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.

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.