There’s No Place Like Home

What does home feel like? For me, it’s a place where – or a person with whom – I am safe. Loved. Accepted for myself and free to be myself. Home is not a physical thing for me. It was when I was a kid, but even then, we moved around so much that getting attached to the house was futile. Home was where my family was – and I know I was luckier than a lot of kids. Ter, for instance, feels more at home with my kin than she did with her own, since growing up for her happened harder and faster than it did for me.

But that was when we were kids. As adults, we’ve made a home wherever we’ve lived, whether for six months or sixteen years. Sometimes, I haven’t wanted to go home. When renos were happening or the neighbours were too close beneath our feet, my office was preferable to my house, which speaks to the closeness of my colleagues as evidence that home is a feeling rather than a location.

Years ago, when I figured out how to operate the speed dial on my work phone, I loaded “home” onto the button just below “parents”. One day, meaning to call my folks, I instinctively dialled “home” (well done, Mum and Dad!) Two years ago, when Ter and I each got a cell phone, she took our old land line as her new number. I haven’t bothered to change the speed dial ID. Home means many things to many people, but for me, it means “Ter.”

Well done, bud. <3

I Wish I Wrote That!

books that deserve to be read

The Night Circus

Station Eleven

If We Were Villains

Each of these novels had me rending my garment on first read, they were so astoundingly, beautifully written. I’ve read the first four times in four years (with the fifth scheduled for this Christmas). I’ve read the second twice, with the third time pending. I’ve just finished racing through the third, and fully intend to read it again, slowly, to savour the details missed in my zeal to see what happens next. Magical tales in their own right, the language and style of the authors (all women—coincidence?) is pure art. Villains was partly written by Shakespeare, as it features hefty chunks culled from his plays, but he also inspired the “pidgin Bard” bandied so easily between the characters. Geez, it was an astonishingly gorgeous read; I fell so deeply into the story that it became real at the expense of my reality—and it urged me to improve my own craft.

I love English. I treasure grammar as much as I do the imagery conjured by the words. Prose can be poetry, after all, and after relishing novels like these three (among others), I long to be a poet myself.

I have had no problem with purple hyperbole in the past, but the glory in these novels lies in the simple beauty of language. A few well-chosen words can ignite brighter joy and sharper horror than a rampant stream of syllables. This trio of young women has created a wonderland in words, and though I may be similarly gifted, I am always in awe when a story excites my imagination and no scene is filler.

I love to write. I love to read. I can’t do one without doing the other (I must read more!), and why would I want to, when inspiration and aspiration are stimulated as one?

While I’m raving, I must include Z in the list of books I wish I’d written. It’s a completely different story in a completely different style, yet executed with the same respect for the written word and the talent to portray raw emotion as airbrushed fancy. Strong characters will always drive a story, of course, but set design and stage direction are important, too. Keeping it simple is the hard part. I struggle with it every time I put pen to paper. Books like those at the top of this post do more than entertain me. They teach me, absorb me, frustrate me, excite me, and inspire me.

They also exhaust me—and that’s the most fun of all!

Throwing in the Towels

Saturday is laundry day. Each week, we do our clothes. Every two weeks, we wash the bath towels (neither of us is particularly grubby, so we get away with not laundering them weekly). And every four weeks, Ter brings home “the horrible work towels” and fires them through the nuclear cycle to kill the plenitude of germs inevitably housed in the crusty crinkled folds.

Every workplace kitchen has them: the donated tea towels that some folks use to dry their dishes and their hands (or wipe their noses—who really knows?), that are tossed into a bucket under the sink for washing only to reappear, miraculously clean and neatly folded, in their assigned drawer, on Monday morning. I work in an office where a scarce half-dozen towels serve forty-five people. I refuse to use the towels, employing the compostable paper ones instead—I’m not afraid of germs, but I’m not stupid, either. In the dead of winter, when everyone is sneezing and coughing, those kitchen towels become hazardous waste containers.

Ter’s office has two working kitchens. Their towel output can fill a Hefty bag with ease—and does, since she brings one home when she can no longer stand the backlog under the sinks (or can’t find a clean towel to dry her teacup).

This is where I get small: we pay for our laundry, and given the amount of pain she endures at that office every day, over time I have become increasingly resentful of her willingness to wash their damp, sticky, germy, smelly, horrible towels. Nobody else seems to do it; in fact, I know nobody else does it, given the weight (and pong) of the load she carts home every month.

Not so long ago, she brought them home bi-weekly, in a plastic grocery bag. Laundry was my gig at the time, as my bones didn’t mind the stairs and I often happened on a neighbour or two in the back yard. Social critter that I am, I actually enjoyed the task ... except for the “horrible work towels”. At some point, I grew so vocal with my disgruntlement that Ter finally lost it. She would do the horrible work towels separately, to spare me the angst of touching them (she wasn’t too crazy about me including them in our hot water load, either, which indicates how toxic they might actually be). I argued, not only because I felt somewhat guilty at continually beating her up about it, but because—and here I get small again—a separate load would cost us another buck-fifty. I didn’t like doing them, but there was no valid reason why I couldn’t do them. So, on horrible work towel weeks, I would sneak them into the hot water load and take my lumps when she busted me. It wasn’t hard; she usually dropped the grocery bag on top of the hamper when she got home on Friday, so I’d grab it and dump the contents—touching as little as possible, of course—into our load on Saturday.

This practice came to a head one weekend, when I took a bag of kitchen garbage to the dumpster. Ter had been cleaning out the fridge (another weekly chore), so when I saw the plastic grocery bag, its top heavily knotted, by the back stairs, I grabbed it on my way down to the laundry room. I threw it in the dumpster, put the cold wash into the dryer, started the hot cycle in the washer, and went back upstairs. When our laundry was almost done, Ter asked me where the horrible work towels were. “I don’t know,” I replied. “Wherever you usually put them, I guess.”

She frowned. “They were in a bag at the top of the—What?”

I had gasped, and my hands were flying toward my open mouth. She gave me the shark Finn look and repeated:

“What?”

My voice leaked, tiny and trembling, between my fingers. “I thought it was garbage.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“I thought it was garbage.” I started to laugh, a little wildly. “I threw the bag in the garbage!”

Her own hand rose but couldn’t stifle her own laughter. “Ru-thie!! You threw the horrible work towels in the garbage?!”

I managed a sheepish smile. “Freudian slip.”

“You think?”

We fell about laughing and replenished some of the stock from our own cupboard, but after that, she refused to let me see the horrible work towels, and sometime after that, she started using the Hefty bag to conceal them.

I haven’t had to wash them since. I’m pretty sure I can’t be trusted.

Heh.

Wobbly Knees and Wonky Fingers

Now that summer has finally come out of the closet, so have the summer clothes. With those clothes come the perennial questions like: “How does a busty woman hide her bra straps under a sleeveless dress?” or “When do shorts become too-shorts?”

I practice being non-judgmental at the bus stop, but one must wonder what the plaid shorts/tropical print shirt combo was thinking, and I genuinely lament the days of the plain ponytail during the ongoing parade of modern-day “manbuns”. Mostly, though, I admire the sleek young women in flippy dresses and wispy sandals, their bare legs impossibly tanned. When in my 20s, despite the arthritis, my legs were long and straight, and looked pretty darned good in a short skirt. Nowadays, I have knobbly Grinch knees that make it comically ill-advised even to wear leggings, let alone dare a raised hem.

Fortunately, mid-calf still works on me, even if my ankles are a bit thicker and less flexible than they were 30 years ago.

Make no mistake—I don’t envy the gazelles in Gap garb; I had my time in miniskirts and heels. And I’ve grown fond of my crooked knees. After all, they’ve got a ton of mileage on them. My whole body is like that, actually: mid-century modern that’s held up pretty well, all things considered.

For someone who has spent decades at war with her compostable container, this is an impressively mature attitude. I used to fear the ravages of age, blithely unaware that those ravages were happening well in advance of my dotage via the aforementioned arthritis. Perhaps I sensed my golden years might be worse as a result; though I naively imagined that when the RA burned out, my bones would be magically restored to mint condition, I was purely bitter that no one thought to warn me I’d later have to deal with the damage done in my teens. Then there was my well-meaning but misguided notion that all the pre-emptive therapies I could foist upon myself would pre-empt more pain. So much for that.

I’ve always said that I don’t care what it looks like so long as it works, and while I may have been deceiving myself in my youth, this has become my truth in middle age. My recent quest to heal—or at least subdue—the angst of last winter has led me to a more compassionate view of my physical self. Now I can regard my wonky knees and gnarled knuckles with affection. My body has been to war and come out alive. Her swollen joints are a testament to survival, to a challenge met and ultimately defeated. Every day, she gets me from point A to B and beyond, sometimes with a side order of arg and sometimes nary a whimper, but the point is, she gets me where I want to go and will, I hope, continue doing so for as long as she has breath.

Gone are the days of mid-thigh skirts and silly shoes, but that’s okay. I own my scars. I’ve earned them.

Nice Going, Einstein

How disappointing—and yet I don’t know if my disappointment is with the show or with myself, for not knowing better.

No, I knew better. Give a guy like David Lynch eighteen hours of airtime on premium cable and you’re a fool not to expect lengthy bouts of directorial self-indulgence ... but episode seven of the current Twin Peaks amounted to a solid hour of my life that I will never get back. Disturbing, art house imagery, discordant audio and no visible connection to the greater plot (which is pushing for coherence as it is) had Ter and me agreeing—reluctantly, on my part—to quit before we waste any more of our time. We are huge fans of the original series and anticipated the next one like a pair of little kids anticipating Christmas. I was prepared to allow for some alternate reality nonsense given the source, but last week’s offering was just-plain-stupid.

Truly disappointing.

On the other hand, the National Geographic channel’s showing of Genius—based on a book about the life of Albert Einstein—was, well, genius. I hoped it might be, as it starred Oscar winners and was produced by Imagine Entertainment (Ron Howard and Brian Grazer); a combo that rarely misses the mark. No disappointment here! Ten episodes of brilliantly written, expertly acted and perfectly produced television, most of which I could follow despite the science not being dumbed down for the casual observer. Geoffrey Rush was splendid as Einstein in his later years, as was Johnny Flynn as the physicist in his youth, but the character I felt most for was his first wife, Mileva, a scientist in her own right who was sacrificed by the time in which she lived. Bravely played by Samantha Colley, she was absolutely wrenching to watch.

The story alone is interesting enough, but could have been ruined in the wrong hands. The complexity of Einstein’s mind, his obsession with science and his inability to relate with his family, set against the rise of Nazi Germany and the US investigation into un-American activity, was laid out in gorgeous detail, right down to the spacey special effects used to aid us in seeing what he saw during his theoretical “a-ha” moments. The dialogue was intense (the physics jokes were actually funny) and the politics of war made a full colour backdrop for the drama of real life relationships. The science was integral, but not the star. Gads, the series surpassed my expectations by as much or more than Twin Peaks fell short.

Genius is in the eye of the beholder.

Canada 150

I love it here. I love Canada. I love being Canadian. I love hearing tourists gush about how friendly we are and how safe they feel within our borders. I am gratified to know that our global reputation is as pristine as any First World country’s reputation can be. We have our problems, sure. Just ask the indigenous people whose struggle to reclaim their stolen heritage continues. Even so, we as a nation are trying to repair the damage done by our colonial predecessors in hope of making something stronger from the wreckage. We may be Canadian, but we’re also human. We can’t be perfect, at least not all the time. We just try a little harder to be respectful, polite, environmentally conscious, compassionate, sympathetic, funny, humble and supportive. Patriotism hasn’t come easily in the past, but in recent years, it’s crept closer to the forefront, and you know what? That’s okay. We should be patriotic. We live in a magical, beautiful, expansive, progressive, diverse, inclusive and wondrous place.

Though I’d like to say I am proud to be Canadian, I am more inclined to say I’m relieved to be Canadian. Pride does have a dark side. The temptation to become smug about the country I call home has increased since superpowers like the US and the UK appear to have lost their lustre, but I refuse to go there. I am proud, yes. I am relieved, yes. I am grateful, yes. But I am here not by my doing. I am here because my father who, on deciding to emigrate from England, wrote to three nations: Canada, Australia, and America.

Canada wrote him back.

Canada welcomed him, his wife, and his four kids (my wee sister was smuggled in utero). I don’t think any of us would have had it turn out differently.

Happy birthday, Canada – and thanks.

With love,