Blockage

Blockage, tends not to be a very attractive word despite the fact that I have not deliniated my intended meaning..at least not yet. If only blockage was used uniquely to refer to the structural wonders created by toddlers wherever there are blocks. I'd much prefer to hear the word bandied about as it pertains to the act of building rather than the act of dismantling. If a medical agent uses the word blockage it is usually not happy news nor is it good news when used by your car mechanic just before he delivers his latest too expensive estimate..If potential chokers could have the power of articulating just one single word it should be blockage, the perfect battle cry to spur on potential Heimlich manoeuvre suppliers. Unfortunately there is just no getting away from the neagtive connotations. Many have tried and many have failed, particularly writers, but we can't expect too much from them because the word blockage when used to describe a writer is the worst of all. There have been no studies done which warn a writer of potential symptoms, and what's worse no documented cases that might be able to let a writer know that with hope and a lot of hard work, one day he/she could well find themselves blockage free. Clearly we need to establish a non-profit orzanization to help treat and cure writer's Blockage.

Baptism 101

We receive the invitation to baby grandsons christening and on the designated day we make our way to the church at the appointed hour. As we are not regular church goers we are surprised to see a full house at what we thought was simply a small family affair. We managed to squeeze into the last pew and there we stood and sat, stood and sat, stood and sat throughout what turned out to be a full mass and not a baptism at all.With no sign of our 'baby' and assorted kin, we joined the long line of people edging way too slowly towards the exit. As we finally approach the door, imagine our surprise when we see 'our' baby along with his parents,numerous godparents and assorted guests. They smile at us and suddenly the proverbial light bulb turns on. The invitation said 12:30 and we the dimwitted grandparents took the invitation quite literally never suspecting a ruse, a baptismal scam, a trick to get us to sit through a mass while everyone else involved, was 'in the know' and got to spend an extra 90 minutes relaxing at home. The church is now virtually a ghost town except for 3 babies -dressed to the nines in assorted bonnets, satin booties, bloomers and flowing capes..all in white except for 'our' little guy clad in elegant black pinstripes; pants,vest and wee black shoes- and their retinue. We sat on yet another wooden bench as baby was absolved of the "original sin" and dabbed with 'holy' water, we were moved...
We learned some excellent lessons that are sure to serve us well should we ever receive any other invitations to celebrate such an auspicious occasion in the future;
the most obvious being that punctuality is without a doubt verboten. For me it was an old adage/lesson revisited; "haste makes waste". Having had just about enough of organized religion with all its rituals, I planned a speedy sneaky exit, hoping to steal away unnoticed. I hastily grabbed my coat, shrugged my shoulders into it and made a beeline toward the exit. Just steps from gaining my freedom I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning, I found myself face to face with one of the 'lacey' babies held in his father's arms. The father told me that he had noticed me gathering up my belongings and realized that the green wool coat I had selected from the 'coat' bench was in fact not mine, but his!! Same colour, wrong coat and a definite scene played out in full view of the baptism attendees my plans for a quiet exit were foiled.
Finally outside despite the frigid temperature, now in my own green coat, safe in the conviction that there would be no more baptisms for me..at least not anytime soon, I felt warm inside.

Everything Goes Better With Frank

Growing up our house was filled with the music of what our parents called 'The Crooners' those singers with the dreamy voices who sang us through our early baby dance steps first with our dad and then our brothers. Years ago my younger sister, a standup comedian, told me that all performers even those who do not sing, must warm their voices up before stepping out onto the stage. One evening while I drove with her to her gig, she popped in a cassette (told you it was years ago!!) of Frank Sinatra and began to sing along. This happened on several more trips to the comedy club and one day for some strange reason-because heaven only knows I had no need to warm up my voice- I joined in and so our pre show duetting began and continues till today whenever I am lucky enough to see her do her shtick. It matters not at all that neither my sister nor myself is in possession of a voice that can ably carry a tune. We sing anyway and everytime we do I am grateful for Frank and even more thankful that he cannot hear us. My sister explained why she chose Frank as her pre-show warbling buddy, informing me that with Frank one was guaranteed excellent timing which anyone who cares for the quality of their voice knows is a must. Fast forward to today, an unusually stressful day at work for me. I chose to begin my 8 hours in front of a computer housed in a colleagues room at first for the good company and counsel but then most definitely for the quadruple album of Franks that he wisely selected for our background music. From the first notes of Chicago to the final moments of The Tender Trap my old normally tortoise like computer fingers virtually flew across the keyboard and made light of my heavy work. I thank my Dad for the intro to Sinatra, my sister with whom I learned all the lyrics, and my friend at work for helping me get a huge chunk of my work done with the least amount of pain, but mostly I thank Frank.

Too Old To Suffer From Wanderlust

Today a friend of mine mentioned wanting to travel to Thailand and I realized that while long ago I may have had a similar desire, I no longer wish to go there; in fact I confessed to not wanting to go anywhere exotic or too far away. I chalked it up to being old and this caused my friend a sense of dismay, although for me it is really no big deal at all. When I was younger I did suffer from acute wanderlust and the only way to deal with it was to travel. It made no difference if the trips were work related or a combination of work and play, I was compelled to travel and travel I did. I was lucky to be able to work and play abroad for many years so now I seem to be pretty blase about the whole thing. This is really not about a lack of interest in being patted down by over zealous customs guys and gals,but it may well be- at least in part- due to my realization that the 'carefree' travel I was lucky enough to do way back when, simply does not exisit anymore. I cannot imagine recapturing those euphoric feelings in today's changed world and I cannot imagine going too far away from home without(at the very least) the promise of those feelings. When I think of going anywhere in the world, I think of revisiting only those particular places that I always loved and feel the need to see again in general, and the people I miss who still live there in particular. I think that in my youth my destinations were selected based on location while this newer older me will only contemplate leaving home if it means a reunion with a person that I badly want to see again. This rare condition is also known as friendlust and while it is way less frenetic then its more popular polar opposite, it is definitely a condition that requires action and/or displacement.

From Underpants To Pasta

It seems to be fact that as parents we come to the realization that our offspring remember precious little of the day to day minutae of their growing up years while we can't seem to shed any of what passed before probably because we were the orchestra leaders and pretty much directed the whole show. This does not mean that our children were not the co-directors, it just means that we sometimes forget to share the credit when we reminisce. As a small little boy my son hated clothes shopping so on those rare occasions when he had to come along, the challenge was to make it at least somewhat exciting. One of the most boring items that we purchased was underwear and would you believe socks? I was fortunate, luckier than any mom I know to have been blessed with a little boy who was the king of imagination and I do not use this term lightly. I was also a fortunate consumer who got to shop in an era when any number of cartoon heroes were depicted on boys underpants. This made the act of choosing a painless prospect for my son and it taught him the importance of variety as somehow instinctively he just knew it would be wrong to limit his underwear to He Man or Voltron. He wisely shared the wealth by strutting about in Batman and a vast array of others, and so he learned to be an equal opportunity consumer way before the term became popular. I know that I can never again be the mom of that most amazing little boy, but I'm good with that because I am the mom of a totally incredible man who knows just how happy his 'old' mother will be when he tells her that he is making 'Spiderman" Zoodles for dinner!!

Socks VS Slippers

When I was little, one of the signs of impending winter was a new furry fuzzy pastel coloured pair of slippers. I practically wore them out during the first few months I had them, and I remember that the last thing I did at the end of each day was park them neatly on the floor beside my bed. As I grew older it occured to me that slippers were for babies so no more slippers for moi and I moved on to bare feet or socks which was probably the start of my obsession with socks. I definitely have my preferences and while these are not limited to any particular type, I do have those I don't care for at all. In the same way that I hate country music, I hate frilly and/or lacy socks. Ankle socks hold no appeal whatsoever and are at their least attractive when they have 'busy' fold down cuffs. By busy I mean appliqued with flowers,embroidered with lace or affixed with buttons, bows or ribbons.(these should only see the light of day on very tiny feet!!) I am not a fan of pantyhose for obvious reasons and will continue to avoid them until they no longer threaten to "run!!" Thicker 'tights' with any manner of ridiculous patterns that come in a wide variety of icky colours are verboten but those that are monochromatic are acceptable in a pinch. The socks that I absolutely adore are modern takes on the old sweat sock. They are either thick cotton, thick wool or cashmere. The colours vary but I seem to gravitate to darker hues for winter and lighter for spring. I own several pairs of thin cotton mini socks which fit perfectly into my golf shoes and the thicker cotton minis are ideal for my Converse. The funny thing is that I now possess 2 pairs of fuzzy slippers and shockingly one is a pale yellow bootie. I make no apologies for this unexpected return to my youth because while I still rely on my bare feet during those hot humid summer months-air conditioning not withstanding- on cold nights nothing is better for maintaining cozy feet then my slippers and if the night is particularly frosty, socks AND slippers are the ticket. The only negative is perhaps the chest of drawers that sits prominently in the bedroom crammed with socks!

The Snow Is Back

I have never been motivated to get my moneys worth where snow tires are concerned. Unfailingly at the first threat of the white stuff, I make a beeline for my garage where the tires are installed but this is simply due to an irrational fear of the slip'n slide that awaits cars not suitably 'tired'. I wish I could say that I am an active/compulsive? tire changer in part to give my all weathers ( meaning all weather except for snow) a longer life, but the truth is, I am totally afraid of finding myself stuck with little or no traction, driving sideways with no control and /or being unable to stop despite the wondrous ABS brakes. The fact that I was prepared initially inspired confidence until the realization hit; my having the proper tires has little or no effect on the others who are on the roads with me. They do not necessarily think or fear as I do which results in their loss of control and crazy careening thus striking terror in my heart despite my snow tires!
I find myself with no other option but to tail any and/or all salt trucks otherwise I'll have to stay home.
I am not known for bursting into song warbling the lyrics of "Let It Snow" for obvious reasons not the least of which is that I can't carry a tune.