What if you were adopted?
Would you feel that you had the right to know who your birth parents were?
Would you feel that you had the right to know what your heritage was? What your medical history is?
Sandra Scarth of the Adoption Council of Canada feels you have the right to know.

On the other hand, although Jennifer Stoddart of the Privacy Commission of Canada agrees, she doesn't agree to the divulging of names and addresses of said biological parents. While she agrees that nationality, and medical information should be shared, she claims that biological parents all over Canada have begged for anonymity.

Do you think that children who have been adopted out should have the right to enter the lives of people who don't want to be found?
I don't know what it feels like to not know who my parents are, what my background is, medical or otherwise.
I'm certainly not qualified to speak for either side.
I have known adopted children in my life and even though those that I know love their parents, they long to know who their bio parents are. Every single last one of them feels that there is a missing puzzle piece to who they are.

So, say you're someone who put your baby up for adoption and then started a new life, not letting anyone know that you had ever had a child.
Then, twenty or thirty years later that child shows up.
How do you cope?

I personally think that you cannot run away from your past.
That eventually you must own up to what you have done, or didn't do...you owe that child some sort of face to face explanation. Even if you don't maintain an ongoing relationship.
Things catch up.

Denial is not just a river in Egypt.

Reecie recently wrote about girlfriends and how hard it is to make new friends as you get older. I agree that it's harder to maintain friendships as your time becomes less and your responsibilities become more. For me, it's distance and time that causes the problem.
I often don't get to see the girlfriends I've known and loved for years because of these two factors.
Because of the evil twins: Distance and Time it makes me stingy and picky with possible new friends.

I now have criteria.

Years ago, every female I knew was my "friend". I've done much weeding since then. My tolerance for being taken advantage of, dealing with high maintenance women, or dragged into drama is almost non-existent now.

I have compiled a list of types of women that I abhor, and cannot endure:

Competelina
I once had a friend who brought out the worst in me. She was competitive and petty. I stayed friends with her for a long time because we had history. I had known her for a long time, but I had to cut her off. I don't have time for that kind of picayune nonsense.

Petty Patty
Everything bothers her. She's critical, and always negative. I once had a friend who couldn't stand it if anything good happened for me. I cut her off shortly after she met The Mister for the first time. We had all gone out and he was footing the bill for her drinks and food. When his pager went off and he went to make a phone call, she said, "Oh, I wouldn't like that at all. Anyone can be calling him and you wouldn't know. A man with a pager is suspect". Who needs someone like that around?
Exactly. That's why she isn't.

Possessorella
Can't share you with anyone. Is jealous of other friends and is always looking for ways to feel offended. Does not play well in group situations. I had a friend years ago who was jealous of The Mister. She accused me of putting him ahead of her.
I did.


Moochita
Always asking for things. When she borrows things, you have to ask for them back, and makes you feel as though you're the one who is being petty and cheap when you do.
Famous for the old "I forgot my bankcard" trick when you go out together, or is always borrowing small amounts of money, nickel and diming you and never paying back. When you're short, she'll be broke.

Hootchie
The chick you can't leave alone with your man.
She wants what you have. She's got some complex about being better, prettier, more desirable. She's got no loyalty or morals, and won't think twice about you if she wants it.


I've had all of these kinds of women "friends" in the past.
I've got a shorter tether, and no tolerance for dramatic events .
Not anymore.

Life is good.

Eastern European Shenanigans

Yesterday, I was listening to Eleanor Wachtel on CBC Radio One talking with Jachym Topol, a writer from the Czech Republic, a prize-winning novelist, poet and journalist. From a famous literary dissident family.
He was humourous, in a very dry way...and then he mentioned that as a child, his family used to cross the border into Germany or Austria and smuggle in needed items.

My Tetka Ankica used to buy lots of packets of juice, with lots and lots of straws. Then she would employ me and my cousin Danica to roll up large denominations of Lira (don't ask me how she got Lira, I was a kid) two bills at a time, carefully cut open the paper the straws were encased in and stuff the Lira in the straws. Then she would pack all the cousins up for a day trip to Trieste to buy cheap womens sweaters and blouses to sell on the Pijaca.
Once she had all the blouses and sweaters, she would put them in the empty suitcases she had brought along.

Then, she would get her ass up at 4:00am to sit in the Pijaca to sell them.
I know she got up at 4:00am because, we went with her more than once.
In fact, she once left my 11 year old ass in charge for a few minutes to haggle the price of a red sweater with cherries embroidered around the scoop neck.
I failed miserablely and the would be customer walked away in disgust.

It was on that hot day in July that I knew my future was not going to be in the Retail Business.

Quote of the Day


Me: "I'm so sorry to hear about your divorce...after 12 years..."

Her: "He was never a family man"

I think those six words say everything it might have taken two or three hours to explain. Excellent resourcefulness on her part.

Ever wonder what happens if you try to cross the US/Canada border with no ID?

Well, wonder no more!
The Mister and I have had the experience so that you don't have to!

When we ponied up in line at The Queenston-Lewiston Bridge border, with almost no gas in the car for good measure, The Mister reached for his wallet, only to find it AWOL.
"I can't believe this!" he exclaimed, as he proceeded to malign himself, remembering that it was tucked safely at home in his briefcase.
To which I responded, "It's no big deal! So we'll go back home. We don't NEED to go accross". He continued to drag himself through the mud, and I continued to tell him it was no big deal.
With no way to turn around, we just continued to the head of the que.
Mr. US Customsman asked for ID. I produced my Drivers License and The Mister proceeded to tell the "I left my wallet at home" story, and that we just wanted to turn back.
Mr. US Customsman asked each of us where we were born, and then asked for my Citizenship Card. I have a ready for framing, big ass document for a citizenship. Not a card, tucked way in a safe place at home.
With that, he put my Drivers License in one of those vacuum tubes, and stuck it in the hose where it was quickly sucked up, and gave us a pink slip directing us to the terminal with a cryptic, "With some luck, they'll let you back into Canada".

The Mister turned to me and said, "No big deal, eh. ('cause he's Canadian, eh) Bet you're pissed now!" as we were directed where to park.

When we got into the terminal with less than sufficient air conditioning due to the number of people filing in and out, many of which had suspect personal hygiene habits.
We quickly figured out that that there was no check in. We would have to wait to hear my name called.

What an interesting collection of people for a people watcher like myself to watch!
There was a young couple ahead of us, of which the girl half was dressed in a frilled jean skirt that barely covered her ass, a tight white top from which her breasts were desperately straining to escape, and a pair of 5 inch wooden hooker heels.
When they were called up, The Mister commented, "I hope for her sake, she brought her Strippers License with her..".
Shortly thereafter, one of the female Customs Officer came out snapping her rubber gloves on and telling them to follow her.
"THAT can't be good", says I.

Two hours later, my name was called, and we told our story to a friendly Customs Officer who after hearing asked, "How much of your and our time did you waste today?", and then he made a reference to the movie, "The Terminal" in which the main character is stuck in "no mans land" between countries with no proof of which country he belonged in.

Ha Ha

We had a short advice session from him on what we should carry next time, The Mister had his fingerprints and photo taken, and we were given complicated instructions on where to meet him once we retrieved our vehicle.
When we met him, he informed us that he would have to watch us drive over the bridge to the Canadian side, telling us "Hope you get through!" as he returned my Drivers License.
The Canadian Customs Officer (after hearing our story) dismissed us with a wave of her hand and a "see ya".

Relief

Thank goodness we weren't born in the Middle East is all I can say.

I am Blessed


There are people who come into our lives, sometimes for a brief period of time, who make an impact.
Children have the profound gift of bringing people together who might never cross paths otherwise, and teach us something about ourselves and the little corner of the world we live in.

People we think back on and remember.

This evening, I had the opportunity to reconnect with a family who did just that for me. I had The Jegathesan boys in kindergarten. Pranavan first, and then Pravin a year later. Two sensitive and loving boys. The North York neighbourhood I worked in for a number of years had a large Tamil community, and in my experience, Tamil people are some of the most respectful, and giving people I have ever had the pleasure of interacting with.

I planned a Multicultural Unit every year, asking parents to contribute in order to celebrate every child in my cares' heritage. Pranavan and Pravins mother, despite her limited English, provided me with so much that year. Saris for girls to try on, books, knick knacks, Putus or Bindis, religious symbols, and lots and lots of food. She pulled out all the stops to help me and Pravins classmates understand a culture that was foreign to us. She introduced me to a long standing love for a dessert called "Kesri", which she brought for me regularly when she found out that I loved it.
Such a kind, generous and sincere woman struggling with language to communicate to me all the beauty that her culture had to offer.

In November of that year, she suffered a brain aneurysm.
She survived, but had to relearn everything. How to walk, talk, eat...all of the things that you and I take for granted.
Mr Jegathesan kept me up to date on her recovery, and the children often expressed their fear and sadness about their mothers condition. Mr.Jegathesan told me that the Doctors warned him that she would not be the same person, and may never recover fully.

Yes.

I had a soft spot for this family.
The first time Mrs. Jegathesan came with her husband to pick up their children at school after she had been home for a while, I was overcome with emotion.
She didn't even look like the same person...It was not so much physical as in her spirit...in her eyes.
I hugged this bewildered woman who probably didn't even remember this peripheral person, as this peripheral person cried with relief for her children, for her family.

Tonight, I saw them again.
The children big, but still expressing the same connection to me that I had for them.
I loved those kids.
Mrs. Jegathesan told me that she thinks of me when she makes Kesri, because I loved it so, and truth be told...I think of them when I think of Kesri.
This detail sounds silly and simple, but it's a connection still.

This evening I was wearing a dress that I had made many years ago. A dress with a pattern I love. The Jegathesans told me that the pattern on my dress is an important symbol meaning many different things in their culture.

Coincidence is sometimes just perfect.
The Jegathesans invited my family to their home for a "proper Indian dinner".
If Mrs. Jegathesan hasn't fully recovered, her spirit certainly has.

I am so fortunate to have had some peoples lives touch mine, to help me be reminded of the beauty and worth of mine.

I am blessed.
And so are you.
Even if you don't think you are.

I saw it in her eyes

Image: Very Important Things

The Mister and I were out in the garden last night chatting after dinner, when the subject turned to our childhood memories.

Good and bad.

He got me talking about my Father, who was a real piece of work. We had a right laugh about him.
I won’t go through the long, boring story.

But, I thought I’d put in point form some of his qualities:

Womanizer
First vivid memory of Father/Daughter day out, I was taken to a friend of my Fathers Bakery in Hamilton, where I was introduced to a pretty lady by my father, and dumped on the proprietor for many hours. I wasn’t allowed to tell my Mother.

Gambler
Gambled away a down payment on a house in one card game. (this was the deal breaker for Mama). Spent my child support money at the racetrack weekly. I know, my second stepmother told me all about how SHE gave him money to send to my mother every week. We never saw a penny.

Bigamist
Married 3 other women while still married to my mother – Divorcing someone is such a hastle. Why bother? A word of advice to budding bigamists…marry outside of the country that the last marriage took place in (wink), the government isn’t organized enough to cross reference marriages.

Misogynist
Ability to call you a kurva (whore) a minimum of 3 times in one sentence.

Charming
Handsome and convincing, would explain how he found such good women to marry.

Argumentative
The best defense is an offense, and he could make an argument out of thin air. You wouldn’t even know what hit you and you’d be defending yourself against outrageous accusations on deaf ears.

Alcoholic
Hiding shots of Canadian Club in coffee was fooling no one.

Great Sense of humour
Worked well with the above in snaring good women to put up with his bullshit for long periods of time.

Creative thinker
When I was forced to live with him when I was 19 years old, he hated me leaving the house.
At all.
For any reason.
If I went out after 8:00pm, I was forced to take DeeDee (a 4 year old Doberman) with me.

Control Freak
Made me lose my job by accusing my boss of wanting to have an affair with me when my boss asked me to work a late shift once. Who needs an employee with a crazy father, who throws around outrageous accusations that could cost you your career?

Liar
Which is the master trait that cannot be achieved without the above mentioned qualities.
When I was 21 he took me to dinner, just him and I. He let people think I was his date, while I almost broke a blood vessel in my brain repeating “I’M HIS DAUGHTER” while he stood by with a smirk on his face.

No really.
Some people are just better left out of your life, even if they are your parents.

Mama Answers Your Questions:

Mama, should I go home to Ottawa to visit the family I can't stand because I haven't been home in 1.5 years even though I don't feel guilty about that I never call home anymore? Lilly If you no vanna go, don go. Der is natink vors dan goink samplayz to be mizerable. You gonna go, you gonna be mizerable, you gonna mek dem mizerable. Bette you don go. Dey gonna taak aboud you anyvayz.

I like that quote. Your Mama and I are in complete agreement. :D dorna! Tank you, tank you.

love the accent. your mama is groovy! love it! marlo_girl Hahah...yah, I gadda akcent.

your mama clearly knows what she is talking about.....you're lucky to have her around to set you straight.... mister anchovy Eh, she don lissen to me. I tak an tak an, she say "yes, yes" an den she do vat she van it.

Mama, cats or dogs? Chris No kets. Dags are kewt, bat dey are mor vork den da chilren. At lease da chilren, dey grow ap an do tinks for demself...bat a dag? Neve. No kets. No dag. Too mach mek da mess.

I totaly agree with mama. You wanna by a gift-- buy flowers or if you have flower garden, better yet. It also depends what the occasion is and who is it for. The best gift one can give is the kind words and ISKRENO prijateljstvo. Marica Da. Da. Istina je.

i love your mama rosa posa Tank you...You soun like a goot girl. I bet you kall you mama often, rite?

Mama, Please advise me on how to cope with ungrateful yutzes who are ´´apparent´´ friends ..... Mrs. Mystic Ahhh, only you no haou mach you gonna eat. You don vanna eat no mor garbitch, you get ap fram da table, no?

Should I take the job I'm not sure I'll like but has a great salary or should I take the job I think I'll love with the not-so-hot salary (I still have student loans to pay off)? Popuppupop .Eh, hou you no you gonna lav dis odde jab? Samtime ve tink ve van samtink an den ve sorry ve choos dis ting later. Keep da van mit da maney. You ken learn to like it...at lease you learn samtink new, and hev da bette maney

Mama, My sister moved in with me. I don't want her to feel unloved or unwelcomed - but I'm getting more and more depressed. She keeps changing everthing in my house. How do I not kill her? glacia Ah ah...Tell her dat tis is you hous. Tell her dat you like det she van to mek you houz nice, bat she ken change vat she van in her ovn room, bat iz you hous and you gonna decorate hou you van it. If she gonna fight mit you, you tell her "if you don like hou I hev mai houz..go get you ovn houz"

Mama, If you were in the Mos Eisly Cantina, on Tatooine, instead of Ben Kenobi, how would you have handled the argument between Luke and the poorly dubed dude with the death sentance on 12 systems? Mark Eh? Tis look like da Englezki, bah I don tink iz Englezki.

Real Conversation at Local Video Store:

The Mister: "Is Team America funny? Would you recommend it?"

Video Store Employee: "It's pretty funny. You won't like it if you're patriotic"

Me: "Pardon?"

VSE: "You won't like it if you're patriotic"

Me: "We're Canadian"

VSE: "I know"

Me: "We live in Canada"

VSE: "I know" (getting that "What is your problem?" look on her face)

The Mister (giving me "The Look"): "Leave her alone"

ARRRGGHHHH!!!

Farmers Granddaughter


From left to right: Uja Lazar, Uja Jovan, Ujina Ankica, Majka, Deda. Kneeling: Uja Mirko, my oldest cousin Danica.

Since I finally got around to scanning some old family photos, I thought I'd share some of them with you.
Cynical C pointed out once that all photos that came out of Eastern European countries until the 80's, looked like they were taken in the 1930's and he's right.
The above photo must have been taken around 1963 or so. I'd like to point out some things that I find amusing in this photo, and I've numbered them to make it easier.
1. Is Kobasice (sausages) hanging from the tree on the left. I guess getting ready to be put in the smoke house which would be behind the photographer.
2. Frozen clothes on the line. I distinctly remember stiff clothing being brought in from outdoors to thaw. Go figure what the point of that is.
3. Uja (yes, THE Uja as a youth) is holding a bottle of Slivovica (Plum Brandy-homemade hootch, probably 110 proof) and if you can see...the bottle is almost empty.
4. The apparent need for Eastern Europeans to take photos outdoors in the middle of winter. (More proof to follow)
5. My Dedas (Grandpa) subara (pronounced Shoo-bara) the Russian winter headgear of most men back in those days.


Here are my parents in Germany.
Again with the picture outside in the freezing cold.
Just look at my mothers clenched left fist and frozen hair.


Uja with Lassie, a Serbian dog who never saw the inside of the house.
Again with the outside, no coat winter photo.

There's plenty more where that came from....

Addendum:
Kiki sent me this link a Radenska Mineral Water commercial representing all the parts of the Former YU, which I thought was great. Have a look yourself. I still love a Radenska with a little blackberry syrup.

Taxi Story #1

A long time ago when I was single and traveled with a group of girls on weekends to clubs, before I could drive, I used to often depend on someone in the group for a ride home.
One Saturday night I was talked into going to a club way out in the East End with a promise that if I came, I would get a ride back home.
Well, when I was ready to go home, the girl who had promised me the ride home backed out, and tried to pawn me off on two guys she knew who were driving west.
I refused, for obvious reasons.
I’m not getting in a car with two guys I’ve never met before.
I don’t care if they’re wearing Boy Scout uniforms.
I was pissed.
I had $17 on me, and I was at least $24 away from home.
I hailed a cab, and told the Cab Driver that I only had $17 and to take me as far as he could. I figured I’d walk the rest of the way and freeze my ass off in my skimpy outfit and high heels.
The Cab Driver asked me about my situation, and it didn’t take much for me to spill how I was dumped by a “friend” who promised me a ride home and then left me on the other side of the city with no way home.
When I saw the meter go past $17, I said so to the driver.
He waved his hand and said to me in a heavy Chinese accent, “I drive you. I have daughter. I don’t want nothing happen to my daughter. I don’t want nothing happen to you”.

I was so grateful. I paid him the $17 and told him if he came back tomorrow, I would have the remaining owed money for him. He refused. Dismissing me with a wave of his hand as he shook his head.

Believe it or not, a few years later, I got into his cab again.
It took me a moment to recognize him. But, when I did, I asked him if he remembered me, and what he did for me that cold January night.
He said that he did.
When I got out of the cab, I tried to tip him $20, but again…he dismissed me with a wave of his hand, and was stern in telling me “no” he wouldn’t accept.
There are good people out there.
Doing good things for others.

Taxi Story #2

During the bombings of Serbia, during one ride, the driver asked me what my nationality was.
I told him.
He told me that he was Iranian.
Then he said with a tsk, and a head shake: “It’s your country’s turn to be persecuted”.

If you’re driving along the highway during rush hour and you look over to the car next to you and the woman in the car is crying, not sobbing, but you can see that the hot tears are streaming down her face.
Does your heart soften?
Do you wonder what could have happened to make her weep?
Do you wish that you could stop and comfort her?
Blanche DuBois might have had a point when she said that she could depend upon the kindness of strangers.
Strangers don’t have a connection to you.
You can tell them things that you couldn’t tell someone in your life circle.

When I looked over, my heart was full for her.
I don’t know her…
But, I have been her.
I am her.

I don’t know about you, but my car is sometimes my sanctuary.
It’s a place where I am alone with my thoughts, fears and insecurities.
It’s a place where I talk to myself in my head.
Sort things out, sometimes unpleasant things.
Sometimes I pray, and talk to God.
Beg for guidance…because this is truly a shitty place....and we all have hopes and wishes.

But, as the old adage says:
"If wishes were horses, beggars would ride"

I Love My Dentist



I know that this is a strange thing to say...because, let's face it; who loves their Dentist?

I do.

Let me clarify, I don't love the dental process, but what makes me keep my appointments is knowing that I'll see Noah, and we'll chat and catch up.
Many years ago, The Mister and I got a flyer through our Balliol Street apartment mail slot telling of a new Dentist in the area.
I hadn't been in a long time, even though I had a Dental plan and everything.

I hate the Dentist.
I've had bad experiences.

I made an appointment, and from there it's been a long relationship.
When we started out, he was a single guy just out of school...now, he's a married guy with 3 adorable children.
I could go on and on about how fair, loyal and decent he is.
Not to mention hilarious.

I would bore you.
I've told him over and over that I would never cheat on him with another Dentist.

If you are looking for a Dentist, I'm willing to share him with you...only because I care about you, gentle reader, and your dental health.

When we took this picture, (taken by the lovely and wonderful Anne) the first thing he said was, "This isn't going on your website is it?".
To which I replied, "It's advertising".

Noah Belman at Yonge and Eglinton.
Tell him I sent you and he'll tell you a good joke.

*couldn't you just squeeze his face?*

Epiphany

"Every man has a map in his heart of his own country, and the heart will never allow you to forget this map"
Alexander McCall Smith

When I was in my early twenties, I was floundering.
I didn't know what I wanted from life.
I had just come back from trying to live in NYC.

I was screwed up.
I was lost. I was between jobs when my mother offered me a trip with her to see family "back home". I jumped at the chance to leave again. To escape my own skin.

When we got to my Majkas (grandmother) house after the tears of reuniting, I asked where my Deda (grandfather) was. Majka said, "He's over at that no good Julishka's house", a place he went to drink and talk with old friends. She said, "Go get him and bring him back".
I stepped out onto the dusty Vojvodjanska road and stopped.
Where the hell was I going?
I hadn't been back since I was 14 years old.
I turned the corner, and suddenly I thought I might know my way.
As I walked, I felt an overwhelming feeling of belonging. I felt completed and peaceful somehow. Of all the places I'll ever go in my life, this was the place that I had started from.

When I turned the corner of Julishka's street I saw my Deda in the distance, sitting on a bench in front of Julishka's house. I recognized him immediately sitting between some of his old friends.

He stood up as I got closer, looked at me from the distance and then he spread his arms wide, and in that Vojvodjanska drawl he exclaimed, "Angel of mine....child of mine...."

These are the moments in a persons life that are never forgotten.
These are the moments that let you know that your soul belongs someplace.

That you are not lost.
You belong somewhere, to someone.

Babaroga and Other Lies
Serbian Parents Tell Their Kids...


Hristos Vaskrese to all who celebrate today.

We were over at my Ujas house today and as Turkish Coffee was being passed around, the conversation went to how drinking Turkish Coffee as a kid would either grow you a tail or a mustache.
These are things we were told as children to discourage us from wanting to drink it before we were old enough.
This led the conversation to other fibs we were told.

While we were on the topic of such things, I leaned over and said to mama:
"Hey Ma, didn't you buy me from some Gypsies at the Pijaca (open market)?".
Without skipping a beat, Mama replied:
"Ya, dey gaddet all kinda tings yu ken buy an da pijaca"

Tetka Ljuba laughed and threw in,
"I fall aff da gypsy karavan, dees iz hou my parents get me".

Yeah.
We're big on the gypsy theme in my family.

My cousin said that they were told by Uja that people by the name of Mr and Mrs Smith were constantly inquiring as to the price of his children, should he decide to sell them.
So, whenever they were misbehaving...
the idea of selling them to Mr and Mrs Smith would come up.

Babaroga was used to make sure little children were in their homes by dark.
In my little head, the breakdown of the name said everything.

Baba: Meaning old lady or grandma
Roga/Rogovi: Meaning horns

Which of course could only mean one thing:
Beelzebubs' Grandma....
and that can't be good for a little kid out after dark.
I asked "What ever happened to Babaroga? Is she still working?"
"Eh," says Uja, "She leave da town, bah she gonna kam bek ven mai grrls hev da keeds"

Ask me why I have trust issues.

Ain't that the truth.

The Scent of Your Past...

When I smell Lemon Pledge I am reminded of the Saturday mornings of my childhood, when all the windows would be opened on a spring day, and the house would be cleaned from top to bottom.

Scent is a strong memory trigger.

Have you ever smelled something, and stopped for a second to go back to a moment in your past?

Good or bad.

Profound, or inconsequential.

One summer, The Mister and I were at a cottage.
He was fishing off of the dock with a friend in the early evening, when the water is warm and the sun is setting on the lake.
I came down to the dock while he had his line cast. He was leaning back with a beer, just chillin'.
I leaned down and snuggled his neck and smelled the skin, sun and faint fishy scent of my childhood summers when all the men in my family smelled like that.
It was a good feeling.
A secure feeling.

A reminder of a time when there was nothing to worry about but playing, and being sent to bed too early.

When I smell Ponds Cold Cream I think of my mother at night as she hugged me when I was little, and thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

Chamomile reminds me of late evenings at my Grandparents home when family gathered to sit at the table outdoors until late into the evening.
Drinking, talking, arguing, laughing, teasing each other under the country moon, and grapevines my Deda lovingly tended.

Crickets chirping, and frogs jumping along the grass and cobblestones of the basta where the kitchen table stayed from May until the end of August, so that we wouldn’t miss one moment of the good weather.

Oh yes…scent can be a wonderful thing.

Touché



I illegally parked my car in front of a coffee shop to run in and get a coffee.
There is never any parking at this coffee shop because the ONE parking spot is generally taken by the person I assume to be the owner.

While in line, I noticed a police cruiser pull up behind my car and park.
In my head I thought, "shit".
Well, it's too late now.

The cop came in and stood behind me in line.
He said:
"Is that your silver Saturn over there?"
"Yes" says I.
"You know you're parked illegally, right?" says he.
"Yes, but I'm parked in front of you", says I.

He smiles and says:
"Touché"

That's a good start to a day.
No?


Addendum: Bad End to the Day
$110.00 ticket and 2 demerit points on the way home.
Fuck.

My Aim is True



I come from extremely modest circumstances.
I’m the child of a single, immigrant mother and grew up in Parkdale, considered dodgy if nothing else, nicknamed “Crackdale” because of its reputation.
The fact that I have come as far as I have makes me feel blessed.
I had all the needed components to fall, but lucky me.

That’s how I feel sometimes.
“Lucky me”

Once The Mister and I established ourselves in a home, and my stepchildren were old enough that they didn’t need to be monitored all of the time, I decided that because I was blessed, I should “give back” in some way.
I wanted to volunteer.
I searched for somewhere that I could help.
I eventually settled on Big Sisters of Canada.
It was surprising to me to find out that Big Sisters is not about young girls with no mothers…it’s about young girls in varying circumstances who need support in some way.

Young girls at risk.
Girls whose parents might be mentally or physically challenged.
Single moms who don’t have time or energy to go to the mall, or bake cookies with their daughters…much like my mother was.
I found that I as a young girl was the perfect candidate for Big Sisters, but back then, who knew about such things?

When I applied to Big Sisters, I was surprised to find that the screening of volunteers took almost 6 months.
I went to workshops, and orientations.
My caseworker Jean, came to my house and interviewed me for 3 hours.
She interviewed The Mister.
The Mister and my stepsons had to have police checks done (as did I).
During my interview, Jean implored that if I decide to make a commitment to a young girl that I follow through for at least 18 months, and if I wasn’t willing…to please pull out now and not disappoint and abandon whoever I was matched with.

Jean, I came to find out over the years is a wonderful woman with a big, fat, huge heart.

Then, the matching began…I went to meet and greets, and met many young girls waiting to meet one that I “clicked” with.
It was another few months before I met Tiffany, who taught me more than I could ever have her.
Tiffany became a friend, and a part of my life…not a “volunteer effort”.
A beautiful young girl, with an admirable resilience, and bubbly personality despite the personal doubts and circumstances.
One of the things that surprised me though, was the attitude of some family members.
It was assumed that I was using my spare time for “strangers” rather than spending every spare moment I had with my mother.
It was assumed by some that I was “longing for my own child” and that was why I was doing it.
I couldn't possibly be doing something altruistically.

The truth is that my aim was true.
I felt that I had finally stopped struggling with myself and was in a position to “give back to the community”, to “do some good”.

In the end, I gained more from my experience with Big Sisters than I gave.

Funny that.

(a Hiroki, but not my Hiroki)

Years ago, I had a little boy in my class by the name of Hiroki Tanaka.
I loved that little boy.
He was odd in a very lovable way.
Often he would come out with pearls of wisdom out of left field.
Like he was some old guy squished into a childs' body.
He had the way of speaking of a child who speaks another language at home..a very slight Japanese accent, and a way of phrasing his sentences so that you knew that English was not his first language, even though he was born in Canada.
Hiroki wore his pants hiked high around his waist and he was always pulling them up, showing three or four inches of socks while he did it.
A little Spock haircut and ready smile.

I loved that little kid.

Hiroki was a bit of a practical joker and I’ll always remember the times that he would hide only to jump out and scare me, and then he'd giggle and giggle.
He was successful (more than once) of scaring the shit out of me as he jumped out from behind a bookcase, or from under a table, or from his cubbie.

He was my Kato, I was his Inspector Clouseau.

One time I did him the same by hiding behind a door and then jumping out as he was coming in.
I surprised him.
Did he cry?
No.
He said,( in that cute little accent of his) “Mrs. M., you scared me….ALMOST TO DEATH!!!”
And promptly fell into a fit of giggles.
In the one panoramic photo the school took, he searched the crowd to find me and when he did, he hugged me with force and love.
The photographer snapped the photo at that moment.
I have that photo somewhere….

I think about Hiroki every so often.
He must be about 16 now.
Please still be extraordinary wherever you are.