Tuesday 31 July 2012

I'm a Frayed Knot

A rope walks into a bar and orders a drink. The bartender says, "We don't serve ropes in here." So the rope goes outside and twists himself into a ball, teases his top and goes back into the bar. The bartender sees him and asks, "Aren't you the rope that just tried to order a drink?" The rope replies, "I'm a frayed knot."

Some days I feel beaten down by the world, as if no matter how hard I try I'm going to get knocked back every so often just to keep me humble. For instance, if gas prices drop, my car breaks down. If I get a good idea for dinner, that'll be the time the lid falls off the salt shaker and ruins it. Or better yet, the time I'm 15 seconds late is the time the bus is 30 seconds early. My mother would say you have to take the bad with the good.

I'd rather curse Murphy and his damn laws for all of it. I mean, it can never be my fault. It couldn't be that the car needed a new fan belt because it gets driven a lot. Or that the lid on the salt shaker was loose to begin with because I didn't tighten it right when I filled it up. Or how about that I always cut it close with the bus so really I should be getting there earlier so I can stop running.

Perhaps it's a change in mindset that is required here. No more blaming the imaginary laws of irony. How about blaming myself? Mistakes, after all, are human-made. No apologies, just change my ways and try to do better the second time around, if I get a do-over. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.

That rope had it right...if you don't get what you want in life, change something about yourself and try again. It's time to take responsibility for my actions and quit looking for a scapegoat in every little thing.

And if Murphy rears his head and tries to convince me that he's to blame, I'll stand proud and respond, "I'm afraid not."

Monday 30 July 2012

Life is Like a Bowl of Mount Rainier Cherries

About 10 years ago I went to Seattle, Washington to a conference on lung disease and respiratory care. It was a great experience. I saw Mount Rainier from my hotel window and I was a 20 minute walk to the convention centre in down town Seattle so I was able to check out the sights each morning.

I checked out the original Starbucks coffee house near Pike Place Market. A very enthusiastic young woman was handing out double shots on the street corner, which are small but deadly cans filled with a double espresso. You down it like a tequila shot and then you run around buzzed for the next couple of hours, also like after a tequila shot. This girl was yes, enthusiastic, but not very observant because she handed me two more in separate locations on the street as she wandered around with her knapsack full of cans, as if it was the first time she saw me. I never drank them, I figured she was running on concentrated caffeine herself and her demeanour was a tad scary. She literally vibrated.

Pike Place Market is the site of the famous fish toss. You order a salmon, it flies through the air over your head to the guy who wraps it in brown paper. Yelling, screaming and general good-natured ribbing ensues and then you pay for this entertainment along with your fish. Everything at the market was trés expensive. I bought nothing.

I also went up the Seattle Space Needle for a dinner hosted by one of the research groups. It was nice but there was no entertainment, no fish flying through the air. Just scientific talk and lots of wine. I just wanted the wine so I left early.

There are two particularly memorable things about Seattle. One, I took a water shuttle to Victoria, B.C. to visit family for a couple of days and very much enjoyed being taxied by water. It was a beautiful day both coming and going and I took pictures with a very poor quality digital camera, whose photos did not do the scenery justice. Still, it was a relaxing and enjoyable trip.

The second thing I will remember about Seattle are the Mount Rainier cherries. I'll refrain from a reference to the cherry on top of a great trip or that any negative aspect may have amounted to sending me down into the pits. Instead let's focus on these tasty little, pale yellow/red beauties. These are not your ordinary cherries. They are sweet like a delicious apple, the pit falls out of them like a freestone peach and they are addictive like a handful of popcorn. You can't eat just one. Trust me on this.

If I can warn you though, don't eat more than say, a dozen or so. Beyond that you'll bloat up like an apple-eating horse in the hot sun, like a road kill raccoon in the desert, like a....well, you get my drift. Everything in moderation.

You can buy Mount Rainier cherries in the grocery stores in Ontario. They are expensive but believe me they are worth it. After you eat the first 12, cut the rest up and put them in a fruit salad or top off a green salad. But if you end up in pain later on with a tummy swollen beyond belief, don't say I didn't warn you.

Saturday 28 July 2012

Olympics - Canada is on Fire

For as long as I can remember I've loved watching the opening ceremonies of the Olympics. My favourite part is always the parade of athletes. I look for the happy, excited faces of those athletes for whom this may be their first time at the games. They stand out like a sore thumb. All teeth and dancing. I have to be ready when the ceremony gets close to the parade of athletes since Canada comes so early in the alphabet.

Unfortunately, I missed the whole ceremony this year. What I mean to say is that I missed the live coverage due to the time difference between us and London, England. It was still great to watch the time-delayed coverage but I missed that feeling of 'being there'. That is until the British military personnel marched the Union Jack up the meadow (created specially for the event) and raised the flag. I teared up.

During the parade of athletes there was a woman carrying what looked like a large, copper lily for each country. As each team took their spot, the lily was set in place on a large carousel laying flat on the stage. I was curious. Once the host country came out and the final lily was placed, I realized that each flower was part of the base of the Olympic flame. A group of young athletes, dubbed 'future Olympians', ran up and lit several lilies.

Then the most amazing thing happened, the flowers rose into the air, supported by long, thin metal stalks. They met at the top and formed a large, flaming bowl. It was spectacular.

Perhaps for the first time I 'got' the significance of the flame. It is the singular desire to excel in a competition of physical endurance or superiority....for...one's.....country!

I am proud of our athletes and I am proud of their effort. But I am most proud that a small portion of that flame IS Canada. May the flame ignite your competitive spirit today in a way that doesn't belittle the efforts of others but raises us all up in a united show of pride and honour.

Friday 27 July 2012

All Thumbs

How often over the centuries has the human mind pondered the existence of the opposable thumb?

The thumb has its place, no doubt. It is good for hitch-hiking after all. You may have a green thumb or you may be all thumbs. You could thumb your nose at something (or someone) you dislike or you could give a thumbs up to show your approval. I'm sure you've twiddled your thumbs at one time or have stuck out like a sore thumb. Perhaps you've been under someone else's thumb, not a very pleasant place to be. On the other hand, you may follow the rule of thumb and never step out of line.


We have created so many expressions to capture the thumb's purpose and yet we have failed to explain how it came to be. Was it evolution? If so, why hasn't every mammal evolved such a useful device? Was it divine intervention? That could explain why humans can't come up with an explanation on their own, only God knows for sure.

You might be interested to know that the rule of thumb came about to judge the thickness of a stick used to punish someone. It couldn't be any thicker than the person's thumb, best to be skinny in those days. A further punishment might involve a thumbscrew, where the condemned person's thumbs were crushed in a vice-like torture device. But hey, nowadays there isn't such a thing to impose on someone who has slighted you. Instead, you might choose to bite your thumb at them. Akin to the Italian gesture of slipping the fingers under one's chin and flapping them toward your foe, it begins with the thumb between the teeth and a thrust outward at them. It has Shakespearean origins and although I've never seen someone bite their thumb at another, nor have I done it myself, I can see how it would come across as a serious insult in many cultures.

I'd like to think I have a green thumb. I do have many plants, flowering and not, and I can keep them alive for extended periods of time. I garden with gloves on so my thumb has never actually turned green from its ministrations in the yard but I venture to guess that it would if left uncovered. The older I get, the more I need to use the phrase 'all thumbs'. Nothing explains the increased frequency of the dropsy's except to say that as I age, my brain is gradually losing its connection with my thumb. This could be because the thumb was likely the latest in our evolutionary history and therefore the first to disconnect.

I have pondered the anatomy of the thumb and the way in which it joins to the body. It is, to say the least, unique, making people unique. In point of fact, I have seen chimpanzees handling items in their hands with as much ease as if they had their own opposable thumb, leading me to conclude that the opposability of one's thumb is not necessarily due to anatomy alone but perhaps may encompass ingenuity and necessity. I have even seen a koala bear strip down a eucalyptus plant with as much dexterity, indeed more, than I think I would have with my own valuable appendage.

Such a long and storied history the thumb has and yet, I have only two words to say about it that puts it to the best use possible:

Suck it.

Thursday 26 July 2012

The Short Bus

My parents never mentioned swearing when I was a kid. We simply didn't swear around them. I'm sure my older siblings let one slip every so often but for me it just wasn't part of my vocabulary until I reached adulthood. There was one word my folks took particular exception to and it was referred to as 'the S-word'.

It is not the word that may have come to your mind, it's not related to something people pick up in a plastic bag when they walk their dog. It is the word, dare I say it, 'stupid'.

Nobody in my house was ever stupid and we were not allowed to speak the word in relation to anyone we knew either. The phrase 'he's a stupid dink' would have garnered gasps around the kitchen table as we relayed the good and bad of our day at school. Not because of dink but instead because of the the use of stupid.

Intelligence, it seemed, came from more than just book learning according to my parents. It was by all measures, something that couldn't be judged in any standard way. Your IQ couldn't be distilled down to a single number that stated anything of value about you. If my IQ is 150, it would be about as useful a thing to know as my shoe size, which is 10. Perhaps a more interesting thing to know about me is that my shoe size is 10.

As a result of this culture of respect for effort rather than numerical intelligence, I volunteered in high school to take kids to the pool once a month. These were kids whose abilities were not that of the government-judged standard to be allowed in a regular public school. They were mentally and physically challenged and therefore took the short bus to the small school so they could sit in teeny classrooms with people who had far more compassion for them than the average person.

I recall one day feeling not so enthusiastic about going to the pool. I had so much to do, homework, studying, practicing my French horn. I had no time for compassion. But I went anyway. Once there, I was standing by the pool and a little boy, probably 9 or 10 years old with a mentality far less his age, slipped his hand into mine and looked out over the water. His eyes gleamed. He knew he wasn't allowed to enter the pool without an adult and he obeyed, unquestioningly. He was so excited, he hopped from one foot to the other, tugging on my hand as he danced and bumping me with the oversized waterwings on his arms.

I looked down at him and asked, "Ready?". He didn't look up, he simply pulled me to the ladder. I hopped in ahead of him and guided him down into the water. He squealed and laughed, spitting water at me. He was so happy. I forgot about my homework, my assignments, reading and everything else. For 45 minutes I was his safety net and he was my source of joy.

Was that little boy stupid? Hardly. He knew how to enjoy life, to be in the moment, to be truly happy.

I take offence at people who use the S-word. I know I have let it slip out of my mouth over the years and I get mad at myself for being so careless. To me it is equivalent to the F-word or the N-word or the C-word, none of which have a place in my vocabulary, although I have been liberal with my use of the F-word when I am frustrated. It's all about choice, isn't it?

Given the choice, I'd rather take the short bus.

Wednesday 25 July 2012

Hat's Off

So what's the big deal about having a bad hair day? We all do. Some days I wear a hat. Okay, I never wear a hat, unless it's a ball cap and I'm playing ball. Or a Tilley while I'm golfing. At work, I don't wear a hat and that's when I need it the most.


Perhaps we need to start a new trend. Hats on at all times, unless you're having a good hair day which, let's face it, happens less frequently than we'd like to admit. Most days are simply acceptable hair days, right?


I do see the younger generation, that is twenty-somethings, wearing knit caps in the summer. It makes no sense to me, except perhaps they've already embraced the hat's on philosophy and have accepted that their hair is seldom 'good' enough to doff the topper. Or they don't shower as often as they should and this is equivalent to the waterless shampoo trend of the '70's. Just comb it through and your hair will look freshly washed, yeah right.


I'm a girl and let's face it, girls are less likely to wear a hat and yet are more likely to criticize theirs and others hairstyles, leading to the 'bad hair day' declaration. Only the rudest of the rude would actually speak the words 'gee, you're having a bad hair day, aren't you'. Yet these are the feared words running through my head when I comb my hair in the mirror and see that it is not falling where I would like it to. No amount of hair spray, teasing or coaxing will force it into the coif graciously given to me at the hair salon.

This fact was off-handedly pointed out to me this morning by my significant other. Not in a rude way but in an 'I'm the one who'll point out when your slip is showing or you have lipstick on your teeth to save you the embarrassment' sort of way.

He's right. I am having a bad hair day. Truth is, I don't really care. My hair is clean. Enough. For work.

Next time he styles his wayward hair and it doesn't cooperate, I think I'll just stand back and wait for him to ask me for a hat.

Tuesday 24 July 2012

And the sun shone anyway.

Winds picked up after dinner and blanketed my shoulders as I sat on my comfy couch by the living room window. I had a craving for pizza and what was left of the second garlic chicken pizza that we attempted to consume lay on the kitchen counter. My significant other snored quietly on the long couch as I contemplated cleaning the kitchen up.

Just then a series of events occurred that sent a chill down my spine.

First, the wind suddenly died down. Second, Richard shifted in his sleep and squashed the TV remote between his hip and the couch cushion, turning off the television. No light was on in the house so I was suddenly plunged into darkness and silence. My heart thudded in my chest as the room lit up in pale blue light for a split second.

As if mesmerized by an alien landing, I pushed the cat off my lap and slowly made my way outside. The sky was particularly dark, only a portion of it open to the stars directly overhead. To the south, across the unlit park uncontaminated by city street lights, the sky flashed with heat lightning. Glancing to the west I could see the last rays of a dying sun, the orange glow dimmed periodically by the brightness in the southern sky.

Oddly, all I could hear was my own breathing as I waited for Mother Nature's ill-timed fireworks.

I recalled sitting in a dining room chair in the middle of the night when I was 8 years old, my siblings gathered around me. My father had moved the chairs to the big living room window so we could watch the sky. Heat lightning illuminated the details of flower gardens in the neighbourhood then plunged them into darkness again and again. My mother's soothing voice told us all there was nothing to worry about. The sky was just hot and this was its way to cool off.

I was brought out of the memory by a furry bump on my leg, the dog leaning against me in fear. I reached down and stroked his ear.

"It's okay buddy, the sky is just hot."

Monday 23 July 2012

Amid the Chaos

I'm 48 years old, soon to be 49 (and not long after, the big five-oh). And so it is difficult for me to use a term such as 'boyfriend' to describe my significant other. Difficult only because I haven't been in high school in a very long time and this word boy-friend, is one I associate with juvenile crushes and desperate loneliness.

All that aside, my significant other, my partner, my boyfriend....moved into my house this past weekend. It was, needless to say, chaotic, as anyone who has uprooted and relocated their life can attest to. Picture this: bare walls, all cupboard contents stacked on counter tops, boxes piled against walls, furniture lined up near the door awaiting its turn to be taken to the moving van. Clothing folded neatly on the stripped bed in a room that is also stripped bare. The bathroom has never been so clutter-free, although a metal bed frame is folded in the centre of the floor.


As I walk down the freshly vacuumed stairs, the sun glints off my sweaty skin from the window in the stairwell. Something flashes, fluttering by the window. I stop and stare. There it is again. I come closer. A perfect, beautiful, white moth rests on the inside of the screen. She is frantic to get outside. Her wings puff lightly as if she is hyperventilating.


I place a hand behind her and guide her into the palm of my other hand where I gently trap her. The house is silent to me as I focus on this rescue. I cannot hear the TV on downstairs, the vacuum sucking up dirt in the living room or the water crashing around inside the dishwasher. I barely hear my partner ask what I've got there. My hearing is tuned to the tiny being in my hands calling out for help.


I come down the stairs without the aid of the hand railing as both hands are occupied. I step over the dog and push the front door open with an elbow. I open my hands and the small white wave crawls up over the base of my left thumb. I can almost see her blinking at the bright outdoors, gasping in the fresh air and wondering where she is in relation to the world.


For a moment she opens her wings flat against my hand and I can see faint light brown lines in a random design along their length. Up against birch bark, she would be invisible. I feel the lightness of an eyelash flutter over my skin as she takes to the air. Her chaotic flight path unfolds toward the stand of birch trees near the side of the house.


I take in a deep breath, filling my lungs with the humid air and turn back toward my own chaotic home.