If I could turn back time

Saturday night we were at an African themed dinner party at a friend’s house.

“Can I do anything to help?” I asked hopefully, poking my head into the kitchen. If I didn't help now, I’d be one of the ones stuck doing the dishes after dinner.

“No thanks,” replied my husband, as he prepared a spicy Moroccan vegetable dish.

“No, it’s all under control,” L said as he slid marinated prawns onto a skewar.

“Sure, can you take this drink out to my wife?” asked D, checking the coconut rice pilaf.

I left the three men in the kitchen, measuring, chopping, sipping wine, and laughing as they put the big meal together. I bet they slapped each other’s ass after a particularly good taste test, just like after a sweet goal on the rink.



A generation ago it would have been different. The kitchen would not be a testosterone zone when dinner was prepared. It was the 70’s, and women were driving the equality train, demanding that men take their share of household work. But most men then had not been brought up learning how to cook. Meal preparation was a mystery. So they dutifully (or under threat of no sex) took on the job of cleaning the kitchen up after meals. My father, for example, jumps up after a meal and heads to the kitchen, where he washes, wipes, scrubs, and packages and labels leftovers with military precision. Every item in the dishwasher goes in its assigned place. (He once accused me of “dishwasher anarchy” when I loaded it.) Dad’s lack of culinary skill is legendary, so he took on the job of chief pot scrubber without complaint.

These days, one person cooks, the other cleans up, just like in the 70’s. It’s only fair. But now, our men cook! They look up recipes, try out new spices, even (gasp) wear aprons. Their enlightened mothers taught them what a kitchen is for. They took mandatory home-ec at school. Men are now liberated from the prison of pot scrubbing and plate scraping. They get to experience the creative side of the spatula. They bask in praise from their dinner guests. They bond over woks. This is a splendid development. My brothers, I rejoice with you in your freedom from baked-on grease!

Oh bullshit. Women were subjugated by men for thousands of years. Couldn’t we have kept men scrubbing all the crusty pans for just a little while longer?



Today's dream travel destination: 1979.

Something stinks here

Vancouver is in week four of a municipal workers strike. Managers are supposedly trying to keep up with some of the most needed city services. I saw one of these managers this morning on my way in to work. He was wearing a vest with the municipal insignia, working hard at:

Picking up the overflowing garbage? No.


Filling in for my friend who works for the city providing physical recreation programs for disabled kids? No again.

Working at the library, trying to at least keep the kid’s section open? Nope.

Cleaning up parks and children’s playgrounds? No way.

Leading the osteoporosis prevention exercise class at the seniors centre? No.

He was doing a much more important municipal job. Collecting the freakin coins from the PARKING METERS!!!!!!




Today's dream travel destination Maligne Lake, Jasper Park, Canada: The first lake I ever swam (well waded and splashed) in. And it has to smell better than here.

Chase this old bus baby!

I had lunch recently with an old friend from university days. She embarked on a deliciously gossipy tale of a mutual acquaintance of ours who works in her company. A few months ago he began a liaison with a coworker. The fellow and his coworker were frequently away on business trips at the same time, and rumours swirled. But the whole thing came to a head, so to speak, when the secretary of one phoned her boss's hotel very early one morning and the other answered, rather breathless. Busted. The wife found out, the marital shit hit the fan, and they are now choking through the first course at the divorce buffet.

What, you think I shouldn't indulge in this sort of gossip? That my lunch time would be better spent at the latest art gallery exhibit? Screw that! I was riveted, salivating for every detail. Best lunch date I've had in ages.

But I also found it unsettling. Usually when I hear tales of philandering acquaintances I think, "Well that doesn't surprise me." I can usually predict the skirt (and trouser) chasers. But this one surprised me.

I found myself pondering what makes a man risk everything he used to cherish (and maybe still does) to go after an illicit sexual dalliance. If dangerous adventure is the lure, why not go trekking in Afghanistan? Or join a nudist ice hockey club?

I can't ask my husband this question, because any husband with an ounce of sense who values his testicles will reply with the SC (spousally correct) answer. "Sweetheart, I'd never dream of it. Even if Angelina Jolie suddenly appeared naked in my bed. No, I mean, I wasn't thinking of Angie or anything, it's just an example." Blah Blah foot-in-the-mouth blah.

So I asked a male, married, dear old friend of mine for an honest answer. We are the same age. On the wrong side of 49.

"You know," he said, "There was a time when I would have been very tempted. Actually was tempted. In fact went a little further than tempted. But now, at my age, it would be like a dog chasing a bus. What the hell would I do with it if I actually caught it? The whole idea just makes me want to take a nap."

Great. I've reached the age where inertia will keep my man from straying. Note to self: Cancel that plastic surgery consultation. But wait, my man is five years younger than I am. He may have the odd bus chase in him yet. Excuse me while I go out to buy a sexy neglige. I'm going to do whatever I can to make sure I'm that bus.

Life lesson at the parade

I spent the last three days at the tiny community of Lindell Beach on Cultus Lake, BC. For 55 years this community has held a regatta on the August long weekend. It included a parade of decorated wagons, bikes and kids.



With a marching (sort of) band.



There were water sports, contests, and even fireworks. B, with our friend Cathy, made the finals in the egg toss contest.



It was a great time with friends and family.



But the moment I will remember most came at the end of the parade, when I overheard a young boy complaining to his dad that his bicycle was uncomfortable. The father's advice to him could apply to riding a bike or, well, life:

"Son, relax, and ride sitting back on your bum, not forward on your willie."



Today's dream travel destination: Whitby, England. Where a slightly more famous regatta is held every August.

The wedding suit

It was late Saturday afternoon when I finally finished my errands and got back home. I had been all over town, to the grocery store, to Hop On produce market off Marine Drive, the garden centre, and several furniture stores looking for bar stools. It was hot. I quickly changed into gardening clothes, and looked forward to a peaceful couple of hours planting, pruning, watering and weeding.

“Hey Mom,” my son called out just as I began deadheading the marigolds. “Did you hem my pants yet?”

Shit. I had promised him I would hem the pants on his suit, because he had to go to a wedding the next day. I said farewell to the marigolds and went back inside.

“Oh and Mom, I need new shoes to wear, I only have white runners.”

“What happened to your old black shoes you wore when you worked at Safeway?”

“I lost one.”

How does someone lose one shoe? I’m not sure I want to know. So I changed out of my gardening clothes and we went out to buy shoes. Then I got down to the business of hemming.

The suit, the only one my son owns, was a hand-me-down from his dad. My son and his dad are about the same height, but my son wears his pants slung way low, held up only by some invisible force field. Thus the need for hemming. The first time my son wore the suit was at his dad’s wedding two years ago, where his grandma stapled up the hem of the pants. Fortunately the suit is kind of silvery grey, so the staples were not too obvious. But this time he would have a proper hem. If they were ordinary pants, I would have told him to hem them himself, he knows how to use the sewing machine. But this lovely old hand tailored wool suit needs a hand sewn invisible hem, way beyond his domestic skills.

If I do say so, my kid looked very handsome as he went off to a cousin’s wedding the next day, in grey pinstriped suit, crisp white shirt, jaunty maroon handkerchief in his jacket pocket, and shiny new shoes.

I wonder if my son’s father realizes the suit, the one he gave our son to wear at his second wedding, is the one he wore when he married me. 23 years ago.

Good vibes

A little while ago one of my favourite writers, Ian, tagged me with an invitation to write about five things that raise my vibrations. I loved reading his five, and immediately started thinking about what gives me good vibrations.

First though, for those of you who got here by googling "vibes", stop reading now. Just click this link and ignore the rest of this post. It's not what you're looking for.

So, back to what gives me good vibes. There are many things. I'm going to limit this post to one. And I am not going to tag anyone, but if you feel so inspired, pick up the theme. What raises your vibrations?

For me, one thing soars far above all the rest, lifts my spirit, my soul, and my eyes. It's a place, or actually many places. I can pick up angels there. Who then watch over me to make sure I don't fall asleep and miss my life, even when I'm down. Down in spirit or elevation.

Have you guessed? I'm talking about mountains. I adore mountains.
Climbing them:



Gazing at them:




Sharing the thrill of reaching the peak:



Playing in them:



And sleeping in them.





When I travel, I seek out the mountains. On my first trip to New Zealand I gave up the heat of a Canadian summer in August and went straight to the snowy Remarkable Range in the South Island. In the U.K., Big Ben, the Tower of London, and even Stonehenge were a bit of a snore. I really came alive on Mt. Snowdon in Wales.



Sacred Massai Gods live on Mount Ol Donyo Langai in Tanzania. I had to go up and pay my respects of course.



Even in Hawaii, the mountainous cliffs of Kauai's Na Pali coast beckon to me more than the beaches below.




My first real view of the Himalaya Range was of the Annapurna peaks at dawn from Poon Hill, Nepal, which I had climbed by the light of a headlamp before dawn. As the sun rose and these magnificent peaks came into focus I sat and cried in absolute joy.




I'm not sure if my love of mountains comes from some deep yearning to touch heaven, or simply because my first memories start when my family was living in the heart of the Canadian Rockies between Banff and Jasper. Mom and Dad strapped skis on me at Marmot Basin almost as soon as I could walk. They loved to climb mountains too. I have their long old-fashioned ice axes from their mountaineering days. Here they are next to mine:



Best of all is being in the mountains with the people I love. My son started skiing in the mountains with me when he was four. By nine years old he was beating me down black diamond runs. Now he is an awesome snowboarding dude.



In summers my son has hiked and rock climbed with me. But I don't think he has ever felt the same pulling, aching need I have to be in the mountains.





My Beloved has also joined me in the mountains from time to time. When he does though, it is not the mountains, but me he wants to be near. I love him for that.






I told B that when I croak I want my ashes scattered in the mountains. "Can it be Splash Mountain in Florida or the Matterhorn ride in Disneyland?" he asked.

"No way!"

"But what if I'm in a wheel chair by then?"

"You won't be, you're five years younger than I am."

"But what if?"

"O.K., whatever, I suppose I won't know the difference."

So, if you are ever at Disneyland in 40 or 50 years and see spindrift blowing off the peak of the Matterhorn, that will likely be me.

Today's dream travel destination, the Swiss Alps. A mountain range I have not yet seen. Home of the real Matterhorn.

Schmoozed

Ian at Or so I thought has given me a "Blogging Community Involvement" award. Apparently my blog has "the power of schmooze". I'm flattered, thank you Ian. But I'm not exactly sure what this means. So I'll take it to be an indication of a blogger that can schmooze folks in. One who who relishes the blogger community contact in return. Because I do truly enjoy the interaction, "conversation" and cyber-frienships that have developed since I started this little blog. It was totally unexpected, but the best part of this blogging gig.

Apparently I am to name five other blogs for this award. But I am going to break the rules (yes, again.) Because I do not follow many blogs. I've read many, but only a few have caught me (schmoozed me?) and drawn me to follow every post they write. So I could name all of those blogs listed over there on the right under the title "You'll love these" for this award. But I am going to limit it to one. One of the first blogs I began to read, and the first that got me hooked into coming back to it over and over. And the one that got me thinking "I want to try that". Now that's schmooze power!

And the award goes to: Alda at theIceland Weather Report. Often side splittingly funny, frequently deeply insightful, sometimes achingly honest and personal. I love her descriptions of "Niceland" and Icleanders, and if I ever need to fly to Reykjavik on the spur of the moment, I will know what time the sun will set.

Today's dream travel destination: Iceland of course. A destination way up on my gotta go list.

Service interruptions due to weather

This blog is on summer hours. Fine weather and long daylight hours may result in unavoidable service interruptions. Regular service will resume with the rain.

I am spending very little time indoors. Saturday we spent the day on the boat at Pitt Lake. Sunday an old friend was in town, and we cycled 68 km to the Richmond Dikes and Steveston Village. The winter's mould is finally baking out of our brains, and the sun has our damp joints moving again.

Evenings have been spent in the garden, where we are making a huge mess landscaping. Lumberjacks are removing a massive overgrown cedar hedge. Two sad trees will also come down. Listen for their screams. Weed beds are under attack. I am finally getting a place to plant my long-wished for Ginkgo Biloba tree.




When darkness falls, making chainsaw use a gamble, we reluctantly drag our aching old bones inside, shower, and collapse. Dust is building up on the forlorn computer. The lonely mouse sits on the mouse pad squinting out at the hot, cloudless sky, wishing for a storm.



Today's dream travel destination, Steveston Village, Richmond, B.C. Where the freshest seafood is sold right off the boats at the docks. And the halibut & chips at Dave's is mouthwatering.

Party animals

Dateline: Saturday June 30, 2007. B and I are taking the dogs for an evening walk in the 'hood.

"Oh look, the Smiths finally finished that retaining wall" I say.

"It looks good. That stone would look great around the edge of the back flower bed we've been planning" B answers.

"The one we have been planning for five years? The one we dug up half the back lawn for, that is now a giant weed heaven?"

"Yeah, that one."

"Oh, cool, look over there, Crazy Hoarding Neighbour has a new member of her lawn gnome family."

"That's no gnome, it's a hung over troll."

"How can you tell?"

"He's cross-eyed and looks about to puke."

"No, I mean how do you know he's a troll and not a gnome?"

B gives me THE LOOK that indicates my lengthy, expensive education was a waste.

A few blocks later, when we have looped back to our front door, I ask, "What do you want to do now? It is Saturday night."

"We could go to a movie."

This time I give B THE LOOK. "Who are you kidding, we haven't watched a movie except on our own T.V. in 4 years." We talk about going, then just wait until it comes out on pay-per-view. Where we can watch it snuggled on the couch with a glass of wine, wearing sweatpants and torn tee-shirts. And pause it for refills and pee breaks.

We check the listings and there is nothing interesting on pay-per-view. Still, it is a long weekend and all, so I suggest: "We could go up to the pub for a beer."


"We have beer here, and it's cheaper. Besides, we've just been for a walk, I don't feel like walking up to the pub. And if we drive, one of us can't have beer."

So we have a short soak in the hot tub and go to bed with books. It's 9:45 on a Saturday night. My God, we are so wild and crazy.

Today's dream travel destination: Montmartre, Paris. Where we would just be starting dinner at 9:45 on a Saturday evening.

I'm one of the Rockin' Girls!

After a few days away from the computer (the weather is finally too good to stay inside for long) I came back to find that CS (Another Tangential Thinker) has given me a Rockin' Girl Blogger award. Now it has been a long time since I've been called a girl and a longer time since I actually was one. And I've never been called "Rockin'". Cool! With my 50th birthday hurtling towards me I am delighted. Thank you C.S. Coming from a rockinest mom, woman, snake lover, photographer blogger I am truly honoured. Proud to be considered one of the girls.

Now I get to hand out five more. To female bloggers that rock. Oh my, where to start? Stay tuned, I need a little time to think about this.

Today's dream travel destination: Parliament Hill, Ottawa. The best place to be for Canada Day celebrations. Where I celebrated Canada's 100th birthday 40 years ago, and where my son celebrated his first Canada Day 20 years ago.