"I Can't Take This Shit Anymore!"
He Said Mistakenly.

When I was twenty, I couldn't imagine myself as fourty.
Frankly, I didn't think I'd live this long.
Fourty was old.

Now, I see things differently.
I wouldn't be twenty now for all the kobasa in Poland.
For truly, youth is wasted on the young.
The pain of youth molds our character and Mama used to say that the face you have at fourty, is the face you've earned.

There are older people who look bitter and then there are those who look sweet.
I imagine it depends on your outlook on life.
Are you a fixer or destroyer?
I've said before here that I believe that people, through their personal pain become either "fixers" who work to make their lives and the lives of others better.
Or, they become "destroyers" who are so bitter and angry with their own lot, that they work to make others miserable to prove their personal points...intentionally, or unintentionally.

In the end, it doesn't really matter does it?
We perceive what we perceive, and we do what we do.
"INAT", a word that doesn't exist in English, meaning:
"Whatever the consequences" is something that most of us subscribe to.

Who said that courage is not being fearless, but acting in the face of fear?
But, what is the act, but what we perceive to be right?

Adventures of Woolgatherers

On occasion, The Mister will lure me into one of those mens shops.
You know the kind...technical gadgets, stereo systems, invisible speaker systems, big screen TVs and the like.
I walk around behind him while he oohs and ahhs, and he asks me things like: "Do you hear the difference?" from one speaker to the next.
I nod appreciatively, but truth be told...as long as I hear something with no crackling or interference, I'm ok with it.
The Mister obviously has hearing like a Gambian Epauleted Fruit Bat, and can hear sounds, and hisses that I am totally oblivious to.

Anyhow,
We were walking through one of these stores, him walking ahead...and me doing an imitation of him in a Nine West Outlet, when the salesman walks over and asks if he can help us obviously thinking we're considering a big screen TV.
The Mister says, "Oh, we're just looking.." and I say, "It's not happening".

As we're walking out of the store, we hear him say...
"Oh..it will. It will..."

That made me laugh.

Will You Still Need Me, Will You Still Feed Me...When I'm 64?

This morning at the coffee shop, I was stood behind a woman and her very elderly mother.
They ordered, collected their coffee and cinnamon twists, and the daughter gently and lovingly helped her mother to a table.
They sat and the daugther dotingly prepared everything for the elderly lady. Opening her cup for her, unwrapping her pastry...it was lovely to watch.
Recently, someone asked me how I was going to manage getting older with no biological children of my own.

This is a good question, I guess.
A question that came to my mind as I watched this woman and her mother this morning.
But then, there is no guarantee that a child will take care of an aged parent anymore, is there?
Through programs that I have participated in, I have seen enough of the aged who have plenty of children, yet are still virtually abandoned in Seniors Homes, with only little children involved in intergenerational programs visiting them regularly.

It's sad and heartbreaking.

Parental abuse is on the rise, I hear.
This is something I cannot get my head around.
Regardless of how angry and hurt you are about your childhood, could you beat your parent?
How could you?

When you get old, can you give up?
Just give up life?

I think you can.

Reci: "Zbogom"
Let's take a trip down memory lane, shall we?
What feels like a hundred years ago, I left Toronto to pursue some sort of fantasy art life in NYC.
Everything was going swimmingly for the first little while.
My friends over there were spending time and taking me out...I had a sublet on E14th and 1st, on the top floor of a five flight walk up.
But then, eventually...my friends went back to their normal lives and I was left to fend for myself for company.
For anyone who has moved away from home, you know that making friends can sometimes be difficult. Especially when you're not really working anywhere, per se.

One day, I was wandering around alone getting my bearings, I was homesick and lonely. For many years while growing up in Toronto, I went to great lengths to be Canadian.
I didn't like my mother speaking Serbian in public to me, I refused to listen to traditional music and made fun of it.
But, when I passed The Dubrovnik Restaurant at W20th and Avenue of the Americas, I couldn't resist the pull of something familiar.
I went in and sat at the bar and ordered a Turska Kafa.
I sat and listened to people talking and joking in a language that was familiar and was overwhelmed with a feeling of comfort.
Like home.
The lady behind the bar came over and started to chat with me.
Sanka and I talked for a long time.
Turns out that she was the wife of the owner "Ziggy".
Sanka offered me a job waitressing on weekends, and I took it.

Ziggy was a character if there ever was one.
Vitalis smeared hair, a gold eye tooth, a horseshoe pinky ring, and a suit...always a suit with pointy shoes.
Pravi "fraijer".
Above one of the booth seats was a painting of Ziggy, sitting in a boat off the coast of Dubrovnik, on the waves of the Adriatic with a fanned out deck of cards in one hand, and a pair of dice in the other.

This may sound like I'm making fun of Ziggy, but I'm not.
He and his wife were two of the kindest people I've ever had the pleasure of knowing.
He was a proud American with a thick accent.
He often challenged us with questions like:
"Eef da Amerika hev da var veet YU, an vitch side yu gonna fight?"
And then we would all laugh at what a ridiculous idea that was!

LOL....HAHHAHAHAH!

Ziggy called me "Mala" (little one) the whole time I worked there.
Perhaps he just couldn't remember my name, but it was sweet just the same.

The Dubrovnik Restaurant was as diverse as the former YU was.
Employed at that restaurant there were Serbs, Croats, Bosnian Muslims, Italians, and Puerto Ricans.
I used to sit sometimes in the dark booth at the back with all the other waiters, and they would talk about "back home", and politics..often shouting at each other one minute and hugging each other the next.
The Dubrovnik is where Guido, the maitre d' introduced me to Espresso with lemon peel around the rim and then dropped into the cup...trying to convince me that this was better than Turska Kafa.

My time at The Dubrovnik taught me a lot about myself.
It's not there anymore, and hasn' t been there for a long time.
But, I think about Sanka and Ziggy from time to time.

No matter how far you run....there you are.

Mama's Take on Football

"Eh, I don no vai dey hev to fight for van ball...da CFL hev enough maney to buy everybady a ball!"

You have to love her.
Really, you do.

So, The Mister and I spent the weekend in the Poconos.
(Yes Kat, I too was surprised that there was NO "K" in Poconos)
It’s a beautiful place.
While we’re talking, I’d like to point out some differences between PA and Ontario.
You can smoke in places that you haven’t been able to smoke in Ontario for over a decade.


No.
Really.

I was shocked to see cigarettes being sold in Pharmacies!
Not happening here in Ontario.
In fact, pretty soon it'll be illegal to smoke in your own home or car here in Ontario.
I imagine that eventually there will be Tobacco houses where smokers will have to go if they want to smoke.
Like the Opium Dens of days gone by, in the basements of shady establishments...anyhow, that's another post.

Also, we saw a lot of couples with small children who looked very close together in age (the children, I mean...not the adults).
Every couple seemed to have a minimum of 3 children.
The parents were looking perpetually pissed off, and the children were perpetually running wild.
It was actually kind of entertaining.

Anyhow….
We stayed at The Shawnee Inn. Looks nice, huh?

The Mister booked a room on the net.
No fears of this since we found a fab bed and breakfast in Montreal this way a few years ago.
Well, we stayed in a room like the one pictured.
A real throwback to the 1970’s with the décor, no?

Now, The Mister is a little quirky when it comes to things, and he didn’t imagine Lucy and Ricky beds when he was booking the room.

This pissed him off.
The fact that this room wasn’t located in the main building pissed him off too.
See, the website is misleading.
When they do the bookings, they don’t tell you that there’s “The Big House” (as we got to calling it) and then there’s the “Slave Quarters” which is a little motel like structure far, far away from “The Big House”, named The Delaware somethingerother that smelled like a $65CD Bobcageon Motel room for $160AD.
Here’s the kicker…it cost just as much to stay in “The Big House”
This mightily pissed off The Mister, who was already pissed off.

So, we took the looooong walk up to “The Big House” to speak with the Manager on Duty.
Who was very apologetic and nice and suggested we speak with the Grand Fromage the next day.
The Shawnee Inn is a beautiful old building that has been in operation as a golf resort since 1912.
It's really pretty impressive.




There was a beautiful old elevator obviously from the 1920’s or so with a brass grill.



The view from The Big House was breathtakingly beautiful.


The view from The Slave Quarters, was not worth photographing.
It overlooked the 14th hole.

We took a drive over to Bushkill Falls where we took a steep hike to see the falls.

Very beautiful.

On the way back, while driving through Lackawanna or Cheektowaga, we passed a replica of the famous photo of workmen eating lunch on a beam during the construction of Rockefeller Center in NYC Remember that photo by Lewis Wickes Hine?


The hotel it was in front of was a little cheesy and overdone, but I really liked how they did that though.





Well, a grand time was had by all...school tomorrow, and I'm off to bed...sob!

I was visiting Katja and she led me to this short story by Bosnian writer Alexsandar Hemon. Although his writing style is a little frenzied and fragmented for me, he reminded me of many things in this short.

He describes his relationship in pre YU wars Sarajevo, with a poet and drinking partner nicknamed “Dedo” (Grandpa), and meeting him many years later in the U.S.

“He turned to me in a snap, as if I had just woken him up, and he did not smile. He didn't recognize me, of course. It was a painful moment, as the past was rendered both imaginary and false, as though I had never lived or loved. Even so, I introduced myself, told him how we used to drink together at the Writers' Home; how he used to sing beautifully; how often I had remembered those times. He still couldn't recall me. I proceeded with flattery: I had read everything he'd ever written; I admired him and, as a fellow-Bosnian, I was so proud of him—I had no doubt that a Nobel Prize was around the corner. He liked all that, and nodded along, but I still did not exist in his memory. I told him, finally, that he used to think I was a conductor. "Dirigent!" he exclaimed, smiling at last, and here I emerged into the light. "

This passage reminds me that memory is selective.
Some people loom so large for us, influence us, inspire us, screw us up, make us bitter and angry, while we have no impact on them whatsoever...and vice versa.

I have been told on occasion of things that were very important to other people that supposedly, I was deeply responsible for (good and bad) and I have absolutely NO recollection of what they remember in detail.
There are people who have come into my life that I connected such importance to, that I meant absolutely nothing to..and probably wouldn't remember me if we met again.

Our memories, and the things that we connect importance to are so very different, and I suppose we only choose to remember the things that gave us an actualization or affected us in some life altering way.
Good or bad.
I cannot count how many times I have relayed a memory to someone, only to be greeted with the blank stare of non-recollection.

Which immediately makes me doubt my own memory, but then I realize that we all have our own selective memories.

There are certain things I’ve done in my past that I would love memories of to stop sneaking up on me late at night. Those being the big ones that I acknowledge…never mind compounding them with things that other people have connected importance to that I am unaware of.

Forget some of the bad so that we can live with ourselves.
Forget some of the good so that we don’t get too swollen with our own importance.

Maybe this is really a blessing in the end.

How Important is Your Name to You?

For some people, their names are really, really important to them.

They go out of their way to spell their names in an out of the ordinary way, just so that they can be different. Maybe spend a little more time discussing their name…because they’ll have to spell it for you, and then you can discuss how unusual it is, or whatever.

Being someone with a name that you’ll never find on those little license plates that you can stick up on your bedroom door, or on pencils or cups at the dollar store…I’m used to having to spell my name, and then discuss how unusual it is…and being asked what nationality it derives from.

Frankly, I could live without it.

I was very ready to take on The Misters surname when we got married, just so that I could stop spelling my name when people asked for it.
About 10 minutes ago, the courier guy came in and asked for my name, (which isn’t really Radmila, in case you didn’t know) and I said it, and he thought I said something else, and I didn’t correct him.

Then, I thought about how I do that a lot.
I have one of those names that is unusual (to Canadian ears, but quite common in Slavic countries).
With the change of one letter it can be transformed into at least 5 other names.
Some of these other names are more commonly heard of than others.
Some are actually nicer than my own name.
Sometimes people will go months saying my name incorrectly, and I won’t say anything.

For me, whether I correct you or not will depend on how important you are, or might be in my circle of life.
If you’re a business associate, I’ll correct you.
If you’re a Cashier I’ll never see again, I won’t.

Some people are very particular about their names, adding double letters where they aren’t necessary.
Apostrophes in place of letters…silent letters that serve no purpose but to confuse anyone who wants to give them a Birthday or Christmas card.
And they’ll get righteously pissed if someone spells it wrong.

Personally, I have enough stress in my life without adding to it with trivial shit.
The way I look at it, I could have been named anything.
In fact, the first elementary school teacher I had changed my name completely, simply because she didn’t know how to pronounce it.
I went through my entire school life with a name that wasn’t even legally mine.
Ok..that pissed me off as an adult because that had more to do with not accepting immigrants than it did anything else. But, as a kid...I just wanted to fit in, and even though the name was hideous, I didn't complain.

These days, everyone wants to be different.
Sometimes, you can be so different, that you end up being the same.

Let's Talk About God, Baby...


I'll start this entry off by letting you know that I'm not that keen on organized religion.
I believe in God, but I don't believe in the rituals that man connects to God.
I think that the Bible is an incredible book of lessons, but I don't take it literally.
I do not fast when I'm supposed to.
As Uja says every time it's time to fast, "sin does not go into the mouth, but comes out".
I don't believe in man designed rites.

That said, The Mister and I were talking about someone we know who has joined a religion with a lot of rules to follow, and we got to talking about the contradictions of some people who claim to be following "Gods word".
Specifically because the person we were discussing is one of the most pretentious and contradictory people we know.
I'll say honestly, that in my experience, some of the meanest, most unforgiving people I've ever met were regular churchgoers.
Which makes me think that churchgoing for them is like insurance.
As long as I show my face, repent, or confess...I can start again.

Tabula rasa.

The Mister and I were discussing how some people revel in the rules of their religion, making it appear that they are so pious, while looking down their noses at others as though the ordinance of their religion gives them some sort of superiority over people who do not follow the same doctrine. Meanwhile, subscribing to very different and more relaxed and forgiving principles for themselves.
Almost as though not eating certain things, not going certain places, and being in the house by a certain time allows them some sort of slack in the more important aspects of being a decent person.

Why is that?
I'm confused as to how someone can claim to love God, yet be so mean and unforgiving to others.
I wish this person good luck on their recent conversion...with one thought I heard many years ago to ponder:

Sitting in a church makes you a Christian, like sitting in a garage makes you a Cadillac.

Love, Unconditionally.

Is there such a thing as unconditional love?
I hear this phrase being flung around a lot.

This morning while I was at the gym, I was watching The View on one of the overhead TV’s.
They were interviewing Madonna, and obviously, after six years of marriage…she’s an expert on relationships.
We are in desperate need of her opinion on marriage.

She must have referred to “unconditional love” eight or nine times.
I’m not familiar with unconditional love.
Yes, I know that my mother is supposed to love me “unconditionally”, but all of my life I had conditions on how much she would tolerate from me for her love.
She had lots of conditions.
It was me living up to most of those conditions that stopped me from becoming a miscreant.
She used to tell me that if she didn’t have these conditions, it would actually show that she didn’t care about me, much less love me.

How unconditional is the love that Karla Homolka’s or Jeffrey Dahmer’s parents have for them?
In the case of Karla Homolka, how do you as a parent feel the same way about a daughter that murdered another one of your children?
I cannot be convinced that her relationship with her parents is not damaged irreparably.
If a loving relationship still exists at all.
So, how unconditional is it if people say they love you “unconditionally”, but you don’t feel loved?
People have been fired by their parents for certainly less than killing a sibling.

That’s parental love which is probably the closest thing to unconditional that we’re going to get, if it exists at all.

How about marital love?
Certainly there are conditions there…otherwise divorce wouldn’t exist.
What is unconditional love of a spouse?
Certainly allowing someone to beat you, and abuse you could be construed unconditional love in some people’s eyes. Spouses allowing each other to have sex with others has been described as unconditional love simply on the notion that not being possessive of your spouse equals “unconditional” love. Allowing a spouse to gamble, drink, your family’s savings away…is that unconditional love?

People toss this “unconditional love” phrase around in a very cavalier way.
I don’t believe in it.
All love requires a certain amount of condition and sacrifice.
I know no one who loves and lives with another person who hasn’t modified their way of living to compliment or compromise with their chosen partner.
There is a limit to what we will tolerate from another person whom we claim to love “unconditionally”.
I’ll wager that Madge wouldn’t call her love for her husband “unconditional” if a woman showed up on her doorstep with his baby in her arms.

I officially hate that phrase.

My mother asked me to change the message on her call answer service.
I called her to ask for her password, but she wasn't home.
This was her message:
"Ahhhh, ahhhh, ok...tis is (her number), I'm nat home. Ehh...ahhh...leave da message. I gonna kall yu bek" and then just before it beeps, in Serbian, "Tis vas no goot. I screwed up."

Laugh?
I thought I'd die.

So, when she called me back and I got her password, I changed the message.
I then went into her calls to see if she got my message.
I picked up this message from a speed talking Serbian friend of hers:
First, she recites a cute Serbian limerick like poem using my mothers name, and then, "Change your message. Just say, 'Leev da message, I gonna kall you bek, dets all!', you don't need to say anything else. Finished." She goes on to tell her some other things and then ubruptly hangs up.
I wish there was a way to put her message on a wav file and post it here.
It's freakin' hilarious.
I could listen to her friend all day.

A Day Late & a Dollar Short

A few years ago, I read a piece of paper on a bulletin board, someones bunch of random thoughts. One of those thoughts stayed with me:

1. Our background and circumstances may be responsible for who we are, but we are responsible for who we become.

Anyone who has been reading this blog for a while knows that I come from very modest circumstances.
I was raised by a young, immigrant single mom.
By the time I moved out from under my mothers roof, we had moved 27 times since my Mary Janes hit Canadian soil.
My mother worked two and sometimes three jobs, so this being the case...I spent most of my time alone.
Back in the day, single moms didn't get subsidized daycare, and even if they did...my mother was too proud, and too intimidated to apply for it.
I was a latch key kid, and because we moved around a lot..I never maintained friends when I was a kid. My friends came and went. I became quite adaptable, which has stood me in great stead as an adult. This along with learning to do without, which has made me relatively uncomplicated and low maintenance.
Because I spent so much time alone, I realize now as an adult that I had behaviours and habits that were inappropriate.
I think that every report card had the line "blah, blah, blah...is a dreamer" written somewhere on it.
I lived in my own little world.
On occasion, I fabricated my family life.
I told lies about my family.
I invented a sister that didn't exist, family members that didn't exist, a mother that didn't work.
I created in someone elses eyes what I wished for myself.
Who could it hurt?
We would be moving momentarily anyway (and we always did).
On occasion I stole, for which I was rightfully beaten, and punished.
My mother did her best with the cards that she was dealt.
But it was a shitty childhood with episodic occurrences of kindness from people that passed through our lives, and the pretty constant influence of Uja, if Mama wasn't mad at him.
They went through periods of not speaking...we are Slavs after all...
I hated myself when I was a child.
I spent most of my teens and early twenties convinced that I was completely unlovable, allowing myself to be taken advantage of and blaming myself for other peoples fucked up behaviours.
It took a long, long time, and a serious illness to force me to get my act together.
Funny that.
I spent time in my late teens and early twenties contemplating suicide, only to fight for my life from my mid twenties into my early thirties.

Nothing like a life threatening illness to force you to get your shit together.
The news flash is that the second half of my life is better.
Turns out that you really are responsible for who you become.

Who knew?
It would have been so much easier to blame my mother.

Live 8 Your Brain

Dear Bono and Bob,

I'm so tired of hearing about you guys...
No.
Really.
I realize that you're drunk with the power you've gained over the years wagging your fingers at countries whom you think don't contribute enough to whatever causes you believe in...but Holy shit guys
....shut the fuck up already.

If you want to go into politics, then run for office.
But, I don't think you're particularly qualified to tell Prime Minister Martin fuck all about what Canada can and can't afford to give, or budgets, deficits or liabilities.

How about you give it a rest, and go have a Starbucks double caramel decaf half caf with Sean Penn.
Chill man.

Regards,
Radmila

P.S. You can relax now...you've got another two decades to plan the next pet cause aid concert.

Go Ahead and Cry...You'll Pee Less.


I grew up with the phrase.
I had it engraved to carry on my keychain to remind me.

I heard this phrase so many times while I was growing up, that if I had a quarter for every time I heard it, I would be lying on a beach in the Caribbean with The Mister...and we would be retired and livin' large.

This phrase reminds me that I have to keep moving.

It reminds me to not feel sorry for myself for too long.
It means so many things to me.
It means that life moves on.
Something horrible happened to you?
The sun still rises in the morning and sets at night.
The world keeps spinning.
People still get up and go to work in the morning.

Smile and the world smiles with you...cry and you cry alone.

Ok..so you don't cry alone at first, but eventually you will if you keep on fucking crying.

I know that when you first read "Go ahead and cry..", it sounds funny,
and it is...
but it's also profound.

Oh, For Godsake! Control Yer Kids!!!!

Dear Shitty Parent,

I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you this...I mean, after all...I'm a total stranger...but....I'll bet cash money that your friends think that your kid is a little wildebeest.
He runs around like a barbarian, grabbing things off of other peoples plates, snatching things out of other childrens hands, wiping his dirty hands on my white walls...
Your little beast is rude to people, and speaks to you like you're a piece of shit.

He tells you you're stupid, and all you do is give him a time out.
He mouths off to everyone who tries to discipline him, because let's face it...you won't...

A couple of times, I've pictured myself beating his ass with a hairbrush.

I have!!

Is that wrong?
I mean...I won't do it.
I've never done it...ohhhh but I've wanted to....

What happened to parents keeping their bollocks and parenting their kids?
I mean, you're the adult ferfucksake!
Why is his 3 year old ass controlling what goes on in your house?
Why are other people forced to deal with your failed parenting?
I don't want to watch your wild child playing air guitar in front of your TV while people are trying to watch something.
I don't want to have to repeat myself six times because your little terror keeps interrupting because he needs to be the center of attention 100% of the time.
I don't want that piece of cake he's put his nasty hands in...

He's not cute.
I don't think that every word that drops out of his mouth is incredibly clever and bright.

I don't think that every word he utters is a miracle...in fact he's rude and selfish and you've made him that way.
Maybe it isn't him that needs the paddling.

Maybe it's you.

Regards,
Radmila...

P.S.
Oh, and don't ask your friends why they never come over anymore. They'll just lie and tell you some bullshit excuse, but really it's because of your little banshee.

A Cultural Divide
Paintings by Njuguna
I am a people watcher.
I love to watch interactions, mannerisms, and facial expressions.
I especially like it when I get to do this in an environment I've never been in before.
Now, I've been the minority as the only whitey at an event more than once.
Sometimes I am welcomed and made to feel comfortable, other times I am not.
It's just the way it is when you're not part of the majority. But, last night...not only was I the only whitey...but I was also witness to a cultural divide.

Let me explain.

Our gracious hosts, A Jamaican man and his Ghanian wife, brought together cultures that are very different.
The party was broken into three distinct areas:

The Front of the House, where all the men were drinking and playing dominoes.

The Dining Room, where the Ghanian women, many of which were in grand and beautiful traditional dress in exquisite colours and patterns...were trying on clothes out of plastic bags brought by one expressive, and loud Ghanian woman. These women were changing and trying on clothes with ease and no sense of self-consciousness, with that non-western confidence and ease that says: "we are all women here. I have nothing you've never seen before".

The Kitchen, where the Jamaican women (clearly, mostly family) were congregated, eating, talking and laughing together.

And then there was me.

In this scene, no matter how gracious our hosts....
I am never on this Gods green earth, going to fit.
So, I sat...and observed.
Made small talk with any woman who sat by me, and watched the interactions between people.
The Ghanian women generally stuck to themselves, and the Jamaican women to themselves as well.

The Mister,(as usual) left me to fend for myself...as he knows that I'm pretty adaptable, and I didn't see him again until the end of the evening.

I watched the women in the dining room haggle, and shout at each other in Ghanian...one minute with serious and angry looks...and the next minute smiling and pushing each other.
At one point, one of the women turned, and with a laugh said (in that fantastic Ghanian accent) "We are arguing...sorry...we are loud".

Just before we were getting ready to leave, the loud lady called to me to come and look at her wares.
She showed me all kinds of shirts, lipsticks and purses...most of which were way too busy for my conservative tastes..but I mentioned that I had seen one of the women trying on a lavender pinstriped shirt that I really liked.

"EH, AH!!", she shouted to a woman in a gorgeous purple caftan and matching headwrap. The two of them spoke in Ghanian for a few minutes and then the lady in the caftan and headwrap produced the blouse, and gave it to me.
I paid the loud lady, and as I folded it up, she said to me "Put it in your purse, and zip your purse up...so your husband doesn't see!" and then she laughed.

There are certain things that cross all cultures....no?

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.