whole pandering, phoney exercise is breathtaking.
As Justin Trudeau said (well-coached to be sure), "The only guy in charge in Ottawa is Harper, he's the one who needs to be shuffled." He's right, Harper runs everything, so who's in his cabinet doesn't matter much. And 38 ministers! Please. This is from a guy who vowed to slim down government when he first rode into Ottawa.
As to women? Forget about it. They have all been handed soft portfolios. The big boys are still in charge -- Flaherty, Baird, Clement, et all, the money guys. So folks, it's business as usual. Who does Harper think he's kidding?!
A word about the Zimmerman acquittal. Remember when an obviously-guilty OJ was found not? There was jubilation and partying in the streets. The black community was over-the-moon because we had a black who had brutally murdered a white -- sorry, two whites -- but who dodged the bullet. On the other hand, Zimmerman was a white who killed a black in self defence. And what does the black community do? Riots in the streets, demanding a lynching regardless of the rule of law and the evidence presented.
It's all so pathetic and wrong. As one of my American readers commented, race relations in the US have not been this bad since Selma and Governor George Wallace.
As Justin Trudeau said (well-coached to be sure), "The only guy in charge in Ottawa is Harper, he's the one who needs to be shuffled." He's right, Harper runs everything, so who's in his cabinet doesn't matter much. And 38 ministers! Please. This is from a guy who vowed to slim down government when he first rode into Ottawa.
As to women? Forget about it. They have all been handed soft portfolios. The big boys are still in charge -- Flaherty, Baird, Clement, et all, the money guys. So folks, it's business as usual. Who does Harper think he's kidding?!
A word about the Zimmerman acquittal. Remember when an obviously-guilty OJ was found not? There was jubilation and partying in the streets. The black community was over-the-moon because we had a black who had brutally murdered a white -- sorry, two whites -- but who dodged the bullet. On the other hand, Zimmerman was a white who killed a black in self defence. And what does the black community do? Riots in the streets, demanding a lynching regardless of the rule of law and the evidence presented.
It's all so pathetic and wrong. As one of my American readers commented, race relations in the US have not been this bad since Selma and Governor George Wallace.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
What's wrong with Americans?
First it was Jodi Arias -- some ditz who killed her boyfriend. Then it was George Zimmerman -- a guy who killed a black kid. Who cares? With the Arias trial, I thought she must have been someone famous, else why would the airwaves be smothered in it. With Zimmerman, I thought the victim must have been famous.
But no. They were just a couple of nobodies -- victims and perps. Now Zimmerman has been found not guilty, so the networks were covering..........nothing...........all the time..........forever. Naturally, the black community is blaming race. Can we not get over the Civil War?
And to think they ignored the Vincent Lam case. Remember that one? This was a guy who beheaded a fellow passenger on a greyhound bus a few years ago, just outside Winnipeg. Beheaded him live!
That's the good old Excited States of America, as an American colleague used to dub it. That's why I never watch CNN or any other US broadcaster. They perpetrate the inward-looking, me-only view Americans hold so dear.
But no. They were just a couple of nobodies -- victims and perps. Now Zimmerman has been found not guilty, so the networks were covering..........nothing...........all the time..........forever. Naturally, the black community is blaming race. Can we not get over the Civil War?
And to think they ignored the Vincent Lam case. Remember that one? This was a guy who beheaded a fellow passenger on a greyhound bus a few years ago, just outside Winnipeg. Beheaded him live!
That's the good old Excited States of America, as an American colleague used to dub it. That's why I never watch CNN or any other US broadcaster. They perpetrate the inward-looking, me-only view Americans hold so dear.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
No wonder
Watching coverage of the Stampede, no wonder I thought everyone was a white cowboy when we moved here. Of course, that's not the case. There are many, many ethnic people here, but they don't seem to go to Stampede?
With the exception of one black guy, all the competitors are white. So are the spectators. The names give it all away:
Cody
Jake
Austin
Rusty
Cory
Kaycee
Caleb
Tads
Cole
Jesse
Tyrell
Butch
Kaysee
Ty
Cassidy
Jody
Shane
Seth
Chad
Clint..........and my two favourites
Stetson, and
Tuf
I feel very sorry for the animals, especially the little calves these guys brutally tackle. They look terrified! And the poor bucking horses. A few times a couple of them refused to come out of the chute to buck. Don't blame them. And the hobbling crippled cowboys do after their runs. Awful. They torture themselves for a few thousand bucks; only the best make the big dough.
As hard as I try, can't be blasé about the animals. "Mum, they only work a total of five minutes per year. The rest of the time they live in very pampered conditions," said my daughter. Of course, she is right, but I still hate to see what they go through in five minutes.
With the exception of one black guy, all the competitors are white. So are the spectators. The names give it all away:
Cody
Jake
Austin
Rusty
Cory
Kaycee
Caleb
Tads
Cole
Jesse
Tyrell
Butch
Kaysee
Ty
Cassidy
Jody
Shane
Seth
Chad
Clint..........and my two favourites
Stetson, and
Tuf
I feel very sorry for the animals, especially the little calves these guys brutally tackle. They look terrified! And the poor bucking horses. A few times a couple of them refused to come out of the chute to buck. Don't blame them. And the hobbling crippled cowboys do after their runs. Awful. They torture themselves for a few thousand bucks; only the best make the big dough.
As hard as I try, can't be blasé about the animals. "Mum, they only work a total of five minutes per year. The rest of the time they live in very pampered conditions," said my daughter. Of course, she is right, but I still hate to see what they go through in five minutes.
The Swim Saga Continues
"You don't run a marathon before you run a marathon," said my daughter, an accomplished triathlete and iron (wo)man. "I know you, you're just going to overdo everything and make a mess of this swim," she added, for good measure.
Apparently, I am not to train up to 2K beforehand. "Just do your normal swim, you'll have no problem on the day."
Whew, what a relief! I don't have to do 80 laps for two weeks. I'll just do 2K on the day of. And the "arms or no arms" wetsuit has also been solved. No arms.
It comes in handy having an expert in the family. As a bonus, she and grandson will be cheering from the beach.
Apparently, I am not to train up to 2K beforehand. "Just do your normal swim, you'll have no problem on the day."
Whew, what a relief! I don't have to do 80 laps for two weeks. I'll just do 2K on the day of. And the "arms or no arms" wetsuit has also been solved. No arms.
It comes in handy having an expert in the family. As a bonus, she and grandson will be cheering from the beach.
Friday, July 12, 2013
Swimming, The Queen and Indians
Swimming
"You can't visit and chat when you do the 2K swim," warned "L" at the pool the other day. She's right, I thought. She's the one who swims 100 laps at a time, down from 125 (the slacker). Although I swim hard, I do stop, laugh, chat and visit between laps. So, today I did 60 without stopping or chatting. Felt great. Am now not worried about the 80 I will have to do to make up the 2K that is the swim in Lake Windermere mid-August.
Have to rent a wetsuit. Arms or not? That is the great locker-room debate at the moment. "Do you get cold swimming," asked one woman. How do I know? Probably not, having been raised on a diet of freezing cold Gatineau lake waters from May 24th on. Will the arms bug me? No clue? I hope it's not too much drag because that will make the effort much harder.
The Queen
Read today that three people are challenging the fact they have to swear allegiance to The Queen when they become Canadian citizens. How disgusting. Canada is a constitutional monarchy and guess what, The Queen is the Head of it. 82% of Canadians want the Senate abolished, that's how ill-informed they are about our constitution. You can't abolish the Senate without opening up the constitution. And who wants to do that?! Nothing but a Pandora's box. Challenge allegiance to The Queen? Don't become a Canadian. Go back whence you came. Period, the end.
Indians
The grand chief of the Manitoba "nation", Derek Napinak, has formally and publically challenged Shawn Atleo and disputed Atleo's legitimacy in dealing with the federal government. See, that's what's wrong with the Indians; can't get their act(s) together. Fight among yourselves? You'll always lose.
"You can't visit and chat when you do the 2K swim," warned "L" at the pool the other day. She's right, I thought. She's the one who swims 100 laps at a time, down from 125 (the slacker). Although I swim hard, I do stop, laugh, chat and visit between laps. So, today I did 60 without stopping or chatting. Felt great. Am now not worried about the 80 I will have to do to make up the 2K that is the swim in Lake Windermere mid-August.
Have to rent a wetsuit. Arms or not? That is the great locker-room debate at the moment. "Do you get cold swimming," asked one woman. How do I know? Probably not, having been raised on a diet of freezing cold Gatineau lake waters from May 24th on. Will the arms bug me? No clue? I hope it's not too much drag because that will make the effort much harder.
The Queen
Read today that three people are challenging the fact they have to swear allegiance to The Queen when they become Canadian citizens. How disgusting. Canada is a constitutional monarchy and guess what, The Queen is the Head of it. 82% of Canadians want the Senate abolished, that's how ill-informed they are about our constitution. You can't abolish the Senate without opening up the constitution. And who wants to do that?! Nothing but a Pandora's box. Challenge allegiance to The Queen? Don't become a Canadian. Go back whence you came. Period, the end.
Indians
The grand chief of the Manitoba "nation", Derek Napinak, has formally and publically challenged Shawn Atleo and disputed Atleo's legitimacy in dealing with the federal government. See, that's what's wrong with the Indians; can't get their act(s) together. Fight among yourselves? You'll always lose.
A few Stampede snaps.............
Stampede is nearly over. Congratulations to Calgary for pulling it off! There is no way the Stampede should have been cancelled -- come hell or high water, as the T-shirts declare.
 |
| This hat was unreal! "It's a long story, the guy said, when I asked about it. They always are during Stampede! |
"Prairie Oysters", those delectable glands men never touch. I love them!
A Stampede classic. 1966 Pontiac Grand Ville.
It went on forever!
I am the Petunia Queen. You have to cut them back to about two inches when you put them in, then they get very fat, never leggy.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Homosexuals and Other "Man" Stuff................
I knew he was a "Mitchum". 'Ride the Wild Surf' was playing this afternoon and one of the surfers was "James Mitchum", the spitting image of one of my favourite actors, Robert. Can't decide who is sexier, Robert Mitchum, Cary Grant or William Holden. Those guys are the absolute best.
No one even comes close.
But what a dumb movie. "Fabian" starred in it. Can you believe "Fabian" is 70 years old?! He was a heartthrob back in the day, but guess what? Got out of the draft thanks to a letter from his doctor, stating........"his induction into the army could cause him to develop homosexual tendencies".
Nice one.
Another heartthrob in that movie was Tab Hunter. He is now 81 years old and a declared homosexual. During Hollywood's studio era, Hunter says, life "was difficult for me, because I was living two lives at that time. A private life of my own, which I never discussed, never talked about to anyone. And then my Hollywood life, which was just trying to learn my craft and succeed..." He emphasizes that the word 'gay' "wasn't even around in those days, and if anyone ever confronted me with it, I'd just kind'a freak out. I was in total denial. "There was a lot written about my sexuality, and the press was pretty darn cruel," the actor says, but what "moviegoers wanted to hold in their hearts were the boy-next-door marines, cowboys and swoon-bait sweethearts I portrayed."
Yes, Tab was gorgeous, as so many homosexuals are.
Re-reading 'Sahib, the British Soldier in India', by Richard Holmes. This book explains so much about B's background. Having been born in Bombay, with both sides of his family part of The Raj for more than 200 years, B epitomizes colonial values: love of Queen and country, courage and loyalty. The photos in this book might as well have been of his forbearers. In fact, I am looking at one right now of his great-grandfather, grandfather and uncle -- standing and seated in a studio in India, decked out in army and police number one dress, looking decidedly unfriendly and aggressively fierce. No one is smiling.
These people were nothing if not definite.
No one even comes close.
But what a dumb movie. "Fabian" starred in it. Can you believe "Fabian" is 70 years old?! He was a heartthrob back in the day, but guess what? Got out of the draft thanks to a letter from his doctor, stating........"his induction into the army could cause him to develop homosexual tendencies".
Nice one.
Another heartthrob in that movie was Tab Hunter. He is now 81 years old and a declared homosexual. During Hollywood's studio era, Hunter says, life "was difficult for me, because I was living two lives at that time. A private life of my own, which I never discussed, never talked about to anyone. And then my Hollywood life, which was just trying to learn my craft and succeed..." He emphasizes that the word 'gay' "wasn't even around in those days, and if anyone ever confronted me with it, I'd just kind'a freak out. I was in total denial. "There was a lot written about my sexuality, and the press was pretty darn cruel," the actor says, but what "moviegoers wanted to hold in their hearts were the boy-next-door marines, cowboys and swoon-bait sweethearts I portrayed."
Yes, Tab was gorgeous, as so many homosexuals are.
Re-reading 'Sahib, the British Soldier in India', by Richard Holmes. This book explains so much about B's background. Having been born in Bombay, with both sides of his family part of The Raj for more than 200 years, B epitomizes colonial values: love of Queen and country, courage and loyalty. The photos in this book might as well have been of his forbearers. In fact, I am looking at one right now of his great-grandfather, grandfather and uncle -- standing and seated in a studio in India, decked out in army and police number one dress, looking decidedly unfriendly and aggressively fierce. No one is smiling.
These people were nothing if not definite.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
How do you spell that?
"Please give me your name," said the voice at the other end of a 1-866 line. "Nancy," I replied. How do you spell that? How many ways are there to spell "Nancy"? How about one. Then we had to deal with the last name. M A R L E Y -- hyphen -- C L A R K E...with an "E". Do you think that worked?
It didn't.
All I was trying to do was book a hotel room in Invermere, B.C., for one night in August. "Where are you located," I asked. "Egypt." At that I hung up. Finally booked myself directly through a local number. All these places that publish only a 1-800 number lose out.
I am going to do a 2K open-water swim and think I will complete it in just over an hour. Whatever my time, I will not be last. After all the meets I have attended with my daughter, this is the first one I have registered in. I am very excited! She and grandson will be there to cheer me on.
It didn't.
All I was trying to do was book a hotel room in Invermere, B.C., for one night in August. "Where are you located," I asked. "Egypt." At that I hung up. Finally booked myself directly through a local number. All these places that publish only a 1-800 number lose out.
I am going to do a 2K open-water swim and think I will complete it in just over an hour. Whatever my time, I will not be last. After all the meets I have attended with my daughter, this is the first one I have registered in. I am very excited! She and grandson will be there to cheer me on.
Monday, July 8, 2013
Apart from the tennis.....
"I could hear her squealing in the background, so I had to go back and give her a hug," said Wimbledon champion Andy Murray yesterday, after nearly ignoring his mother. Using a word such as "squealing" says it all and not prettily.
I watch the tennis, but I am also intrigued by what's going on in the stands. Cameras pan to this box and that and what one sees is always revealing. Like the fact that Andy's girlfriend and his mother sit as far apart as possible. You only have to take one look at Judy Murray to have the fact that she is probably a complete b-tch confirmed. Something about that nasty, rigid expression painted permanently on her face.................
You know, Judy, you're only half of the genes and chromosomes that make up Andy. Settle down. Where is the other half? Where is poor old "William" Murray? Kicked to the curb, no doubt about it. I think I caught a glimpse of him a few years ago, high up in some bleecher stand or other, banished by Judy you can bet. But he allowed it to happen, so only has himself to blame.
Reminds me of the mother of B's children. An enthusiastic advocate of immaculate conception, she tried to deny the father access at every turn until a genius, Dr. Arthur Leonoff, realized what was going on and stepped brilliantly in. Joint custody was rare back in the early '80s, but that's what we were awarded, with the caveat that full custody would devolve to B, should the ex have difficulty with the arrangement. You guessed it, she had "difficulty", so B was awarded custody of his kids, who visited their mother one day a week and every third weekend. Should have left well enough alone, but some people are brilliantly expert at snatching defeat out of the jaws of victory.
I have to tell you that our lawyer, Bob Montague, and Arthur Leonoff did not know each other when B's custody case was decided. Precedent was set, however, and the two subsequently teamed up, wrote a textbook on custody and lectured regularly at law school. (See "Doubles", August 19, 2012) I know they have been of great benefit to fathers everywhere, thanks to B's dogged refusal to be denied his children.
I digress, back to tennis. A number of years ago, when Andre Agassi won, his hitherto non-existent father popped up on the court and hugged him. No one was more surprised than Andre. Guess he was another of the father-off-the-Christmas-card-list variety. Sad.
Back in 2004, B and I won the Tennis Canada draw for Wimbledon tickets. "Are you sitting down," the woman calling from Toronto said. "You drew the men's final at Wimbledon!" I nearly dropped. So, off we went to London and were privileged to enjoy the men's final between Andy Roddick and Roger Federer. We had to buy the tickets, which I think were 500 pounds for two, but we got the seats. This year I heard that two tickets for the men's final were going for $120,000!!! Feature it!
What a thrill it was wandering the hallowed grounds of Wimbledon. B had played there many times when he was a graduate student in London in the sixties, but it was a first for me. Had to have a "Pims". Yuck. As a scotch drinker, it was way too sweet, but I struggled through it. Found it fascinating that the ushers were not rent-a-cops, but serious young members of the army, navy and air force. And there was no fooling around with them. A couple of young ladies who had become "overly-refreshed" were quietly escorted into an unmarked car and noiselessly whisked away.
As to the facilities, there were more than enough ladies' loos -- a rarity in most places.
I watch the tennis, but I am also intrigued by what's going on in the stands. Cameras pan to this box and that and what one sees is always revealing. Like the fact that Andy's girlfriend and his mother sit as far apart as possible. You only have to take one look at Judy Murray to have the fact that she is probably a complete b-tch confirmed. Something about that nasty, rigid expression painted permanently on her face.................
You know, Judy, you're only half of the genes and chromosomes that make up Andy. Settle down. Where is the other half? Where is poor old "William" Murray? Kicked to the curb, no doubt about it. I think I caught a glimpse of him a few years ago, high up in some bleecher stand or other, banished by Judy you can bet. But he allowed it to happen, so only has himself to blame.
Reminds me of the mother of B's children. An enthusiastic advocate of immaculate conception, she tried to deny the father access at every turn until a genius, Dr. Arthur Leonoff, realized what was going on and stepped brilliantly in. Joint custody was rare back in the early '80s, but that's what we were awarded, with the caveat that full custody would devolve to B, should the ex have difficulty with the arrangement. You guessed it, she had "difficulty", so B was awarded custody of his kids, who visited their mother one day a week and every third weekend. Should have left well enough alone, but some people are brilliantly expert at snatching defeat out of the jaws of victory.
I have to tell you that our lawyer, Bob Montague, and Arthur Leonoff did not know each other when B's custody case was decided. Precedent was set, however, and the two subsequently teamed up, wrote a textbook on custody and lectured regularly at law school. (See "Doubles", August 19, 2012) I know they have been of great benefit to fathers everywhere, thanks to B's dogged refusal to be denied his children.
I digress, back to tennis. A number of years ago, when Andre Agassi won, his hitherto non-existent father popped up on the court and hugged him. No one was more surprised than Andre. Guess he was another of the father-off-the-Christmas-card-list variety. Sad.
Back in 2004, B and I won the Tennis Canada draw for Wimbledon tickets. "Are you sitting down," the woman calling from Toronto said. "You drew the men's final at Wimbledon!" I nearly dropped. So, off we went to London and were privileged to enjoy the men's final between Andy Roddick and Roger Federer. We had to buy the tickets, which I think were 500 pounds for two, but we got the seats. This year I heard that two tickets for the men's final were going for $120,000!!! Feature it!
What a thrill it was wandering the hallowed grounds of Wimbledon. B had played there many times when he was a graduate student in London in the sixties, but it was a first for me. Had to have a "Pims". Yuck. As a scotch drinker, it was way too sweet, but I struggled through it. Found it fascinating that the ushers were not rent-a-cops, but serious young members of the army, navy and air force. And there was no fooling around with them. A couple of young ladies who had become "overly-refreshed" were quietly escorted into an unmarked car and noiselessly whisked away.
As to the facilities, there were more than enough ladies' loos -- a rarity in most places.
Friday, July 5, 2013
Annoying
"Stop the tar sands," screamed a T-shit in Canadian Tire. The guy wearing it was covered head-to-toe in footwear and garments made possible only by petroleum products. Yes folks, he was an aging hippie. With a beard. And long-ish hair. Ugh. Bet he was also a vegetarian -- or worse a vegan. In beef-laden Alberta?!
He was also shopping in, and giving money to, a store dominated by products which have morphed from oil into "stuff", thanks to the tar sands.
It kills me. So annoyingly BS-ish. I almost had a word with him, but was restrained by my more temperate husband. "Don't get into it with the guy," he advised, as we stood in the check-out line reading his T-shirt. Reluctantly, I restrained myself. But the hypocrisy was breathtaking.
Next time you spot a protester wearing plastic, think about it.
He was also shopping in, and giving money to, a store dominated by products which have morphed from oil into "stuff", thanks to the tar sands.
It kills me. So annoyingly BS-ish. I almost had a word with him, but was restrained by my more temperate husband. "Don't get into it with the guy," he advised, as we stood in the check-out line reading his T-shirt. Reluctantly, I restrained myself. But the hypocrisy was breathtaking.
Next time you spot a protester wearing plastic, think about it.
The good, the bad and the ugly
"These are men's hats, the women's are over there," said the clerk in 'Lamle's Western Wear and Tack' yesterday. "I have a lot of testosterone, so don't worry about it, I belong here," I replied, to the amusement of a very handsome 50-ish gentleman near me. The clerk walked away and the gentleman and I bonded over cowboy hats for Stampede.
"I used to have a gorgeous green felt cowboy hat, but when I had to move away for two years and rent my house, I never found it?" he lamented. "Someone poofed it," I explained, using a unique phrase an old friend had coined years ago, when talking about things his friends had stolen. "Never seen(sic) a green one again," he added. And he won't. Must be something about $$$$$$$.
I bought a fabulous, black, men's cowboy hat, which suits me because broad and stylish, it works. The women's hats I tried on were straw, tiny, cheap and cheesy. Men's Stampede anyone? You got it. Only men's cowboy hats are serious. Naturally, I bought one.
So off we went to the first Stampede BBQ at The Ranchmen's Club today. It was fabulous -- groaning with prairie oysters (read, bull testicles), beef-beef-beef-and-more-beef, chicken, pasta, sausages, thousands of salads..........you name it, it was there in abundance. Thinking of the laps I would have had to endure had I actually sampled everything, I consumed practically nothing. Hope I am not starting to be OCD about my weight again, but today I accidentally did 10 extra laps 'cause I was talking, visiting and completely lost count! Oh well, good to go into Stampede with a few more under my belt.
"What the hell is the problem?" I asked myself, as I returned from the Y at 7:30 after my swim. Had to come to a complete stop on our private road because an outgoing car had pulled over on the wrong side, driver's door flung open; two others were waiting to pass. What did I see? A young, squating woman vomiting miserably.
Yes folks, welcome to the seamier side of Stampede.
"I used to have a gorgeous green felt cowboy hat, but when I had to move away for two years and rent my house, I never found it?" he lamented. "Someone poofed it," I explained, using a unique phrase an old friend had coined years ago, when talking about things his friends had stolen. "Never seen(sic) a green one again," he added. And he won't. Must be something about $$$$$$$.
I bought a fabulous, black, men's cowboy hat, which suits me because broad and stylish, it works. The women's hats I tried on were straw, tiny, cheap and cheesy. Men's Stampede anyone? You got it. Only men's cowboy hats are serious. Naturally, I bought one.
So off we went to the first Stampede BBQ at The Ranchmen's Club today. It was fabulous -- groaning with prairie oysters (read, bull testicles), beef-beef-beef-and-more-beef, chicken, pasta, sausages, thousands of salads..........you name it, it was there in abundance. Thinking of the laps I would have had to endure had I actually sampled everything, I consumed practically nothing. Hope I am not starting to be OCD about my weight again, but today I accidentally did 10 extra laps 'cause I was talking, visiting and completely lost count! Oh well, good to go into Stampede with a few more under my belt.
"What the hell is the problem?" I asked myself, as I returned from the Y at 7:30 after my swim. Had to come to a complete stop on our private road because an outgoing car had pulled over on the wrong side, driver's door flung open; two others were waiting to pass. What did I see? A young, squating woman vomiting miserably.
Yes folks, welcome to the seamier side of Stampede.
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Ottawa June Visit
Of course, I forgot my good Canon camera, so had to rely on my phone -- hence the poor quality of these shots. But for readers pictured here, a few shots of our recent visit to The Ottawa Valley (see "Up the Line", June 8th, 2013).
 |
| Beautiful niece Kristine |
 |
Son Scott and favourite cousin, Don
One of my oldest and dearest friends, John Booth, centre, with Scott and Don
The Quyon cruise liner -- note the ad for the fair in "The 'Frew"
Old and dear friends at their farm in Bristol Mines
 |
Kris, Don and me
My favourite household appliance
The last of my parents' generation, 97-year-old Uncle Rollie
B and a friend he met alongside a rural road
The Mustang 'Shelby' we met on the Quyon ferry
Shelby's interior
It was a great visit to The Valley.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Dave Barry is unique
This is absolutely hilarious to anyone of "a certain age". Dave Barry is a Pulitzer Prize-winning humor columnist for the Miami
Herald. He writes:
Colonoscopy Journal
I called my friend Andy Sable, a gastroenterologist, to make an appointment for a colonoscopy. A few days later, in his office, Andy showed me a color diagram of the colon, a lengthy organ that appears to go all over the place, at one point passing briefly through Minneapolis .
Then Andy explained the colonoscopy procedure to me in a thorough, reassuring and patient manner.
I nodded thoughtfully, but I didn't really hear anything he said, because my brain was shrieking, 'HE'S GOING TO STICK A TUBE 17,000 FEET UP YOUR BEHIND!'
I left Andy's office with some written instructions, and a prescription for a product called 'MoviPrep,' which comes in a box large enough to hold a microwave oven. I will discuss MoviPrep in detail later; for now suffice it to say that we must never allow it to fall into the hands of America 's
enemies.
I spent the next several days productively sitting around being nervous. Then, on the day before my colonoscopy, I began my preparation. In accordance with my instructions, I didn't eat any solid food that day; all I had was chicken broth, which is basically water, only with less flavor.
Then, in the evening, I took the MoviPrep. You mix two packets of powder together in a one-liter plastic jug, then you fill it with lukewarm water. (For those unfamiliar with the metric system, a liter is about 32 gallons). Then you have to drink the whole jug. This takes about an hour, because
MoviPrep tastes - and here I am being kind - like a mixture of goat spit and urinal cleanser, with just a hint of lemon..
The instructions for MoviPrep, clearly written by somebody with a great sense of humor, state that after you drink it, 'a loose, watery bowel movement may result.' This is kind of like saying that after you jump off your roof, you may experience contact with the ground.
MoviPrep is a nuclear laxative. I don't want to be too graphic, here, but, have you ever seen a space-shuttle launch? This is pretty much the MoviPrep experience, with you as the shuttle. There are times when you wish the commode had a seat belt. You spend several hours pretty much confined to the bathroom, spurting violently. You eliminate everything. And then, when you figure you must be totally empty, you have to drink another liter of MoviPrep, at which point, as far as I can tell, your bowels travel into the future and start eliminating food that you have not even eaten yet.
After an action-packed evening, I finally got to sleep.
The next morning my wife drove me to the clinic. I was very nervous. Not only was I worried about the procedure, but I had been experiencing occasional return bouts of MoviPrep spurtage. I was thinking, 'What if I spurt on Andy?' How do you apologize to a friend for something like that?
Flowers would not be enough.
At the clinic I had to sign many forms acknowledging that I understood and totally agreed with whatever the heck the forms said. Then they led me to a room full of other colonoscopy people, where I went inside a little curtained space and took off my clothes and put on one of those hospital
garments designed by sadist perverts, the kind that, when you put it on, makes you feel even more naked than when you are actually naked.
Then a nurse named Eddie put a little needle in a vein in my left hand. Ordinarily I would have fainted, but Eddie was very good, and I was already lying down. Eddie also told me that some people put vodka in their MoviPrep. At first I was ticked off that I hadn't thought of this, but then I pondered what would happen if you got yourself too tipsy to make it to the bathroom, so you were staggering around in full Fire Hose Mode. You would have no choice but to burn your house.
When everything was ready, Eddie wheeled me into the procedure room, where Andy was waiting with a nurse and an anesthesiologist. I did not see the 17,000-foot tube, but I knew Andy had it hidden around there somewhere. I was seriously nervous at this point. Andy had me roll over on my left side, and the anesthesiologist began hooking something up to the needle in my hand.
There was music playing in the room, and I realized that the song was "Dancing Queen" by ABBA. I remarked to Andy that, of all the songs that could be playing during this particular procedure, "Dancing Queen" had to be the least appropriate.
'You want me to turn it up?' said Andy, from somewhere behind me. 'Ha ha,' I said. And then it was time, the moment I had been dreading for more than a decade. If you are squeamish, prepare yourself, because I am going to tell you, in explicit detail, exactly what it was like. I have no idea. Really. I slept through it. One moment, ABBA was yelling 'Dancing Queen, feel the beat of the tambourine,' and the next moment, I was back in the other room, waking up in a very mellow mood.
Andy was looking down at me and asking me how I felt. I felt excellent. I felt even more excellent when Andy told me that IT was all over, and that my colon had passed with flying colors. I have never been prouder of an internal organ.
On the subject of Colonoscopies...
Colonoscopies are no joke, but these comments during the exam were quite humorous..... A physician claimed that the following are actual comments made by his patients (predominately male) while he was performing their colonoscopies:
1. 'Take it easy, Doc. You're boldly going where no man has gone before!'
2. 'Find Amelia Earhart yet?'
3. 'Can you hear me NOW?'
4. 'Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?'
5. 'You know, in Arkansas , we're now legally married.'
6. 'Any sign of the trapped miners, Chief?'
7. 'You put your left hand in, you take your left hand out...'
8. 'Hey! Now I know how a Muppet feels!'
9. 'If your hand doesn't fit, you must quit!'
10. 'Hey Doc, let me know if you find my dignity.'
11. 'You used to be an executive at Enron, didn't you?'
12. 'God, now I know why I am not gay.'
And the best one of all:
13.. 'Could you write a note for my wife saying that my head is not up
there?'
Colonoscopy Journal
I called my friend Andy Sable, a gastroenterologist, to make an appointment for a colonoscopy. A few days later, in his office, Andy showed me a color diagram of the colon, a lengthy organ that appears to go all over the place, at one point passing briefly through Minneapolis .
Then Andy explained the colonoscopy procedure to me in a thorough, reassuring and patient manner.
I nodded thoughtfully, but I didn't really hear anything he said, because my brain was shrieking, 'HE'S GOING TO STICK A TUBE 17,000 FEET UP YOUR BEHIND!'
I left Andy's office with some written instructions, and a prescription for a product called 'MoviPrep,' which comes in a box large enough to hold a microwave oven. I will discuss MoviPrep in detail later; for now suffice it to say that we must never allow it to fall into the hands of America 's
enemies.
I spent the next several days productively sitting around being nervous. Then, on the day before my colonoscopy, I began my preparation. In accordance with my instructions, I didn't eat any solid food that day; all I had was chicken broth, which is basically water, only with less flavor.
Then, in the evening, I took the MoviPrep. You mix two packets of powder together in a one-liter plastic jug, then you fill it with lukewarm water. (For those unfamiliar with the metric system, a liter is about 32 gallons). Then you have to drink the whole jug. This takes about an hour, because
MoviPrep tastes - and here I am being kind - like a mixture of goat spit and urinal cleanser, with just a hint of lemon..
The instructions for MoviPrep, clearly written by somebody with a great sense of humor, state that after you drink it, 'a loose, watery bowel movement may result.' This is kind of like saying that after you jump off your roof, you may experience contact with the ground.
MoviPrep is a nuclear laxative. I don't want to be too graphic, here, but, have you ever seen a space-shuttle launch? This is pretty much the MoviPrep experience, with you as the shuttle. There are times when you wish the commode had a seat belt. You spend several hours pretty much confined to the bathroom, spurting violently. You eliminate everything. And then, when you figure you must be totally empty, you have to drink another liter of MoviPrep, at which point, as far as I can tell, your bowels travel into the future and start eliminating food that you have not even eaten yet.
After an action-packed evening, I finally got to sleep.
The next morning my wife drove me to the clinic. I was very nervous. Not only was I worried about the procedure, but I had been experiencing occasional return bouts of MoviPrep spurtage. I was thinking, 'What if I spurt on Andy?' How do you apologize to a friend for something like that?
Flowers would not be enough.
At the clinic I had to sign many forms acknowledging that I understood and totally agreed with whatever the heck the forms said. Then they led me to a room full of other colonoscopy people, where I went inside a little curtained space and took off my clothes and put on one of those hospital
garments designed by sadist perverts, the kind that, when you put it on, makes you feel even more naked than when you are actually naked.
Then a nurse named Eddie put a little needle in a vein in my left hand. Ordinarily I would have fainted, but Eddie was very good, and I was already lying down. Eddie also told me that some people put vodka in their MoviPrep. At first I was ticked off that I hadn't thought of this, but then I pondered what would happen if you got yourself too tipsy to make it to the bathroom, so you were staggering around in full Fire Hose Mode. You would have no choice but to burn your house.
When everything was ready, Eddie wheeled me into the procedure room, where Andy was waiting with a nurse and an anesthesiologist. I did not see the 17,000-foot tube, but I knew Andy had it hidden around there somewhere. I was seriously nervous at this point. Andy had me roll over on my left side, and the anesthesiologist began hooking something up to the needle in my hand.
There was music playing in the room, and I realized that the song was "Dancing Queen" by ABBA. I remarked to Andy that, of all the songs that could be playing during this particular procedure, "Dancing Queen" had to be the least appropriate.
'You want me to turn it up?' said Andy, from somewhere behind me. 'Ha ha,' I said. And then it was time, the moment I had been dreading for more than a decade. If you are squeamish, prepare yourself, because I am going to tell you, in explicit detail, exactly what it was like. I have no idea. Really. I slept through it. One moment, ABBA was yelling 'Dancing Queen, feel the beat of the tambourine,' and the next moment, I was back in the other room, waking up in a very mellow mood.
Andy was looking down at me and asking me how I felt. I felt excellent. I felt even more excellent when Andy told me that IT was all over, and that my colon had passed with flying colors. I have never been prouder of an internal organ.
On the subject of Colonoscopies...
Colonoscopies are no joke, but these comments during the exam were quite humorous..... A physician claimed that the following are actual comments made by his patients (predominately male) while he was performing their colonoscopies:
1. 'Take it easy, Doc. You're boldly going where no man has gone before!'
2. 'Find Amelia Earhart yet?'
3. 'Can you hear me NOW?'
4. 'Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?'
5. 'You know, in Arkansas , we're now legally married.'
6. 'Any sign of the trapped miners, Chief?'
7. 'You put your left hand in, you take your left hand out...'
8. 'Hey! Now I know how a Muppet feels!'
9. 'If your hand doesn't fit, you must quit!'
10. 'Hey Doc, let me know if you find my dignity.'
11. 'You used to be an executive at Enron, didn't you?'
12. 'God, now I know why I am not gay.'
And the best one of all:
13.. 'Could you write a note for my wife saying that my head is not up
there?'
Tried, but couldn't
Cochrane being Cochrane, they had a big, beautiful Canada Day party at one of the local parks. Went, but couldn't stay. Felt like a traitor, abandoning the family, but I can't do big public events.
It was the same even when I was much younger. Couldn't hack the Ex, never went near Winterlude, avoided every mass rock, folk or blues concert, ignored the Tulip Festival -- you name it, just not for me. When the kids were little, we had to take them to the Ex, but I limited it to a couple of rides, some candy floss, a quick whirl around the midway and that was it. But at least I could hold my head up at the local playground and say, "Of course I took the kids to the Ex." Otherwise, some righteous mother would undoubtedly have called the Children's Aid!
Of course, you can't park anywhere near any venue, so we parked far, far away and lugged everything -- chairs, bags, food and most importantly, the grandson, to the gate. I was accused of wearing "stupid" shoes, but the little sandals I had on are the most comfortable mini-heels I own. Could walk in them for miles. Some shoes are like that.
By the way, why do they always rope off the last 500 yards near the entrance for...........who? There are always "officious" officials with florescent vests who set up barricades and just love to tell you can't go here and you can't stop there and you have to turn around............and other annoying and mystifyingly-ridiculous orders.
Went with daughter's in-laws -- two of the nicest people you will ever meet and much better "sports" apparently than I. (Note: they are both a number of years younger than B and I and those few years make a noticeable difference.) By the time we arrived the park was jammed. Needing shade because of my numerous facial cancers, I was slightly taken aback to see that every inch of the place was bathed in sweltering sun. The only shade? A tiny patch wedged between the porta-potties on the right and the smokers on the left. I headed there and the in-laws, being the class people they are, came and set up to keep me company.
The smokers, of course, ignored the numerous loud announcements that smoking was prohibited and just lit up with gay, addicted abandon. Even when toddler grandson wandered over, they continued to puff away. The only saving grace, as father-in-law said, was that the wind was blowing "that way". He was referring to the toilets, but that meant the smoke was wafting disgustingly into our nostrils from the other direction. Can't have everything!
After about an hour, I had to leave because I cannot do porta-potties. No way. Anymore. Ever. I noticed that as usual, they never have a sufficient quantity so as the line started to grow, I realized I had to get out of there. Said my goodbyes -- to the annoyance of my daughter -- and walked back to my car.
I must say, I am sorry I missed the great entertainment. George Canyon was the headliner and I do love his music.
Sorry to all, but just can't do those events anymore.
It was the same even when I was much younger. Couldn't hack the Ex, never went near Winterlude, avoided every mass rock, folk or blues concert, ignored the Tulip Festival -- you name it, just not for me. When the kids were little, we had to take them to the Ex, but I limited it to a couple of rides, some candy floss, a quick whirl around the midway and that was it. But at least I could hold my head up at the local playground and say, "Of course I took the kids to the Ex." Otherwise, some righteous mother would undoubtedly have called the Children's Aid!
Of course, you can't park anywhere near any venue, so we parked far, far away and lugged everything -- chairs, bags, food and most importantly, the grandson, to the gate. I was accused of wearing "stupid" shoes, but the little sandals I had on are the most comfortable mini-heels I own. Could walk in them for miles. Some shoes are like that.
By the way, why do they always rope off the last 500 yards near the entrance for...........who? There are always "officious" officials with florescent vests who set up barricades and just love to tell you can't go here and you can't stop there and you have to turn around............and other annoying and mystifyingly-ridiculous orders.
Went with daughter's in-laws -- two of the nicest people you will ever meet and much better "sports" apparently than I. (Note: they are both a number of years younger than B and I and those few years make a noticeable difference.) By the time we arrived the park was jammed. Needing shade because of my numerous facial cancers, I was slightly taken aback to see that every inch of the place was bathed in sweltering sun. The only shade? A tiny patch wedged between the porta-potties on the right and the smokers on the left. I headed there and the in-laws, being the class people they are, came and set up to keep me company.
The smokers, of course, ignored the numerous loud announcements that smoking was prohibited and just lit up with gay, addicted abandon. Even when toddler grandson wandered over, they continued to puff away. The only saving grace, as father-in-law said, was that the wind was blowing "that way". He was referring to the toilets, but that meant the smoke was wafting disgustingly into our nostrils from the other direction. Can't have everything!
After about an hour, I had to leave because I cannot do porta-potties. No way. Anymore. Ever. I noticed that as usual, they never have a sufficient quantity so as the line started to grow, I realized I had to get out of there. Said my goodbyes -- to the annoyance of my daughter -- and walked back to my car.
I must say, I am sorry I missed the great entertainment. George Canyon was the headliner and I do love his music.
Sorry to all, but just can't do those events anymore.
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