'There must be a manufacturing error.'

Words like a knife in my heart. This couldn't be. So beautiful but dysfunctional, so impossible to install without error. The reports got worse. We see every seam. Grout-free means it must be error free except they won't interlock. Correcting it makes it worse. The tiles sink in too deep and can't be popped out.

'The entire back splash will have to come out', she reported.

Tile! Why did you have to be so poorly designed? WHY? Why couldn't you play well with other tiles? Prima Donna tile. My designer/coworker sent pictures of her client's kitchen to the tile store. It wasn't the first time they heard about the tile being too difficult to install. They were sorry about her client's back-splash and they would honour the return of my untouched, uninstalled, dust-covered boxes of the most beautiful, but diva-like tile on the planet.

We took it back today -made it ride in the hatch like an inanimate object rather than the work-of-art marble tile I was sold on. We hoisted you with great effort onto the counter and sadly turned you in. My eye began to wander at all the sparkly tile around and before I knew it I was smitten anew. The grey marble bullet strips spoke to me. Their tone was less diva, more alto or fifth business, It was a humble beckoning rather than an earnest 'lookatme!' The husband took to it straight away and since it was an even trade the deal went down rather painlessly.

We'll be picking up our new tile next week and getting it installed soon... hopefully without incident.

I'm not sure what's happened, if earth has ripped us a new axis or what but lots of people are coming out of the wood work and proudly declaring their love of curling.

What?

Hockey I can understand. You can be loud, proud and well, loud. Curling just seems so subdued. Like golf but with more innuendo. If you listen to the game without watching you'll hear what I'm talking about. Try adding, 'that's what she said!' to the commentary. Trust me, it's way more enjoyable than actually paying attention to the game. It's almost as much fun as the Lost drinking game which requires taking a shot of something something when certain moments occur like when Flocke (fake Locke) says, "I can tell you what you want to know" or Jack looking up skyward in angst (Jack's depressed, CHEERS!)

But sit down and follow the commentary for curling. Voices are not raised, the commentator does not get breathless and make rushed pronouncements just subtle remarks that set up the line beautifully. But don't take my word for it, you have to play along. Today when you hear things like "he's digging in the corner!" or "oh, so close!" just add the line "that's what she said" and tell me you didn't giggle like a ten year old boy.

Then try it during a curling match. Same thing but longer, slower, with more dulcet tones...

(that's what she said heeeeeeeeheeeeeeheeeeee!)

Had a chance to see the nephew do his eel impersonation at the U of T swimming pool. All the Canadian Universities compete in a bunch of different heats and the coolest part is you'll probably see an Olympic swimmer in the process of getting to their best time. UBC and Calgary share the top 3 spots with U of T generally. The nephew is in his 10th year at UBC (childhood prodigy -from my brother's side, obviously).

I did the math. That's probably why we failed to see one race. Twelve races, with awards after every three races. Starting at 10 am... we showed up at 12:45pm to see everyone clearing the building. Argh. I was trying to do the right thing by picking up the dark force of evil (my mother) and delivering her to the pool. (Students in one hundred years from now will give that sentence Lost-like analysis of evil vs good, evil going to the waters to be bathed in redemption -but that would never happen because hello have you met my mother?) We missed everything including the golden boy's golden boy and she was not pleased. Epic fail, as I said.

Awkward silence followed for hours. When the husband finally suggested we take the dark force of evil home, she (of course) decided she would bring herself back, alone, and elderly to witness the finals in the evening and sought out tickets for the event, on foot. She asked me twice, "Do you want to come back and see the finals?". Both times I said no. Epic fail the sequel. More passive aggression as the dark force plotted her punishing retort.

We pulled up to her place and hit the eject button.

(I wish).

"I'm sorry" I offered.

"Yes, I'm sure" she hissed.

If it's not one thing it's your mother.

Even typing Fifty just feels wrong. But it's there, it's square ... root is... math ... and right or wrong I've hit it and it was unresponsive, frigid, even. Except, that's a lie! Fifty IS responsive! It responds to touch in a flaccid, saggy way. It folds into itself creating a wave of ugly wrinkles when poked. Gravity pushes down on it and everything kind of congeals in a mess in the middle. But, heck, it's still a response!

The consultant looked at me, frowning. Well, you couldn't really call it a frown, the skin around her eyes barely moved.

"Yes, I have Botox in my forehead. I started at 37 and kept getting the shots so I wouldn't develop the deep worry lines like yours my grandmother's."

She did a quick tour of my lines with her calculator. My face would cost approximately $1200.00 to plum up and freeze into a youthful glow. That's $350 for the worry lines between my eyebrows, $400 for the lines beside my nose and $450 for the lines that go from the sides of my nose to my lips. I don't need Botox at the corners of my mouth, yet, she informed me (take away $350). But that's not all! Botox only lasts around 4 months, the other plumping stuff may last up to six months. That equals a whole lot of math per year that I could be spending on a vacation! A really GOOD vacation with meals and everything!

"Is the price ever going to be affordable to average women?" I asked, naively.

"Why would it? Women will pay whatever it takes".

Suddenly I was disgusted with myself, my vanity, my insecurity about aging. I know better, I do and yet I'm falling for the biggest, cruelest marketing trap geared to women.

"You're STILL not good enough"!

Every ad geared to my age category reminds me of my flawed appearance. A WRINKLE? A GREY HAIR? Your death awaits you, welcome to the end! But if you rub it, dye it, lift it, fill it with poison, or just cut it off, you will achieve eternal youth.

Valerie Bertinell didn't just lose weight she had a TON of surgery done to her body and face to tighten up the leftovers but the message to us is 'SEE? You too can look like Barbie.' That toy model we grew up with never aged, sagged, drooped or wrinkled. She is still impossibly proportioned and as perky as ever. I know this to be impossible, I'm a free-thinking female yet I was seduced by the message that I could STILL improve and that I should improve because everyone else is doing it!

So I lost weight. Again. Losing 40 pounds to free myself of hypertension and high blood sugar wasn't good enough. Losing weight didn't turn me into a swim suit model (I didn't expect it to but dammit, all the messages bombarding my brain gave me the illusion of a swim suit body). On the practical side I did it with a doctor, covered by our provincial medical system (yay, Doctor Daniels!) There were no meetings, nobody telling me I had to make losing weight about going to meetings, creating a secondary lifestyle - yuck! No supplements, no weird drinks, no special, expensive food plan, just common sense and the accountability of seeing a gruff, unsmiling man looking at the number on the cattle-sized weigh scale asking me if I exercised during the week. Hey, whatever works -my blood pressure is down and THAT should be good enough.

I can't afford to tighten up the leftovers or pay to temporarily reduce the effects of aging on my skin. Clearly there has to be an alternative to all the noise, the negative messages, the stereotyping and it's all up here (points to head). I looked at the old lady looking back at me in the mirror and made a decision, a vow as it were. I promised NOT to buy into the false advertising that I need to rid myself of any signs of aging at tremendous expense in order to feel good about me. I will look after my health.
It's amazing how a virtual trip around the world (virtual is the key word, I'm in Waikiki today), a bit of concealer for the dark circles and a little blush can make a difference. I'm also going to treat myself on a regular basis to the easiest, cheapest facelift in the freaking world. Smile. Seriously go look in a mirror and do it! The change is amazing! And if anybody asks, yes, I invented the cure for aging and I'm giving the secret away to you for FREE! Do it. Go on, really. You'll thank me.

Sure, you can have that heart to heart talk, explain things with proper terms and watch him concentrate on your words, nodding as he absorbs each new point, processing the information. You can ask for assurance that your words won't become weapons on the playground, that all you say will not be shared. You count on those momentary glimpses of maturity and understanding to step forward and be the grown up boy you hope he'll become. That composed boy who thanks you for explaining all those strange terms and things is the boy you are so proud to know, proud of how he handled all the new information. How he...

screamed out "sexual intercourse!!!" as he slid down the school yard hill last week.

The line got thinner as I heard the principal explain the 'zero tolerance' policy that the boy violated. She seemed to feel the need to explain that the school cannot abide any inappropriate talk of sexuality or homophobic remarks. She doesn't know me very well. I too cannot abide. I vowed the boy/brat was going to regret saying anything. A storm cloud hung over the car as I drove home from work, planning what I would say. I would be calm, even, I would not allow emotion to take over.

"YOU ARE IN SOOO MUCH TROUBLE!" I said loudly (OK, I yelled a little).
"HOW COULD YOU? I DEMANDED.

His answer was incomprehensible, he was obviously upset.

I growled at the husband who started to ask a question.

"GRRRRR!" This was my moment. Calm, even and unemotional didn't have a chance -I was raving. I circled the prey glancing back at the husband to make sure he stood back.

At some point it occurred to me that the boy was never going to understand because the husband was no better at keeping information to himself than a ten year old. The big boys can gossip way more than any women I know. So who's to blame? I handed the boy the best information he would ever learn and what did he do? He didn't just tell his friends, he screamed his knowledge out for everyone to hear at recess. This shouldn't have been a surprise.

I grounded him for the entire weekend, which lasted one day.

I grounded myself for being an idiot telling a ten year old the facts of life when he asked.

I want yououououou..."

The house vibrates, shakes, rattles, the voice strives to reproduce John's resonant perfection.
But the 13 year olds vocal chords just can't reach down low enough- give it a couple of more years. Maybe by then his ear will develop and he'll notice when he sings the whole thing half a tone below the lead guitars sultry notes. The drums sound uninspired, but accompany the discord obediently.

"She's so."

(wait for it)

"Heavyyyyyyy." The harmonies are lost as the singer hits all the notes in order. By himself. Suddenly the drums are gone and it's just one voice trying to hit the high note. The ten year old leaves to make a cheese bagel for lunch. I guess the discipline thing hasn't kicked in yet, the second guitarist comes up for a snack, too.

My ears hurt, my head hurts, I'm crabby but this isn't about me it's about giving the boys a chance to be boys being a band in a basement. The ever-increasing amplifiers prove the dad gene is alive and well and festering in these young pups. Bigger will always be better -car, amplifier, other, etc and with 'it' comes increasingly more confidence.

They switch to an uneven interpretation of "Boulevard of Broken Dreams". A range of guitar effects are presented after each musical stanza, testing, annoyingly. One day they may do another garage concert for their friends and the neighbors. A proud mom may still insist on video taping all of it. A proud dad may upload it to You Tube and their legend may begin. Until then its a mere afternoon of vibrating, shaking and rattling, and plenty of pain medication.

The dot dot dot is important. I grew up with lots of dot dot dots, too.

My mother likes to tell stories of her experiences. Her father was a story teller and an artist. My father made monosyllabic grunting noises and basically tuned all those around him out. He never told me a story.

My father-in-law likes to tell the same stories, over and over. I enjoy pointing out to the husband when he's repeating something he's already told me that he's turning into his dad.

But I am safe. This is one area I will not turn into my mother. I can't tell a story, joke, cite a quote, or even quickly google what it is I'm trying to convey. That gene skipped out and had a smoke the day it was supposed to be handed out in pre-natal class. I've never even had the chance to say, "I had to laugh (dot dot dot)".

So how is it a person ends up in a story-telling medium? I'm as tangential as they come and can literally lose the plot without a compass on a dime on a slow boat to China. Literally. It's almost like a gift in itself. Add the sudden memory lapses of estrogen on crack and you've got one wrinkled space cadet.

So what was I saying?

My mother will start to relay a moment beginning with the line, "I had to laugh..." and start laughing before the story begins. Many hee hees later her captive audience starts to wonder if attempts at escape would really be futile. Her story is rarely as memorable as the laugh, or the line, "I had to laugh...".

It's become one of those lines that's brought out in quiet moments as an inside joke. Say it with the accent and it's good for some chuckles. Best part? You never have to actually tell the dot dot dots.

Today I am wiser.

The 21 year old wasn't in her bed at 5:30AM. I didn't panic, I turned on my cell phone and sure enough there was a text message saying she fell asleep at a guy's house watching a movie and would be home in the morning.

Um.

The first thing I think:
Who cares, I'm not your mother.

Second thing I think:
Oh, crap I am!

What does one say when one is confronted with an adult situation requiring adult-like grace?
I don't know, I've never been the mother of a 21 year old. What would I want my mother to say if I left a message saying I fell asleep at a guy's house.

"Make sure he makes you breakfast"

Her reply to me?

"Who is this and what have you done with my mother??!"

Mwahahaha.

For the emergency food bank in a forgotten pocket of Scarborough the disaster is here, now. The pain is palpable as one person after another tells of loved ones lost, hurt or killed. Eyes fill with tears as stories are shared of trying to get news of missing loved ones. You feel a paralyzing helplessness as you listen.

"My cousin and her baby are gone, dead", "I don't know where my husband is".

Some look like they want to run, escape the words, shed the fresh layer of pain. All you can do is hug them, hold their hand, whisper words of encouragement.

Some of the Haitian women sit together, quietly talking to each other in French. Some are alone, head in hands. They came here with their children looking for a better life. They come in on Saturday mornings to get extra food for their families to get through the week. They look out for each other, some volunteer their time at the food bank while older children watch their little ones. Their husbands are not here. They wait for court hearings so they can work and eventually sponsor their husbands. Now many are not even sure their husbands are alive.

These Haitians did not come directly from Haiti. Many came from Florida having already sought refuge years ago in the US. Many have southern accents after a decade in Georgia, Florida or Texas. The same government rushing to Haiti's aid is also responsible for deporting thousands of Haitians under the George Bush government. They had already escaped their 4th world existence looking for a better life, many found it in the US but George cleansed the counties by turfing out family after family of illegal immigrants, many of whom had started families, held jobs and paid taxes in their adopted country. They lacked official documents from a homeland where corruption is the only language. For those who landed in Canada the struggles they face every day are nothing compared to what they've known.

Haiti was a politically corrupt, social and economic nightmare before this earthquake. Education was difficult to come by and poverty was everywhere in that tiny nation. Most of it's people are God-fearing and pious and today it was reported that nightly in Port au Prince many gather in the hills and sing hymns of praise and worship -thankful to be alive. In a place with almost no means of progressing to a third world country Haitians stay hopeful and humble.

We invited the Saturday morning crowd, our food bank clients and volunteers to join us for a prayer for Haiti -if they wanted to. We stood in the lobby so those who wanted to could take part and those that didn't wouldn't feel uncomfortable. It was a large surprise when many left the 'church' to come and pray in the lobby. Muslim, Hindu, Christian, Catholic and many more stood close together, bowed their heads and asked for Haiti's healing.

The moment wasn't lost on any of us.

Sure it was just ham, scalloped potatoes and salad but there was a tinge o' nostalgia wafting through the air.

"I remember these potatoes!" the 10 year old said dreamily.

"This is actually good" said the husband. I listened to hear if his voice went up. Higher tones mean liar liar pants on fire. I learned that from an authoritative movie on the subject, I Love You Man. Instead his voice stayed rock steady which can be interpreted as genuine shock. I learned that from being married to the same guy for 11 years. They ate in silence, eyeing me suspiciously.

It's all part of the New Domestication Movement wherein I attempt to be a proper wife and mother. If I can get back from work early enough I can make a meal, catch the boy's basketball game or the husband's hockey game. My new motto is 'make an effort, show no resentment'. I asked the husband if I could attend one of his early hockey games. He clutched his chest, laughed a frightening laugh and left the room. When he returned he said the game was cancelled and he hasn't played since. he couldn't believe that I finally asked to watch a game and the ice was 'overbooked'. Fail.

The ten year old made the school basketball team. I caught his first game today. He waved when I walked into the gym. He and his team mates were warming up, shooting baskets of which none seemed to go into the basket. When the other team came in and began warming up it was evident there would be a slaughter and our boys were to be the lambs. Sure enough they scored 10 points without effort. The first basket for our team was courtesy of the boy. I was thrilled and I know he was happy I saw it. He tried unsuccessfully to come across as nonchalant about the whole ordeal and could I please stop holding my hand up for a high five because that's embarrassing.

When we got home there was most of a cold pizza in it's box on the counter and I secretly felt grateful that I didn't have to cook again. One Domestic venture per day only. That's the second part of the motto. Unfortunately that also means the 21 year old is not getting a ride home from work, again. I was half asleep when I picked her up last night -it was almost NINE PM! The noive!

Motto:
Doing One New Domesticated Movement everyday.

Disclaimer:
Except for dinners which will be prepared only one day per year usually in (but not restricted to) January of any given year. In the event of multiple domestic situations scheduled for the same day, something will be sacrificed and will not be to the detriment of the issuer.

Here's another angle...

Now I have many boxes of this...

Delicious!

I'll let you know when it's complete -check back in about 2 years.

It looked like the same sliver of sun that greeted me from the east in the morning. I awakened early because the pre-set thermostat hadn't kicked in and it was cold in the house. I immediately started worrying people would start arriving at the church to wait outside until the food bak opened. I put on multiple layers of warm clothing and headed out into the cold. It was 7:30AM.

My down jacket crackled in the minus 14 degree morning as I lugged bags of donated clothes up to the doors.

She was huddled in the corner with a sweet bun in one hand and a coffee and gloves in the other.

"You can't stand out here for three and a half hours" I said.

"Yes, but I will just walk around if it gets too cold" she replied.

On one shoulder the voice was telling me that this woman was an adult and she made the decision to step out into the frigid morning with the intention of waiting for the food bank to open. The voice on the other shoulder couldn't talk through the sobbing.

I let her in, gave her #1 (the most valued number on a Saturday morning in these parts) then sent her home.

"Come back at eleven".

Another woman arrived shortly after. Her sweater didn't fit well, her head and hands were uncovered. She came to wait in line for the food bank to open while her family back at the motel slept.

"Where are your gloves?" I asked in full-on 'mom' mode.

"I have none" she replied.

I felt so badly for her. One month of motel living after arriving from Columbia HAD to be discouraging
I reached into one of the bags of newly donated goods, pulled out gloves, a coat, a hoody and a sweat shirt. I could tell she needed boots because her tennis shoes -as if in sympathy to her current lot in life, were worn through to the sole- but there weren't any to give her. She wrapped the coat around her and pulled the gloves on all the while thanking me profusely. I gave her a big hug, handed her the #2 card (the next-to-best prize on a Saturday morning in these here parts) and sent her home.

Miraculously, when my partner in food bank crimes and misdemeanors came in moments later she handed me a bag. Size ten boots! They were gently worn but soft and warm looking, I saved them for my friend's return.

With over 120 people coming in every week to get food for themselves, their partners and/or families it's difficult to remember everyone's other needs like clothing, home search, health issues but every once in a while you remember and you're able to help. It's remarkable how many times I've received a bag of goodies at exactly the moment someone needs it the most. I love those serendipitous moments.

God moments to some.

At eleven on the dot (somewhere) we started the registration process and while the other intake volunteer served #1, Gladys (#2) sat down across the table from me waiting for her information card to be drawn from the alphabetized card system. I reached down and pulled up the boot bag.

"Check these out." I said excitedly, handing the bag over.

"Wow!" was all she could say as she looked in then pulled out the boots turning them over to check them out. It was a fantastic moment. She was filled with gratitude, her smile beamed.

The voice on one shoulder shrugged and said, "She'll sell them".

The voice on the other side couldn't be heard through the tears... of joy.

We got a huge donation of deli delights for the food bank today, but it came at the expense of a deli owner who just went bankrupt.

I went to a funeral today. The dad of a coworker.

Followed by high tea. A treat from the host of the show I'm working on.

Just a few roller coasters in one day.

Stoopid stuff just kept coming out of my mouth. I could hear my inner pilot yelling at my brain,
"Engage! Engage!" but drivel still kept trickling out. (Blah blah blah)

The office transplanted itself at the funeral home. It's kind of like a cocktail happy hour without the happy. Everyone was nervous and on their best behavior which seems for me to be a signal for my brain to shift into 'inappropriate' gear. I ran out of feet to push into my mouth which was unfortunate as it still allowed me to keep saying ridiculous things. Thankfully I left before the service and before offending anyone... I think.

High tea is just another excuse for my brain to rebel, an invitation for 'inappropriate' to rear it's ugly, cynical little head. I managed to keep my mouth shut for the most part except when it was eating crustless bread with smoked salmon and cucumber. The discernment button stayed on high alert and I made it home without incident.

I think.

Man, this grown up stuff is hard.

You can take knitting needles to your eyes (thanks, Lisa) OR you can see NINE.

It's gorgeous. All of it. Women, costumes, dancing, sets, most of the singing -it's a beautiful 2 hours.

Advice? Don't bring your kids. A woman, who was clearly insane, brought a six year old boy. He asked a lot of questions and she tried to distract him by dancing in her seat to the up-beat songs, used straws as drums which she beat on top of the seat in front of her -a real thrill for the poor guy sitting in it. I couldn't stare enough daggers into her skull but she persisted.

The movie was good enough to bring my focus back to the screen and try as she might, she and her son didn't ruin the experience for me. Go see this with a woman.

Up in the Air is a good vehicle for George Clooney but it's a great one for his female costars, Vera Farmiga and Anna Kendrick. George is easy enough on the eyes (except for his teeth they just don't fit in his mouth properly) but the women give him a run for the money and almost steal the movie. Jason Reitman is a great director, he knows it's a play, the story must be told through the characters and he brings out their best. Both films deserve to be seen even if you're not a musical theatre fan. Nine makes you want to dance (with sand and a tambourine) and Up In The Air invites you to think about where you are in life and where you're going.

Both leave you more than satisfied with the experience.

Oh, and leave the kids at home.

1. What did you do in 2009 that you'd never done before?
Took over the tradition of making the Yule Log. Hiked in Lake Superior Provincial Park, camped with the husband alone for a week, lost 40 pounds in 6 months. Refrained from drinking for six months. Conceived and executed the building of a community garden for the Food Bank. Had THE TALK with the 10 year old. Told the 21 year old I didn't like one of her friends. Asked my mom on a date. Demolished a couple of walls in the basement. Became incorporated with the husband (business-wise). Produced a TV series.

2. Did you keep your new year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
No resolutions at New Year's, many throughout the year, and many more to come.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
No one close.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
Not that I'm aware of.

5. What countries did you visit?
Just Canada.

6. What would you like to have in 2010 that you lacked in 2009?
All the bills paid.

7. What dates from 2009 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
June 3 -the ten year old's 10th and the day we started the community garden, Last whole week of June -the 21 year old came home from England and we all went to her sister's wedding. I sat for dinner with my present and my ex-husband and his 3rd wife. Wife #1 was there, too but she sat at another table. When we arrived I said, "#2 'representin'!"

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Achieving (almost) total calm in a hostile environment. Everywhere but at home.

9. What was your biggest failure?
Not asserting myself when staying calm wasn't the right choice.

10. What was the best thing you bought?
My birthday present, an oversized hotel desk bell (the size of a dinner plate) -the husband made the purchase.

11. Whose behavior merited celebration?
The 10 year olds behavior continues to improve. The 21 year old is starting to make growed up decisions and the husband for putting up with me.

12. Whose behavior made you appalled and disgusted?
Many, many. I see so much more than I ever let myself be exposed to before and the world is not fair and it's not pretty but when I see people who have EVERYTHING and want to throw it away? Disgusting.

13. What song will always remind you of 2009?
All The Single Ladies by Beyonce because dancing to it at the Food Bank makes everybody crack up no matter what their background!

14. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Drinkin', cussin' and eating too much.

15. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Working 6 days a week and only getting paid for five.

16. Did you fall in love in 2009?
No.

17. What was your favorite TV program?
Lost, Glee, The Dollhouse, House, So You Think You Can Dance

18. What was the best book you read?
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

19. What one thing would have made your year measurably more satisfying?
Finishing a video project I started too long ago.

20. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2009?
Smaller, but not better.

21. What kept you sane?
The Food Bank (also drove me insane but somehow balance was achieved).

22. Who did you miss?
No one.

23. Who was the best new person you met?
The host of the show I'm working on. More amazing neighbors.

24. Tell us a valuable lesson you learned in 2009.
Forgiveness is a hard place to get to and you have to let time wear you down.

25. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
Do you know the enemy? Do you know your enemy? Well gotta know the enemy,
wah hey.