Back to school!

This morning when I took the pooch out for her business, I saw a school bus and what looked like a driver trying to figure out her new route, which got me thinking…

This time of year was like a pre-Christmas season for me. I would be so excited at the thought of getting new things. My addiction to school supplies started at a very young age – and I think it might have been transmitted by my mother, who used to be a school teacher before getting married (yep! My mom is from that generation who gave up their career once married to become a housewife and mother), so by the time I made it to first grade I knew how to write & read. (No I didn't go to pre-school, my parents thought I could do crafts and stuff at home, with them) My mother would get so excited when the list of needed supplies would come in. We would always have a good time shopping together for my new note pads, pencils, crayons, etc. We loved it. …and still do! Yesterday I walked in a little shop where they sold all sorts of supplies and I wasted a fair bit of time in there, looking at things, feeling them… I just love it so freakin’ much! It's an illness, I'm telling you!

I used to love going back to school. First because I was one of those nerds who truly enjoyed school, except maths! I hated anything to do with maths and logic. I loved being in school, with my new books, and the clean classrooms. I loved the anticipation of finding out which teacher I was going to get this year, and in which classroom such course would take place. The first few days were a bit worrisome, until I figured out the best route from my locker to my classes, with a quick pit stop by the washroom, but that was all part of the great excitement of being back at school.

I didn’t really care for the "social" aspect of school. From 1st to 6th grade I went to the same little school, ran by nuns. We didn’t get many “newbies”, some might have moved but most of us remained there for those 6 years. Then in high school the majority went to the local neighbourhood high, but I had asked my parents to go to a private school. I wasn’t allowed to wear jeans (until I was 18), so to avoid being picked on because of that, I asked to go where all students would wear a uniform. I was already a target for bullies by being a good student and some would say the teacher’s pet, so I wanted to go somewhere else. I would make new friends, that was not a real issue for me.

For the next 5 years I went to a private, snooty French (from Europe French, not Québécois) school where we had an assigned uniform. Blue blazer, white turtleneck jersey and grey pants for the boys, and for the girls the only difference was the colour of our blazer, which was red and the option of wearing a skirt. We were all the same! Or so I thought! I quickly realise that despite the uniforms there were still big differences in what one wore. I met a new kind of bully who would pick on me for not having the “real” Penny loafers, or for not wearing a Lacoste or a Ralph Lauren turtleneck… Before then I didn’t care so much for brand, nor did I really know of them. My parents worked hard for their money and brand names weren’t a priority in our household. Making sure we had all necessities and were well fed was more important than a little logo… Those five years exposed me to a lot of expensive items that made me aware of the differences in quality and prices, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

I remember my first day there, standing in the back yard, looking at all those blue and red blazers and all those unknown faces, it was overwhelming. I didn’t know one person, except one girl that I recognized from the day of the entry tests. We actually became good friends.

Unlike primary school, at l’Académie there was a very big rotation of students. Every year we would get a bunch of newbies. Because of it status and location, in Westmount, we often had kids of politicians and diplomats in just for one year. We also had the “trouble” teens; those ones whose parents thought a little discipline would do them good. Each September brought its share of excitement with the new kids, add that to the mix of new subjects, new school supplies and I was on a high for a few days. Like all other highs, they wore off quickly, but still it was fun while it lasted.

It was also fun to see who was back, despite their wish to go somewhere else, who had actually manage to change school. That also applied to the teachers. L’Académie had a very permanent group of teachers. I had some of the same teachers through those five years teaching different subjects. My English teacher was also my Spanish teacher. My latin teacher was also my geography teacher, etc. The good thing about that was that you knew the teachers and they knew the student body, the bad thing about that was the exact same thing!

Through it all there was only one teacher I didn't like, monsieur Rochette. My enriched math teacher. He was a very intelligent mean old man. I remember telling my parents after my first math class how I didn’t like him. Through the years I realised that it was kind of a mutual feeling. I had such a hard time in there. It felt like I understood nothing of what he was explaining and yet I always managed to have good grades. My last year there I had asked to be moved into regular maths, I could no longer suffer Rochette. The school agreed to move me down. I was so happy and couldn’t wait to see who my new teacher would be. Yet another pleasure of starting a new school year!

First thing I did when I got my new schedule was to look at the name of my “new” math teacher, and was shock to see monsieur Rochette’s name. It must have been a mistake or something. I ask a friend in enriched maths who her teacher was. It wasn’t Rochette! During the summer months he had also requested to give the regular maths class! So, for five years I despised maths and my teacher…

Despite having to deal with the same old teachers year after year, the bullies and everything that makes those years awkward, I have found memories of those years and can’t help to think back with a certain pleasure about the excitement of starting something new, and of course, using my new school supplies for the first time! That was simply the best!!!

My sentiments exactly

Isn't making a smoking section in a restaurant like making a peeing section in a swimming pool?

And if 4 out of 5 people SUFFER from diarrhea...does that mean that one enjoys it?

Votre Friday Smile!

Une autre joke de blondes ! Signification de la fête de Pâques :

Trois blondes viennent de mourir et se retrouvent devant Saint-Pierre. Ce dernier leur explique qu'avant de pouvoir entrer dans le Royaume des Cieux elles doivent expliquer la signification de la fête de Pâques.

L'Américaine dit : « Pâques est un gros party où on mange de la dinde et on prend un coup. » Saint-Pierre crie : « Noooooooon ! » Et il l'envoie en enfer.

La blonde allemande répond : « À Pâques on célèbre la naissance de Jésus et on échange des cadeaux. » Saint-Pierre crie : « Noooooooon pas du tout ! » Et il l'envoie en enfer.

La blonde canadienne dit : « Pâques est une fête chrétienne qui coïncideavec la Pâque juive Jésus a été trahi par Judas, puis il a été crucifié et est décédé. Les Juifs l'ont ensuite mis dans une caverne fermée par une très grosse pierre. Saint-Pierre s'exclame : « C'est bien ça. Bravo ! » Et la blonde de continuer: « Chaque année depuis cette époque reculée, on roule la pierre et Jésus sort de la caverne. S'il voit son ombre, ça veut dire qu'on a encore six semaines de hockey. » Saint-Pierre s'évanouit!

***

Gennaro is in this country for only 6 months. He walks to work 20 blocks every day and passes a shoe store. Each day he stops and looks in the window to admire the Boccelli leather shoes. He
wants those shoes so much... it's all he can think about.

After about 2 months he saves the price of the shoes, $300, and purchases them.

Every Friday night the Italian community holds a dance in the church basement. Gennaro seizes this opportunity to wear his new Boccelli leather shoes for the first time.

He asks Sophia to dance and as they dance he asks her, "Sophia, do you wear red panties tonight?"

Startled, Sophia replies, "Yes, Gennaro, I do wear red panties tonight, but how do you know?"

Gennaro answers, "I see the reflection in my new $300 Boccelli leather shoes. How do you like them?"

Next he asks Rosa to dance, and after a few minutes he asks, "Rosa, do you wear white panties tonight?"

Rosa answers, "Yes, Gennaro, I do, but how do you know that?"

He replies, "I see the reflection in my new $300 Boccelli leather shoes. How do you like them?"

Now as the evening is almost over and the last song is being played, Gennaro asks Carmela to dance.

Midway through the dance his face turns red. He states, "Carmela, be stilla my heart, please, please tell me you wear no panties tonight, please, please, tella me this true!"

Carmela smiles coyly and answers, "Yes Gennaro, I wear no panties tonight."

Gennaro gasps, "Thanka God ... I thought I had a CRACK in my new $300 Boccelli leather shoes!"

Have a great weekend everyone!
Don't forget to wear red!

Taking care of business

Today's post isn't going to be nice for some... It's all about a "natural activity". It might be a stinking issue to write about, but I feel that I need to go there...

I'm always amazed at how much crap our body can retain, either it be liquid or more consistent. As I'm getting older I'm realizing that my body is changing. I never thought I'd be one of those people who couldn't do their "business" away from home. I always thought it was weird that one's plumbing would shut down like that. On the other hand, I know what having clogged pipes can do to you! I've been having major plumbing issues for numerous years...

I was one of those people who could fall asleep, have sex and do my "business" just about anywhere! I was lucky I guess. But that was back then!

For the last five days I haven't had a bowel mouvement and I was starting to seriously feel it; not to mention that I was starting to have some really foul breath (I am joking here!)! I felt like shit (no pun intended) and felt that I was full of it as well!

BUT tonight, finally, I had to go!!! The relief I'm feeling is like a blessing in the bowl! It felt great & I deflated like a balloon after a kid's party!

Sorry if this post offended anyone, but it just had to come out!

Is it just me?...

I know that some of you feel very strongly about punctuation, grammar, etc. (you know who you are, no need for me to name you!), and I feel the same way. Despite French being my mother tongue, I know that my written English skills are better than a lot of English born people. Talking, well... that's a whole other story... let's just say one can tell English isn't my first language. That being said I hate it when I see or hear bad English (and/or French). And it has nothing to do with politics, with being a “Quebecer” and all that... Especially that the French we speak, as “Quebecers”, is so badly spoken and written by most, that I don't understand what it is that we're trying to preserve... but that's another post (if ever I decide to!).

Crossing the border, from Québec to Vermont, while waiting in line to talk to the customs agent – it used to be so easy and worry free to cross the border, I'm happy to report that it changed a fair bit. I'm not happy about the fact that security had to be increased and all due to terrorists, but happy to see that it now feels like a border is being crossed. (sorry, I'll get back on track now!) - right before our picture is taken (while we're in the car), right after we came out of the Duty Free parking lot, I saw signs, lots of signs. Since we had to wait, not because there were that many cars, but because the agents actually look at you, talk to you and ask questions, it does take a little longer per car to cross over, I starting reading the signs next to us, for the big trucks.

All signs were in English and French. But the French... OMG!!!

First one I read said: “Stop here until lane is clear”. In French it was translated to “Arrête-vous ici jusqu'à ce que la voie solt libre” - not so bad, only 2 mistakes: one isn't proper French, and the second is most likely a typo. It should have read: “Arrêtez-vous ici jusqu'à ce que la voie soit libre”

Second sign read: “Report to US Customs”. In French it read “Reportez vous aux les douanes e-u” - OUCH! That is bad French! Two mistakes were spelling mistakes and the third one was just not French, it's beyond grammar! It should have read: “Présentez-vous aux douanes des États-Unis.”

Then I read the third sign: “Do not stop in yellow zone”. In French it was the worst translation so far: “N'arrêtez-vous pas en la zone jaune”. That was just plain bad French, pure & simple! It should have read something like: “Ne vous arrêtez pas dans la zone jaune.”

I really wanted to take a picture, but Hubby didn't think it was a good idea to take a picture at the US Customs Station so I didn't. But I wrote down the poor translation that was printed on those big metal signs all over the place!

This seems inexcusable at a border crossing where one of the “neighbors” is mainly French with so many people who can translate properly. It seems to demonstrate a certain lack of respect. If you go to the effort of posting signs in French, please do it correctly. It would demonstrate professionalism and respect.

...or is that just me?

What should I do at this point?

For the last 12 years or so I’ve been in some kind of pain. To help me I’ve seen physiotherapists, osteopaths, Heller workers, you name it, and I’ve consulted it!

I'm one who believes in trying different things (to a certain extent). When traditional medicine sometime fell, alternative medicine may prevail. I’m open to suggestion if it will help me in the long run. The Chinese and their herbs and acupuncture have been at it way longer then we have, so I trust their knowledge. At times, maybe more than my regular doctor! He seems so close to anything else that it infuriates me.

My pain travelled through the years; sometimes it was my knee, my jaw, my neck, my side and my back. There’s always something hurting and I’m fed up of it. I want it to stop. For over 20 years I did abuse my body on an almost daily basis. Karate was rough. I got beat up and I know I did a number on my body.

First injury ever incurred because of sport was when I was 16. I broke both my wrists playing basketball. Following that my mother decided that I should give karate a try, since I was thinking of becoming a cop… I tried one class and got hooked.

During all my years of training I’ve been badly bruised more often than I care to remember, blue, green & yellow were common colours on me at the time. I sprained a few toes, fingers, and wrist, had a few black eyes, and only broke one toe – the big one of my right foot. I hit an elbow and the elbow won! It was a nasty fracture, broken at 3 places, but I kept training.

Since Hubby was playing badminton weekly, I joined the club. I really enjoyed it. It was different and my martial reflexes were very helpful on the court. I even decided to participate at tournaments. During one of those local tourney, as I was going for the shuttle when my shoe jammed and my body went one way and my knee the other. End result: thorn meniscus and ACL, but I did get that point! I had reconstructive surgery. Drilling into bone really hurts. During my rehab I saw a physio and an osteo.

Following that, I had lumps on my legs, that nobody could do anything about. They were painful and doctors were “trying” different things on me, but nothing really worked, except acupuncture. Those little needles took care of those lumps, and they never came back.

My neck & lower back were hurting me on a semi-regular basis, and nobody seemed to be able to find the cause of it all. Was it posture, was it due to karate, what? Traditional medicine wasn’t doing anything for me, except prescribe painkillers, which I didn’t really want to take, except when I couldn’t stand the pain any longer. I wanted to know the cause of this pain!

Two years ago the osteopath I was seeing didn’t want to treat me anymore because he felt that my body was fighting against his treatments. He suggested meditation, to learn to really relax and let go. So, I started that. I’ve been doing that for over two years, but the pain is still there. It varies in intensity but it never really goes away. I’m tired.

I’ve been seeing a Heller worker (deep tissue massages) for many years. It helps a lot, but there are areas where he just can’t go in because it hurts too much. We’ve been trying to break some habits I developed because of martial arts. It’s been hard. I got to a point where the pain was too much, so I stopped all sports. I felt that my body needed a break and maybe if I’d stop the pain would go as well. I’ve been stuck in this vicious circle of not training because of pain, and when I do try to get back into it, the pain stops me.

He’s the one that strongly suggested looking into sleep apnea. Some of my symptoms were pointing towards that direction. I had to convince my g.p. in order to get a referal to see a doctor for sleep disorder. Turns out that I do have sleep apnea…

I’ve had this pain on my right side, for quite a while now. Again, my Heller worker, over a year ago or so, asked me if he could discuss my case with an osteo he worked with. At this point, what did I have to lose? I got a little scared when she called me, late one evening, asking a bunch of questions and insisting that I should see my doctor and get some very specific tests. I saw her a few times for treatments, and she seemed to think there was something going on with my organs and my menstrual cycle, which was causing me this side pain.

After overcoming (yet again) the judgement of my very “traditional” g.p. I was sent for a series of tests. Turned out I did have something there: a fairly big cyst on my left ovary. No big deal, a lot of women do. But they would keep an eye on it. The last year I’ve been going for regular check-ups and ultra-sounds at about every three months. They (again!) tried a few things: “try this for a few months, and we’ll see you back in…” Nothing seemed to really affect that thing growing inside my belly, and the pain wasn’t going away either.

On Monday I had an appointment for the results of my last ultra-sound. Within 5 minutes in the doctor’s office I was told that the next step was surgery. They would remove the cyst, the ovary and my uterus (as long as they’re in there). That should take care of it. Naturally they can not guarantee that my pain will go away, but it should…

Friday I talked with a yoga instructor (thinking about starting that, feel the need to stretch) and she suggested to try other options before having my insides cut out. What she said made sense to me, except that the “natural way” is a slow process… and yet again nothing is for sure. Let’s try this, or test that and let’s see what happens… I’m fed up! Can’t anybody understand that? Someone suggested getting a second opinion… ok, but how long will that take? It’s already been too long! I have pain here! I may not complain a lot about it, or show it, but I feel it, I live with it and I am really fed up! I’m done dealing with it.

I’m so fucking fed up of being probed, poked and tested. I want my pain to go away! That’s all! At times like these, I truly understand my father wanting out... Is it ok for me to not want to be tested anymore? I’m not worried about the fact that I won’t be able to ever have kids after the surgery. We weren’t planning any. If the “urge” ever comes, there’s always adoption. Going through the “change” now can be a different story, but there are hormones to take care of that. I'm not happy about being cut open - that's the part that I'm really not looking forward to, but I'm not the first nor will I be the last woman to go through this.

Surgery may not be the best solution, but… at this point it time, I’d say it’s starting to sound damn good…

Hubby is fed up!

Check out his Stink Blog. He sent this long e-mail (in French, we're in Quebec after all) to our City officials...

I love how he enjoys the "turd churning" he does... That 'be my huuusssbbaaannd! My favorite current one!

Did you say a new list?

Yep! I just added a new one to "Did you say list"...

For those of you "music people" who enjoyed this post, check out what I just posted.

You can go directly by the side bar, and have a look at "Tunes That Taught Me Something..."

It was a little harder than I first thought it would be, but still fun!

Votre Friday Smile!

Un vieux couple entre lentement chez McDonald, par une froide soirée d'hiver. Ils se retrouvent attablés parmi un groupe de jeunes familles et de jeunes couples. Plusieurs clients les regardent avec admiration, se disant : "Quelle belle image! Ce vieux couple a dû passer à travers bien des épreuves, depuis au moins 60 ans qu'ils sont ensemble."

Le vieux monsieur se rend directement à la caisse, commande sans hésitation et paie le repas. Le vieux couple choisit alors une table et le vieux monsieur pose son plateau sur la table. Sur le plateau se trouvent un hamburger, un paquet de frites et un Coca-Cola. Le monsieur déballe le hamburger et le coupe précisément en deux. Il en place une moitié devant son épouse. Ensuite il compte soigneusement les frites et en fait deux piles égales et en place une devant sa femme. Il prend une gorgée de Coca-Cola, sa femme en fait autant. Il place le Coca-Cola entre les deux. Quand l'homme commence à manger sa partie de hamburger, les autres clients se disent : "Les pauvres, ils ne peuvent acheter qu'un seul repas pour eux deux."

Quand le vieux monsieur commence à manger les frites, un jeune homme se lève et s'approche de leur table. Un peu gêné, il leur offre poliment de leur acheter un autre repas. Le monsieur lui dit que tout va bien et qu'ils sont habitués à tout partager. Puis les gens s'aperçoivent que la vieille dame n'a encore rien mangé. Elle reste assise, regardant son mari manger sa part en sirotant de temps à autre une gorgée de Coca-Cola.

Encore une fois le jeune homme les supplie de le laisser leur acheter un autre repas. Cette fois c'est la vieille dame qui lui explique que ce n'est pas nécessaire, qu'ils sont habitués à tout partager. Comme le vieux monsieur finit de manger et s'essuie la bouche, le jeune homme n'en peut plus. Il s'approche de leur table pour leur offrir encore une fois de la nourriture. Après qu'ils ont une fois de plus poliment refusé, il demande à la vieille dame: "Madame, pourquoi ne mangez-vous pas? Vous dites que vous partagez tout. Qu'est-ce que vous attendez? "

Et la vieille dame lui répond : J'attends les dents.

***

Have you ever been guilty of looking at others your own age and thinking, "Surely I can't look that old!" Well, you are going to love this one.

I was sitting in the waiting room for my first appointment with a new dentist when I noticed his diploma hanging on the wall. It bore his full name and I suddenly remembered a tall, handsome dark-haired boy with the same name. He had been in my high school class some 40-odd years before and I wondered if he could be the same guy I had a secret crush on way back then?

When I got into the treatment room I quickly discarded any such thought. This balding grey-haired man with the deeply lined face was much too old to have been my secret crush... or was he???

After he examined my teeth I asked if he had attended Morgan Park High School.

"Yes, I did. I'm a Mustang!" He said, gleaming with pride.

"When did you graduate?" I asked.

"1959. Why do you ask?" He answered.

"Well, you were in my class!" I exclaimed.

Then that ugly, old wrinkled son of a bitch asked, "What did you teach?"

***

And finally, I give you, the Four Liquid Stages of Life:

Have a great weekend everyone!

...and don't forget to wear red!

Cut & Colour Today!

Don’t really feel like posting these past few days… don’t really know why. I’ve been reading and commenting on other blogs, but when it comes to writing on mine, I go blank. Not really. I have plenty to talk about, I’m just not sure I want to talk about it.

I’ve been feeling like a multi-coloured mop these past few weeks. Why? Because I so desperately need a haircut and colour it’s not even funny anymore! I get it cut, short, every 4 weeks. I get it coloured every 6 weeks or so. Last time I was at the Salon for anything was on June 1st!!! I’m so overdue!

I feel like Polux. Do you remember or even know Polux The Dog? The main difference between Polux and me is that my hair isn’t straight, and the longer it gets the curlier it wants to be. Plus it’s often in my eyes.

Why so long since my last cut/colour? Early July my hairdresser took a week off to go scuba diving. Then beginning of August she took two weeks off to go ride her motor bike, so... I was left with getting an appointment upon her return, which was yesterday!

Yesterday I was at a client all day, so I “placed” my hair, or if you will “I did everything from straight iron, to gel, to any other product that will keep it looking somewhat decent”, so when Hubby got home he asked if I had my colour redone. Nope! Far from it! Look at it under the light…

This was the second time in less than 4 days that I tell someone that I’m good at “camouflage”. Both, after they’ve seen the light, or “it, under a light” said: “Oooh… I see what you mean”… It’s bad! Janelle (on Big Brother 7) has nothing on me with her dark roots! Trust me! Multi-coloured roots are what I have, or a “reversed Janelle”, if you wish!

I’m (was) naturally dark (dark brown with natural red highlights – that was back then, before the white ones took over!). The last colour I got was a duo-tone type thing: dark base (like black!) and the top a reddish tone. I liked it. My hairdresser (who also a friend from when I was 12) is a funky one, she loves to try new things and I let her, since I enjoy that as well. It’s like trying a new colour paint on a wall; if I don’t like it I’ll get another colour. I feel the same about my hair: it will grow back and I can change the colour.

I just thought of something, just had a flash, I know what my hair looks like at the moment: Dilana’s on Rockstar: Supernova! That’s it! I’m almost as colourful as she is, except that I have lots of natural grey coming out!

Today my day is all about hair! First a good waxing, then make my way upstairs for a good cover all colour and then a much needed cut! Can’t wait to see what she’ll do!

Since I’ve been seeing her, almost 7 years now, she’s done some pretty wild things. The cuts are always short – haven’t had long hair in over 20 years. Let them grow a “little” longer at times, but nothing past my shoulders. I like my hair short and off my neck! As for colour…well… I’ve been thinking blue for a while, maybe this winter I’ll go for it. My hair colour is often season based. I know. Weird. But, I tend to go lighter in the summer or richer tones and colder in the winter… Fall is coming, so maybe copper will be it today…

____

Photo Credit: Polux: lulumoon.canalblog.com
Dilana: Monty Brinton/ CBS Broadcasting Inc. / Mark Burnett Productions

Why?! ...but... why?

Why do they even bother taking a picture? To remind themselves that they were there? Can they recognize themselves? I sort of feel this sadness... or is that anger?

I just don't get it...

Pooch-a-fication: 2 months!

Can you believe that the pooch has been with us for 2 months already? What I thought was going to be for a few weeks is turning into months! Must say that I'm happy about that! She's such a little specimen!

Overall I’d say that she’s doing well. She’s not eating as much as I would like her to, and I think that she might have lost a little weight, but according to Hubby the fact that’s she’s now “exercising” more than she used to, might be contributing to her lean look.

Friday I met S, Hubby’s cousin, for brunch. She made me an offer than I just couldn’t refuse: She wants to be Cathy's dog sitter for a week. Since she already has a boxer and six cats at home, she will take the pooch with her to the cottage. She will work from there and spend time with Cathy. Brutus, their boxer, isn't getting any younger and S wants to know how it would be to own a “small” dog. Dog sitting for the pooch will certainly give her a darn good idea of what to expect. You can't get much smaller than that!

I feel so much better knowing that Cathy will be staying with someone who wants her there, and who will truly care for her. I was afraid that at the spa she might not get all the attention she needs. Not that she has special needs as such, but I'm a little fearful she might "react" to changing house again, in such a short period. At that age, she just might let herself go, stop eating or something and it's not really the way I want her to go.

Since we got her, she has been a light eater. She eats, but really not a lot. She doesn’t eat much out of her bowl, but if we take some kibbles and present them to her in our hand, she will eat them. At the beginning I would say: “If she’s really hungry she’ll eat” and then noticed that she would eat out of Tobi’s bowl, but didn’t really go into hers, unless we were eating ourselves and not giving her anything (yes… she does get some table food, mostly vegetables). It’s probably all out of capriciousness, and I know that, but I’m afraid she might be hungry so I hand feed her… My bad, I know! One thing for sure the end of her life will have been as a “spoiled” pooch!

Friday night we went out for a sumptuous meal at Primo & Secondo, in Little Italy. If you’re ever in the area, it is a must! It is expensive, but it had been a long time since we had such a delicious and tasteful meal in a restaurant. Everything was great, from antipasti to the dolce… Amazing food! (I knew of the place and had been once before: the owner and chef of the restaurant is the brother of a client of mine.)

Hubby had ordered a veal cutlet. The size of that thing! We decided to ask for the bone back, as a treat for the pooch. - Funny fact, the waiters couldn't stop talking about their dogs and how much they loved dogs. They asked questions about the pooch, etc. It was funny, to think that we talked about our dogs like some people talk about their kids! Go figure! -

When we got home, we gave her the bone, which was almost as long as she is. The sounds she made were unbelievable. She truly enjoyed her treat, there’s no doubt there! Later on though the excitement, the seasoning or something must have gotten to her, because by the time I made my way to our bedroom, she had been sick next to her bed.

Her old stomach is getting to be sensitive a little… ahh the pain of growing old!
At least she still has some teeth to crunch away... Not all is lost!

So overall, I feel better knowing that she'll be spending a week with someone who will give her attention and lots of affection (I'm sure!), and she looks like she's doing much better than when we took her in - so all is good I'd say!

The Daughter of a Soldier

I wanted to post the content of an e-mail I received from a friend in Vancouver, whose son is in the Canadian Army. The message she sent was heart warming, especially following the events of last few days…

Her son is in training in Petawawa, Ont. – part of the Canadian Special Operations Regiment. Read more about this regiment here.

Unlike a lot of my American friends I never really felt patriotic as such. Like I wrote in the e-mail I sent out yesterday to a bunch of Canadian friends, I don’t really have an opinion pro or con the military – I do about war, but that’s a whole other story!

I’m “happy” that there are people out there willing to give their life up for our security, I appreciate that, and I’m thankful to all of them.

This is what I sent out yesterday:

Proud to be a Soldier!!! From the daughter of a Soldier. Last week I was at Canadian Forces Base Trenton. Trenton Ontario Canada where I was attending a conference. While I was in the airport, returning home, I heard several people behind me beginning to clap and cheer.

I immediately turned around and witnessed one of the greatest acts of patriotism I have ever seen. Moving thru the terminal was a group of soldiers in their camos, as they began heading to their gate everyone well almost everyone) was abruptly to their feet with their hands waving and cheering.

When I saw the soldiers, probably 30-40 of them, being applauded and cheered for it hit me. I'm not alone. I'm not the only red blooded Canadian who still loves this country and supports our troops and their families.

Of course I immediately stopped and began clapping for these young unsung heroes who are putting their lives on the line everyday for us so we can go to school, work and home without fear or reprisal.

Just when I thought I could not be more proud of my country or of our service men and women a young girl, not more than 6 or 7 years old, ran up to one of the male soldiers. He kneeled down and said "hi," the little girl then she asked him if he would give something to her daddy for her.

The young soldier, he didn’t look any older than maybe 22 himself, said he would try and what did she want to give to her daddy. Then suddenly the little girl grabbed the neck of this soldier, gave him the biggest hug she could muster and then kissed him on the cheek. The mother of the little girl, who said her daughters name was Courtney, told the young soldier that her husband was a Corporal and had been in Afghanistan for 11 months now.

As the mom was explaining how much her daughter, Courtney, missed her father, the young soldier began to tear up. When this temporarily single mom was done explaining her situation, all of the soldiers huddled together for a brief second. Then one of the other servicemen pulled out a military looking walkie-talkie.

They started playing with the device and talking back and forth on it.
After about 10-15 seconds of this, the young soldier walked back over to Courtney, bent down and said this to her, "I spoke to your daddy and he told me to give this to you." He then hugged this little girl that he had just met and gave her a kiss on the cheek. He finished by saying "your daddy told me to tell you that he loves you more than anything and he is coming home very soon."

The mom at this point was crying almost uncontrollably and as the young soldier stood to his feet he saluted Courtney and her mom. I was standing no more than 6 feet away from this entire event unfolded. As the soldiers began to leave, heading towards their gate, people resumed their applause.

As I stood there applauding and looked around, their were very few dry eyes, including my own. That young soldier in one last act of selflessness, turned around and blew a kiss to Courtney with a tear rolling down his cheek. We need to remember everyday all of our soldiers and their families and thank God for them and their sacrifices.

At the end of the day, it's good to be a Canadian. Red Friday Just keeping you "in the loop" so you'll know what's going on in case this takes off. RED FRIDAYS ----- Very soon, you will see a great many people wearing Red every Friday. The reason? Canadians who support our troops used to be called the "silent majority". We are no longer silent, and are voicing our love for God, country and home in record breaking numbers.

We are not organized, boisterous or over-bearing. We get no liberal media coverage on TV, to reflect our message or our opinions. Many Canadians, like you, all our friends, and me simply want to recognize that the vast majority of Canada supports our troops. Our idea of showing solidarity and support for our troops with dignity and respect starts this Friday –and continues each and every Friday until the troops all come home, sending a deafening message that every red-blooded Canadian who supports our men and women afar will wear something red.

By word of mouth, press, TV -- let's make the Canada on every Friday a sea of red much like a homecoming football game in the bleachers. If every one of us who loves this country will share this with acquaintances, co-workers, friends, and family. It will not be long before Canada is covered in RED and it will let our troops know the once "silent" majority is on their side more than ever, certainly more than the media lets on.

The first thing a soldier says when asked "What can we do to make things better for you?" is... We need your support and your prayers. Let's get the word out and lead with class and dignity, by example; and wear something red every Friday.
IF YOU AGREE -- THEN SEND THIS ON. IF YOU COULDN’T CARE LESS THEN HIT THE DELETE BUTTON.. IT IS YOUR CHOICE. THEIR BLOOD RUNS RED - SO WEAR RED! - Lest we Forget, Lest we Forget!

Today, I wore a red T-Shirt.

I got an e-mail from a friend in which he mentioned that the story of the little girl might be a hoax. Darn! I hate that! I don’t know how many times this happened… I’m not vigilant enough for those things.

I read the link he provided. Here it is.

Then I realized that no matter what, for me the main message I wanted to convey by sending this message out yesterday was that if some of us support our troops and chose to wear red on Fridays, why not?

The little girl’s story might have been the way to hook people in, but the fact that some of us do support our troops and might want to show it is the main message I think, and it was the part I wanted to convey.

I have some distant relatives in the military and I hope that they will remain safe as well as D-L’s son...

They have my support.

Happy 6th Anniversary!

Saying "I will" was the best thing you ever did for me!

Happy Anniversary to my favourite husband!

'love ya!

___

Photo: Cupcake

Votre Friday Smile!

All about couples, today! Enjoy!

A couple was celebrating their golden wedding anniversary. Their domestic tranquility had long been the talk of the town. "What a peaceful & loving couple!" A local newspaper reporter was inquiring as to the secret of their long and happy marriage.

"Well, it dates back to our honeymoon," explained the man. "We visited the Grand Canyon and took a trip down to the bottom on the canyon by horse. We hadn't gone too far when my wife's horse stumbled. My wife quietly said, 'That's once'."

"We proceeded a little further and the horse stumbled again. Once more my wife quietly said, 'That's twice.' "We hadn't gone a half-mile when the horse stumbled the third time. My wife quietly removed a revolver from her purse and shot the horse dead.

"I started an angry protest over her treatment to the horse, while I was shouting; she looked at me, and quietly said, 'That's once'.

And we lived happily ever after."

***

Un homme et sa femme sont en train de se chicaner le jour de leur 40e anniversaire de mariage.
Le mari crie :
- Quand tu vas mourir, je vais t’acheter une pierre tombale qui dira : « Ici repose ma femme, froide comme toujours ».

- Oui, répond la femme, quand tu vas mourir, moi je vais en acheter une où on pourra lire : « Ici repose mon mari, enfin dur »...

Bonne fin de semaine tout le monde!

More wedding adventures... Part 2

The dress I chose had to be shipped from Japan. I was at the borderline to be in time for an August wedding. (Since both our birthdays are in winter we wanted to spread the “gift thing” to summer, so August was just the perfect time to get married!).

When they got it in, I was so excited. I was finally going to try on a dress my size that I could fit in and not only visualise how I’d looked in it.

I walked in the changing room and I saw this very wide, white thing hanging. I was thinking it must be the train… Nope! It was the dress, the bodice!!! They made a mistake and ordered a size 24!!! 24!!! It was huge! I put it on, crying, not out of joy but out of fear… was this to be a sign of things ahead? Was I not supposed to be married? They basically had to redo the whole bodice – they had to take more than 2 inches on each side.

I went back a few times, things started to look up, or so I thought. The dress was starting to look like it was meant for my body. After many fittings I was told I culd come for the final fitting and bring it home. The date they gave me was a day prior to our departure for Hawaii! I simply couldn’t believe it! We had talked about sending it with other things for the reception via Fedex, a few weeks prior to our arrival and had arranged everything with our local friends. There was nothing they could do, they were fully booked and their best date was earlier that day, that’s all.

My last day in town had been planned for a while, and I had chores to complete before getting on that plane and standing still with pins and needles being jabbed into my breasts wasn’t one of those! I made my way there for those final adjustments on the said date.

I got there for 10 in the morning and finally left the boutique well after 4 that afternoon. I was so stressed! I rushed all the way to the Fedex’s office to find it closed. I was about ready to break down… Hubby suggested to bring it with us since the rest of the goods had already been sent and received. So, I made my way home and called the airline we were traveling with, “Northworst”, and inquired about the possibility to have it as a carry on. They wouldn’t allow it; it was too big for their closets. Yet another thing! So I painfully made my way to the mall and started to shop for a suitcase that would fit my dress and all wedding attire for both of us. If something wedding related were to be lost, all of it would be, because everything was going to be in that one suitcase! I found one, on sale! Everything barely fit in it, but with a little elbow grease we managed.

It’s a good thing that we are organized people. We had managed to find, on-line, a non-denominational minister, a video and photographer, book our hotel & reception room and select all of our pupus and meals. The first few days after our arrival were to finalised the details, like finding a location, get our licence, meet with the non-denominational minister, see the room where our reception would be held, etc., etc. Thank God for our Hawaiian friend, B, she was (and still is) a gift sent from above!

She had managed to get all our flowers, the rental of equipment for the reception, booked a local singer for our ceremony - she sang the Hawaiian Wedding song and got my dress pressed. The day before Hubby talked with the bellman at our hotel that hooked us up with a limo driver. B was a most valuable contributor to the success of our wedding day. We will always be grateful to her, and the ohana for all that they did for us. It was truly a dream come true.

We selected Magic Island as the location, close to Waikiki and yet quieter. The haku lei she had gotten for me was gorgeous, so well made and so fragrant – simply love pikake! Same for all the leis; we had gorgeous flowers! On this shot you can see in the background, Diamond Head.

Before we started the ceremony, once I made it by the water, I threw a lei in the ocean, for my father. I had seen that being done in a documentary, by friends of a Hawaiian surfer who had drowned. I thought it was so touching. It was my way of having my dad with me on that special moment…

I ask you, is there anything more romantic than being on a beach at sunset? Well, yes there is! Getting married, on a beach, barefoot in the warm sand, while a beautiful sunset is occuring, simply is!


We had about 40 guests in Hawaii. What’s the first thing I did as a married woman? Showed my right cheek to all our guests!

When we had our rings done (Hubby designed mine BTW) we also had something engraved inside that the other didn’t know about. When Hubby told the jeweller what he wanted to be engraved in mine, the jeweller cracked up. I was worried a little.... What could it be? On the video you see us both after the ceremony reading the insides of our rings. When we got to the reception people were asking what was written. When I said “My wildcat forever”, they asked why. I have a tattoo of a wildcat with my name in Japanese, in a kanku (karate sign). Some wanted to see it, so… I obliged! This shot was taken during our reception... can you see the crinoline and the tan line?
What a good time we had!

Then when we got back to Montreal and threw another reception (early September) and re-did our vows, this time in French. About 100 guests and since people wanted to see my dress I wore it a second time! We had such a party. Friends from all over the world came, from Sweden, Germany, England, the States. A great time – we partied well past 3 am!

Oh yeah! I had decided to go with the less expensive of the two dresses (since the other one would have been too much for a beach wedding) and with the extra money I managed to get a “Honeymoon package” without Hubby knowing about it which included a bottle of champagne upon arrival in Maui, candle light dinner for two, a luau and breakfast in bed on our departure day. It was well worth it and I loved my dress! Felt like a bride and that’s what I really wanted!

The end!

Side note: Last year, a cousin of my husband was also getting married on a beach and as a wedding gift; I offered to give her my dress. She accepted. I felt so honoured that she would want it. After a few adjustments, it looked really good and deep down I knew that this dress was meant for wedding(s) on a beach…

The selected dress...

Here it is: This picture was taken by a friend on our way to the bathroom during the Montreal reception.

Also in Montreal, with my hubby!



You may not see it, but the whole bodice as well as the back of the dress were embroidered with delicate little flowers and butterflies... really pretty.

More wedding adventures...

Since I already wrote about the encounter and the proposal I figured I’d write about the rest as well… Plus, on Friday we will be celebrating our 6th wedding anniversary! Already! Time flies when you’re having fun! This will be a 2-part post, since I encountered a few obstacles along the way before making it to the beach.

The night I proposed was also the night where we decided when & where we would do it. We knew that in August we would be attending a karate seminar in Hawaii, so it seemed like a logical thing to combine the two.

We both knew that we wanted to get married on a beach, a simple and casual affair. We wanted to be comfortable as well as our guests, if we had any. We talked about different options and started to look at what was available. We wanted it to reflect the location as well.

My parents loved Elvis, and my father’s favourite movie was “Blue Hawaii”, he would always say how he’d like to see that place one day. It sounded so far away and exotic with their ukulele music and let’s not forget the hula dancers! I have watched that movie so many times, and never get tired of it, especially the wedding scene at the end, with Elvis all dressed in whites and all the flowers, it was so lush and gorgeous… ahhh! If only….

Talking with our Hawaiian friend I had mentioned how I loved that scene and she told me that it was actually the traditional Hawaiian wedding attire for men to be dressed in white with a bright colour sass. She explained their traditions, like the lei exchanges, etc. I thought it was all so nice and meaningful. Hubby knew he didn’t want to wear a suit & I wanted something simple.

A friend had offered to make me a dress. Choosing a pattern wasn’t easy. I didn’t want a summer dress as such, but didn’t want it too chic either. I wanted it to feel special. I was going to be a bride after all! Once she was done with it, I came to realise that it wasn’t what I wanted. I didn’t like the way it looked or felt. I wasn’t feeling “bridish”! I was so sad, all this work for nothing! I still didn’t know what I was going to wear! This was in February/March. I had some serious shopping to do!

I wanted to share the shopping experience with my mother. Which bride to be wouldn’t, right? I asked her if she would come with me. This was roughly a year after my father’s death. She was hesitating… Since she lives one hour away from Montreal her boyfriend, G., had to drive her – she doesn’t drive in town – and he couldn’t just drop her off, go home and come back later to pick her back up. That wasn’t an option. She didn’t want me picking her up at the house or even somewhere half way. G would drive her to the bridal shops area, park the car and wait for her to be done. I was dumbstruck!

I was already having somewhat of a hard time coping with the idea that he was living in my parents house – he moved in July, 3 months after my father’s death as a “boarder” –he used to be a close friend of my dad. My father would often tease my mother saying “ahh! You’ll be ok after I’m gone. G will take care of you. He’ll be a good man for you!”

G would wait while we shopped? Really? In the middle of winter? It didn’t make sense. I didn’t want to shop with this feeling of having to rush because he was waiting for her, even if she was insisting that he really didn’t mind waiting at all. I minded! We argued and then I told her to forget about it. I would ask a friend. I was hurt and couldn’t understand her reasoning, if any. Whatever thoughts I had about the two of us becoming closer after my father’s death became null.

I went shopping with a karate friend, M, then went back with another friend, L, who eventually I asked to be my matron of honour.

What a nightmare shopping was!

I’m tall and big or if you’d like “strongly built”. Every store I went to I felt like this huge mama coming in and when I would say what I was looking for I got looks as if I was the strangest person they ever encountered. I wasn’t quite sure what I wanted BUT I knew what I didn’t want:
a) no ass bow,
b) nothing shiny or pearl like,
c) no veil, and
d) no sleeves or gloves.

The salesladies were so rude. I walked in a boutique, they barely looked at me and before I even had a chance to look at anything said: “We don’t carry anything above a size 10”. OK then! Let’s move on. At another boutique I was asked if I was planning to loose some weight? WTF? I couldn’t believe it. L was furious. It only got worst after that. One place when I told the sales person, who wasn’t all that small herself, that I was looking for a size 14 without the big ass bow, no sequence, etc. she rolled her eyes and said: “Good luck finding that in your size.” What, chubby people don’t get married in your world? I was flabbergasted!

I was so discouraged… what I thought would be a fun filled event was turning into “the nightmare on St-Hubert’s street!” L is an accountant, so shopping with her was all about numbers. She would keep me on track in regard to my non-existent budget. We had decided to do 2 more places. I was about ready to quit.

We walked in “Oui, je le voeux…” and were greeted with a smile! Wow! What a nice change! That boutique’s concept is recycled gowns. You can rent or buy new if you wish (I did!). The saleslady listened while I complained about horribly I was treated everywhere else. She was so helpful, funny and she knew her stuff! She made me try 2 dresses; one I liked. I was feeling a bit awkward about the “recycled” thing so I told L we would do one more place – the last one.

That boutique was the total opposite; look wise, of the previous one. The staff was nice and their dresses! To die for! And then L looked at the price tag! Ouch! Serious pain in the wallet!

Unlike me, L would rationalize the expense. She would go with the other one, and spend the money elsewhere, like on the honeymoon. Her arguments made sense to me… Knowing myself I knew I would feel guilty for having spend that much on a dress that only a few weeks ago I wanted "simple and casual"! I was stuck and really didn’t know what to do. Went back and forth, thinking that I would only get to do this once (at least, that’s the plan anyway!), so why not indulge? We went back to “Oui, je le voeux…”, tried the one I like again and felt like crying.
I was so lost. So I called Hubby. He said: “We’re only doing this once, so get the one YOU want!”.

I did.

___

Photo: Blue Hawaii Wedding Scene

That’s what you call "Feline Profile!

I just had to post this picture of our beloved Tobi, the king of this house (as far as cats go).

Since the pooch moved in, the cat’s behaviour didn’t change that much. He’s getting used to having her around, and actually because Cathy (pooch) follows me everywhere I go, Tobi is getting a little more adventurous.

BP (Before Pooch) Tobi had to be dragged out. Literally! He’s a house cat and damn it he was staying in! That wasn’t our choice that was his! We would sit outside, on the deck; he would lie by the patio door. Every so often he’d act as if he’d wanted to come out, but if we were to open the door he’d run away from the door. We did manage on a few occasions to bribe him out, but not for long. If that door was closed behind him he would meow his head off until we’d open it. He wanted the option to go freely, which wasn’t an option we are offering. You’re either in or out.

On the front porch he would come but after long negotiations and coaxing. Once out, he would roll around the cement and all, but as soon as he’d heard an unknown noise he’d rush back in.

We weren’t really displeased with this behaviour of his, since we could leave either door opened and not worry where the cat would go. That was in BP time.

Nowadays it is a little bit different, little being the key word here. Since pooch needs to go out regularly for her business I will sit in the steps while we walks around in the grass. Every time I’d go out, I would ask Tobi along. He would hide behind the door, probably watching us through the blind or something, and run off as soon as I would open the door. The last week or so Tobi started to meow in the morning, he wants out. So I let him. He rolls around on the landing and then goes back inside with the pooch when she’s done.

Now he’ll have to adjust his finicky attitude when presented something to eat. He just has to smell it, rub a little on it, smell it some more, wonder if he should or not… well that was in the BP area. We now have a four-legged “Dirt Devil”! If anything is dropped she will swallow it faster than any vacuum! OK, first she has to find it, but once she saw it, it’s gone! So whenever we present a treat to the cat, he now has to react, because I think he’s starting to realise that the noisy four-legged micro vacuum will come and snatch it right under his nose. It has happen a few times and the look of surprise or dismay on his face is simply hilarious. What’s even more funny is how totally oblivious Cathy is to all that.

'Got to love 'em!

Surviving Suicide - Part 2

When I decided to tell my father’s story it surely wasn’t because I was looking for sympathy. I wanted people to know, to maybe relate, but mostly I wanted you all to understand. People have very closed minds when it comes to suicide. It is such a taboo. I never really understood why.

The worst part about all this came after it was all done. When the realisation kicked in.

The stress of worrying about all the “if’s” and the “when’s” was finally over. He had really done it. For years, every time the phone would ring after 10pm my heart would skip a beat. Had he done it? Then I would feel worst about it when I would catch myself thinking “no, not this time…” The not knowing “when” aspect was the rough part. I almost felt like a very pregnant woman who can no longer bare the weight (or the wait) and just want “that thing out”. I wanted it to be done. And when it finally happened, oh how I wished I could all undo it.

The night my father died I stayed with my mother at the house. She wanted to stay there because she felt that if she’d left she wouldn’t be able to come back there again.

I made all the dreaded calls to relatives and friends. I was blunt. He was dead. What else was I suppose to say? Once the shock factor had pass, people often inquired about how we were doing, etc. Some had the courage to ask how he died. I would simply say, “He shot himself”.

Because they were living in a village the rumour mill was working full capacity. They had seen the ambulance, the many police cars, etc. so some nosey neighbours just couldn’t resist the temptation. They just had to drop by. Unlike my mother, I don’t care too much about keeping up appearances. I really don’t care what people think, and they seldom do, anyway.

Since my parents had owned and operated a restaurant in the area for a few years, the locals knew them. They had friends among them as well. Or so they thought.

When my father came out of his therapy (that January) his whole demeanour had changed. He wasn’t the same man. Once very aggressive and opinionated he had become this old man awaiting his death. My mother on the other hand has always been the more “lively” of the two. She always loved to have people over, to play games, etc. She enjoyed life and it showed. She had mentioned that some of their friends weren’t visiting as much and it upset her. Even my father would say that he was driving their friends away. When he most needed to be with happy people, with friends, they went MIA.

That night a couple with whom they played cards dropped by. They had heard the news. They seemed like nice people. My mother and I weren’t agreeing about where the funerals should be held. I wanted him back in Montreal where we had lived most of our lives. They had only been there 7 years. They made the mistake of asking me why not in the village? Because when he was alive nobody gave a shit about how he was doing or visiting him. It was so depressing to be around him when he was down like that. That’s why. He was going to be even more depressing now that he was dead. I didn’t want his supposedly friends to fake feeling sorry for him or even worst, us! Fuck them and their fake obligated sympathy.

The lady was a bit offended and said that I had to understand. I told her that I didn’t owe any explanation or understanding to anybody in this village. If people really wanted to see him, they would make their way to the city.

They were the first of many that I would tell off.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I had too many things on my mind. I made my way to the kitchen and wrote a letter to my father and the world. I knew we were about to face some serious criticism and inconsiderate comments. Who are we to judge others? What greater knowledge do we possess or what great truth do we hold, so that we can judge someone? I “borrowed” the following phrase from an e-mail I received following Part 1: “…we must acknowledge that depression sometimes can be a terminal illness.” It is so true, and yet, we, as a society, are in complete denial about it.

One of my dad’s brothers had already said that we were wrong in allowing him to do such a horrible thing. It wasn’t right and we should have had him sent somewhere where he would have been locked up or something. We simply had to force him. I told that uncle that HE had no right to judge us in ANY way since he didn’t live with him nor had he been around for him. It was my father’s decision. Not my mother’s, not mine. His and his alone. It might have been wrong. But who was I to decide that? I had to deal with his death and really didn’t care for the stigma associated with the way he died.

In a way I understood where my uncle was coming from. You see one thing I didn't write in Part 1 is that my dad’s death wish was there since a young age. His first suicide attempt was made when he was 14. He had shot himself in the neck with a .22

In 1992 was the first time when I really confronted him about it. It wasn’t a good moment. I had told him to get over this or to do it, but to stop threatening us with his wanting to die crap. I didn't want to hear about it anymore.

In 1994, he drove his truck into a wooded area near their house, and connected a garden hose to the exhaust pipe. Somebody found him and brought him home, he was unconscious. He was hospitalised after that for 1 month, doing therapy etc. He was even more depressed after that, always saying that he couldn't even kill himself.

From that time on he and I got closer in some ways. We started to talk openly about his wanting to die. Unlike my mother, who's more the type that says if you don't address it should eventually go away, who was more trying to fix things when they couldn't be, or actually didn't want to be. It wasn't always easy, there were a lot of issues, but I did "clean up" everything that I could.

My father was the 15th child of the family. Among those, 3 had also committed suicide and there's 2 that "might of" (they had cancer, and might of taken too many pills...). Depression is running wild on my father’s side, and it is also a part of me. I've never contemplated suicide but I did fight depression.

I'm just grateful I had those 5 extra years with him. I think I would have been really messed up if he would have been successful it in 1992.

For this blog I will translate the letter that I wrote the night he died, and read during his service. A copy of it was also sent with all thank you cards we sent out. I wanted to make sure that everyone was aware of how I felt about my father’s way to go.

I want to address my father and all the people who were lucky enough to know him.

Dad, first of all I want you to know that never I will hold what you did against you. I want to thank you for setting us free. You were aware of our pain like we were of yours. We tried to help you, but you had decided otherwise. Despite all our love, which wasn’t enough, you weren’t feeling right. Despite being a loud mouth, and with your hurtful words at times, despite all that you were a good man. You loved us and would show it regularly, your way, the way you could. ‘Love you dad!

For those of you who don’t understand or accept what he did, it’s simply because you didn’t know him, or at least not that much. I’m not asking you to forgive what he did, but I would rather ask you to accept him for the man he was.

My father loved nature. He was a hunter and his last prey was his despair, that sadness he had deep down in his soul. Like the true hunter that he was, he shot his prey with precision, straight through the heart.

Despite the sadness I feel today, I came to realise, a little too late, how much I loved my old man. He will be missed. He left way too early, but I can only admire his strength and courage because he did it with dignity, like a man!

Mom, it won’t be easy, but dad will help us. He will give us the courage to continue and like you told me, you didn’t completely loose him, I have his bad tempter. You’ll see, we’ll be ok!

Thank you all for coming and offering us your support in this difficult time. I would also like to thank my dad for gathering us all and for loving us.

Goodbye dad, take care, keep an eye on us and never forget that I love you.

I feel that we did deal with it the best way that we could have. My mom still struggles about certain things, because unlike me, she never frankly, openly, talked with him. I guess she always hoped he would change his mind.

I'm not saying it was easy, because it wasn't. So many times I've asked myself what could have been done differently, etc. But a part of me is at peace with it. I did my best and let him decide.

That's all I could do…

Can of Worms

A minister decided that a visual demonstration would add emphasis to his Sunday sermon.

Four worms were placed into four separate jars.

The first worm was put into a container of alcohol.

The second worm was put into a container of cigarette smoke.

The third worm was put into a container of chocolate syrup.

The fourth worm was put into a container of good clean soil.

At the conclusion of the sermon, the Minister reported the following results:

The first worm in alcohol - Dead.

The second worm in cigarette smoke - Dead.

Third worm in chocolate syrup - Dead.

Fourth worm in good clean soil - Alive.

So the Minister asked the congregation - What can you learn from this demonstration?

Maxine was setting in the back, quickly raised her hand and said,

"As long as you drink, smoke and eat chocolate, you won't have worms!"


Don't you just love little old Maxine.

I sure do - Thanks Barb!

Surviving Suicide - Part 1

When I read, “Have you ever known anyone who has committed suicide?” on GG’s blog Wednesday, it stirred a lot of mixed emotions. And when I read some of the comments she got, it stirred some more.

Yes I have known some people who committed suicide. One of them was my father.

How do I start this post? By explaining how he was? By trying to fight those judgemental comments people make? How? By telling the “back story” as Whinger wrote? I don’t really know. I am not even truly aware of what I want to say or explain here…

My father made all the decisions in our lives. He knew what he did and did not want and never really left anything to chance. He wasn’t really lucky anyway! He planned things ahead of time, always foresaw the worst and was always expecting the other shoe to drop. He even decided how and when he would die. That was just the type of man he was. I never thought my father was crazy. Nor did I ever think he was a coward. He wasn’t a big man, but he had balls! And I always admired him for that.

No subject were taboo in our house, none! We could talk about anything and we did. We would talk openly about his desire to put an end to his life. It wasn’t even morbid. It was a conversation, where we negotiated, argued, cried at times, but we talked it through.
I know it may sound weird to many of you, but we talked about his different options. What he wanted us to do after his death. Thinking about it gives me goose bumps. The kind you get when you feel a bug crawling up your arm or leg… It’s light and you barely feel it, but it’s there, and you know it!

A few weeks prior to his death, we went to my folks for Easter dinner (April 4th, 1999). Anybody present could see that my father wasn’t doing too well. He was sad and it showed. He would sit in his rocker, looked at me and cried. He was so depressed. We didn’t know what to do. I hadn’t been there since Christmas. It was too hard for me to see him that way, so I kept away. At one point my mother told me to ask him anything I wanted to know he would answer. Earlier in the year, he had been out doing a “closed therapy” that had shook him up badly. He had some repressed memories that he had to deal with, and he was having a real hard time doing it. He was also on medication, but he wasn’t being followed properly. So some days he would be totally stoned out of his tree, and other days he would just sit there or sleep. It was so sad to see him disintegrate that way. He wasn’t eating much. He was slowly dying.

That night we talked. I did ask him questions I never thought I would ever ask him. My father was abusive, verbally and physically. His words were his most hurtful weapons. He could destroy you with them. I wanted to know why he had hit me. It is not like I had my daily or weekly “whoop-ass”, no, I would get hit when I “deserved” it, and to this day I have no issue with that. What I had a harder time understanding was the way he would hit me. He would lose control. So I asked him why? He sat there for a while, crying, and I could see in his eyes that he didn’t know the reason why, other than he was reproducing what he had learned from his parents. He knew it was wrong and was remorseful. Somehow, for some strange reason, I understood him. I knew deep down in my soul that my father really did love me. He wanted the best for me and would have done anything to give it to me. …And he did. Despite his anger, I knew that he loved me. I know it is strange; it’s even stranger to write it. But I always felt love and that was and still is so valuable to me.

I talked about the scars he had left on my soul. Those scars that made me afraid to have children. Those blemishes that made me feel insecure at times, and so afraid. We talked openly. At least I did. I wanted him to know how I felt, the effects it had on me, and how I was marked for life. How his threats had managed and controlled so many of my actions. I wanted his reign of terror to be over. He did too. He wanted the pain, all of our pains to stop. He couldn’t bare it any longer.

I understood that despite being successful in business; he owned stores and restaurants; despite being in a good marriage and despite having me, the daughter he always wanted and was proud of, he was hurting so deeply that nothing we could do or say would make him feel better. I realised it wasn’t about my mother, or me, it was all about him. He couldn’t fathom hurting us more than he already had. He could see how he was affecting us and out of devotion for both of us he wanted out. I had to respect that. That night I told him I was ready to let him go. I didn’t want him to suffer any longer. If I could have brought him to the vet to have him put under, I would have done it. I would not let any pet of mine suffer a quarter of what my father seemed to be suffering. His pain was visible. And yet I could not do a single thing about it…

When came time for us to leave, I got up, walked up to him, held his face between my hands and told him that despite everything I loved him and I wanted him to be alright. I wasn’t resentful in any way. I forgave him. He was my father and would respect whatever decision he would make. He could count on me. I would respect his wishes.

That was the last time I saw him alive.

The following Sunday my mother called me, late at night, in tears. He had taken his riffle out. She wasn’t scared for herself, but she was livid at the idea that he might do something. The next morning I called my therapist and told him what was happening. He strongly suggested that I stayed home and not to make my way to my parents. My therapist bluntly told me he was afraid I would do something I might regret … He was afraid I would help my father commit suicide. When he said that I became aware that he was completely right. I had reached my limit.

I called my father and had a long conversation with him. I made him promise that he wouldn’t do anything in the house; I knew my mother would want to stay there and finding him in the house would make it impossible for her to live there. I didn’t want him to shoot himself in the head; I would be the one cleaning up after him, and I wanted to see him in his coffin. He said he wouldn’t do anything in the house and whatever he would do, would be clean. He was down but calm. He was fully aware of what he was about to do. It wasn’t a spur of the moment thing. It was a well planned operation.

The Wednesday afternoon he went to see a fortune teller who told him that if he was to choose to live he would have a long life. But he had to decide that he wanted to live. As he was leaving she also told him that whatever he would decide, it had to be clean.

When I spoke with him that night he told me about the fortune teller. I simply told him that he had a choice. He didn’t have to do anything. He could choose to live and be happy if he wanted. He laughed and said that he knew all that. He told me that he loved me.

That was the last time I spoke with my dad.

On Thursday I made a last plea to my mother. I offered to go pick her up and to leave him alone for a few hours. We needed to give him time to do what he had to do. She categorically refused. She wasn’t letting him go. She didn’t want him to go. She loved him and wanted him around. I had tried but couldn’t insist. I made her promise that if she was to come home and he was not in the house, she wouldn’t go and look for him. She argued with me and I told her that the shock of finding him dead somewhere, who knew in what condition might be enough to destroy her emotionally. I would have to cope with my father’s death, and very selfishly wanted my mother by my side. She had agreed not to look for him.

Saturday morning, April 17th, 1999, my father got up as usual. He made his way down to the kitchen and started to cry. My mother tried to console him and reassured him that they could make it through this. He didn’t have to do this... He was only crying and repeating “You have no idea how hard it is for me. What I’m about to do is so hard… I know I’m hurting you, and that’s not what I want.” At some point my mother recalls telling him that she was letting him go if that’s really what he wanted.

At around 11:30 he told my mother that he felt like a toasted tomato sandwich, but on store bought bread. My mom bakes her bread weekly. Since he wasn’t eating much anymore, she offered to go to the grocery store and get him some bread. He got up and gave her a two-dollar bill. She got dressed and left without giving him a kiss. My parents always kissed each other when one of them would go somewhere. Dad would take out the garbage and before going out he would kiss her. They always did that. That morning she didn’t.

She left him alone for about 13 minutes. Just long enough for him to take care of business.

When she came back home and didn’t see him downstairs she immediately knew. She went upstairs looked in the closet where they kept their riffles and his wasn’t there. She went to their bedroom; saw that he had emptied his pockets, fast. Everything had been thrown on the night table. He had removes his wedding band and his other ring as well as his chain and his watch. He didn’t trust the people who might find him. His jacket, his hat and his boots were not in the entrance’s closet. She knew. She called a neighbour and asked him if he had seen my father. He had not. Did he hear a loud sound? He had. She asked him to come over; her husband might have shot himself. Then she called a friend and told him the same thing. She kept her promise. She waited for those two poor men to show up and she told them to go see in the shed next to the house. That is where they found my dad. He was already dead. Then she called me and only said when I answered the phone “Come over, it’s done. He did it.”

My father died at approximately 11:50 that morning. One shot through the heart. He also kept his promise. He did it in a really clean fashion. He had put a tarp over the floor, and sat on it. There was no mess as such… only a tarp to pick up.

When I saw him at the morgue that afternoon, the look on his face… was heartrending. I could tell he was crying when he pulled that trigger. He seemed so inconsolable. You could see, almost feel his pain and his desolation…

To this day, I see his face, that look he had at the morgue, and it still hurts…

Your Friday Smile!

Woman's Yearly Exam:

I went to the doctor for my yearly physical. The nurse starts with certain basics.

How much do you weigh?" she asks.

"115," I say. The nurse puts me on the scale. It turns out my weight is140.

The nurse asks, "Your height?" "5 foot 8," I say.

The nurse checks and sees that I only measure 5' 5".

She then takes my blood pressure and tells me it is very high.

"Of course it's high!" I scream, "When I came in here I was tall and slender! Now I'm short and fat!"

She put me on Prozac.

***

Canada Pension Plan

Having reached the age of 62, I went to apply for Canada Pension last week.

After waiting in line for a very long time, I finally got to the counter. The woman there asked me for my driver's license to verify my age. I looked in my pockets and realized, to my great dismay, that I had left my wallet on the nightstand in my bedroom.

I told the lady that I was very sorry, but I seemed to have left my wallet at home. "I'll have to go get it and come back later," I said. At that point, she said to me, Unbutton your shirt."
I was confused, but I opened my shirt, revealing lots of curly silver hair.
She said, "That silver hair on your chest is proof enough for me," and, with that, she promptly processed my application.

When I got home, I couldn't wait to tell my wife about my experience at the Canada Pension Office.

She listened to the whole story and then said, "You should have dropped your pants. You might have gotten disability, too."

Have a great weekend everyone!

More heat than power!

The sky was low and heavy with pending rain. The air was motionless and thick as molasses. All felt sticky and looked eerie. I made my way to my class thinking that the sky could open up at any moment. During class the lights flickered a few times. We could hear the trees rustling, it was quite windy out there. Then the rain started. Hard. It sounded like pellets were hitting the windows. By the time I left, Mother Nature had calmed down a little.

While heading home, I was surprised to notice how dark everything was. Power was out. Again. But not in the sky! Despite not having streets lights, the lightening was making everything bright as a full moon does. The closer I was getting home, the darker it was getting. Along the way I could see that big buildings only had their emergency lights on. Everything else was pitch black… At times the sky was so lit up it looked like when there’s fireworks – we were given a free show of natural fireworks, but colourless!

The suburb where we live is quite unstable. As soon as it is a bit windy the power goes off. Since everything was out, I took the “back way” home, i.e. little streets instead of using the boulevard. I’ve realised a while ago that drivers forget their basic driving rules when power is out. It’s almost as if their brainpowers are out as well! They simply forget where the street lights are, they forget that they have to stop on a flashing red or like last night, even if it’s not flashing. They forget all about being courteous : no electricity = no manners! A big free for all!
So, by using the little streets, which were VERY dark, I only had stop signs & less people. It was strange to see everything so dark except for those small solar lawn lights along some pathways. Something to be said about solar energy!

When I finally made it home, after struggling to find the right key and aligning it when I could hardly see my hand in front of my face, I was welcomed with the smell of my Honey Dew candles. Hubby had lit all he could find. The house was still cool. That was at 10pm. Hubby had made dinner; improvised tuna salad – he cooks on nights I have classes. We ate by candlelights, the he brought down my laptop and two shows he had previously recorded on DVD. We watched “Hell’s Kitchen” and “Supernova” while I was preparing and chopping a big bag of rhubarb that a client had given me earlier that day.

Growing up I often heard my parents say, “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity”... At the time all I knew or cared about was the fact that it was summer and the hotter the better. I’m older now… I do care!

Yesterday was a damn hot day in Montreal. The temperature was at 35°C (95°F) at 9 pm and with the humidex factor it was 44°C (111.2°F)… I wanted that rain and that cool breeze after a good storm, but it wasn’t there. By the time we went to bed the house was no longer cool. We opened some windows and lay there hoping for a breeze… nothing! Rien du tout! The only good thing was that I enjoyed falling asleep with the sounds of the crickets. It felt like camping, but only in the comfort of our home.

Our whole area was out, "major power outage" as Hydro Quebec said on their recorded message. I wrote this post on paper first, I actually enjoyed that! Had to wear a watch all day. Went for Dim Sum for lunch with Hubby who came home early from his client. It felt like we were playing hooky… but we were only powerless!

Our power was out for over 17 hours. And when it came back I fell asleep on the couch reading…

___

Photo: Thunderstorm

Health Updates (for both the pooch and myself)

It has been a while since I wrote anything about the Pooch, and since yesterday I had a doctor’s appointment re. the sleep apnea I figured I’d make one entry for both bitches in the house!

Downtown Montreal at the moment is pretty hectic, between having streets closed for different festivals and the never-ending road works driving downtown is… let’s just say challenging. So, after farting my way to the Montreal Chest Institute and finding (expensive) parking I made it to the clinic. The reception area at the clinic is a glass wall with 2 little holes covered with some type of wire mesh – basically only sound (and germs) can go through. It looks a bit like some banks do. That place is very busy. I had only been there once before. Here you’ll have to excuse me but I have a need to vent a little.

On my first visit I had to go to the admission office to get my hospital card and for them to give me a file (filled with blank papers), then back to reception to take a number and wait. When my number got called, I handed the file and hospital card and then they sent me to another floor for a chest x-ray. At the radiology dept. the receptionist asked for the card (that they kept downstairs), looked in the system and told me to have a seat. Waited there some again, when finally a nurse saw me and told me I had to announce myself. I guess communication between front and back wasn’t on that day. I was called in for the x-ray, told to re-dressed and go back down. When I got back down I had to ask if I was supposed to take yet another number or simply sit and wait. I was told to wait. Then the doctor called me in, blah, blah, blah.

Yesterday was the follow-up appointment about my sleepless night at the Sleep Clinic.

Since this was only my second visit, I wasn’t sure how to proceed, so I asked one of the ladies (behind the glass wall) if I had to go back to Admission or simply take a number and wait. She looked puzzled, and then it started:

Lady: Do you have your file?
Stinkypaw: No, not with me…
L: Then you need to go to Admission to get it and your hospital card
S: But I have my card…
L: So you have your file?
S: No, I have a file, here, but I don’t have it with me…
L: I don’t understand…
S: I came here a few weeks ago, got a card & file.Today is a follow-up, so I have my card but you should have my file.
L: But I asked you if you had it
S: You asked me if I had my file, I don’t. I have A file.
L: ... I'll take your card...

That conversation was confusing and if this lady doesn’t know the difference between a card and a file, no wonder our medical system is as messed up as it is! So I sat there and waited. Dr. Z (funny name, isn’t it, for a doctor specializing in sleep disorders?) showed up, after his rounds, and called me in – I was first! Woohoo!

Blah, blah, blah, looks at my file, takes a few notes, and then looks at the report for the Sleep Clinic. Turned out that despite my lack of sleep and the technician statement the test was conclusive. During the night I went into REM sleep (deep sleep where your body and brain completely relax and dreams occur) at three different times: once at around 1am, 3am and 5am. I knew that at 5:30 when I was woken up I was sleeping well. During those 3 times you could see on the chart that there was little episodes of apnea. So, the doctor was right, not the technician. Go figure!?

Since I only got the CPAP last week I didn’t get a full printed report showing my “episodes” (provided by the company where I got the machine from), which the doctor wanted. BUT every morning I did note the data provided by the CPAP and brought it to Dr. Z. He was happy about the results. For the last 3 mornings when I wake up I don’t have a headache, which had been the case for a while now. Already the machine is helping me and that’s a good sign. He wants to see me again with a printed report in a month. He gave me a paper where he wrote that, and said: “ahh, shouldn’t have written that on there, it will confuse them up front. Just tell them it’s a note for you.”
Sure enough, I make my way to reception to book my next appointment and I see that the lady is wondering about what he wrote, so I tell her that is it a note to remind me to bring my report. What does she do? Calls the doctor, who didn’t sound to please!

Lady: Is Sept. 1^st ok?
S: Sure
L: Is 2:10pm ok?
S: Do I have a choice?
L: …humm… not really…
S: Then why offer?
L: … (confused look on her face)
S: It’s perfect!
L: Oh! Thank you!

When I told Hubby about it he simply said that I was mean to play with their brain that way. Mean? Me? Naaah!

Now about the pooch! On July 18^th I went to the vet to get her “evaluated”. I needed to know if I was getting attached and hopeful for nothing, so brought her in for a little check-up.

She weights 7.4 lbs. Her lumps are breast tumours, but their not malignant; if they were she’d be dead by now. She can still be in “heat” and have her periods, basically until she dies. Unlike us, they don’t go into “menopause”… He did some stool analysis and some blood tests. According to him she’s good for another 20 years. Yeah ok!

At one point he took her back to clip her nails, and came back in the office where I was waiting, and said “She’s go character the little one. She just bit a technician” – that’s my girl!

Here’s a picture of her, sleeping (like she is now) on the office floor, while I’m sitting at my desk. I put my foot next to her for you to realise how small she is. She’s just a micro dog with macro attitude as Hubby often says.

We will be going away for a week and she’ll be staying at a spa-chalet (for pets). We went to check out the place, seems ok and the owner really seems to enjoy pets. Cathy, the pooch, isn't welcome everywhere because she never receieved a shot - my parents didn't believe in that, so the kennel option was out of the running, as well as a lot of other places. I could only find 2 places where they would accept her as is, if I sign a disclaimer... And at the spa the lady told me that they will take her since the big Holiday rush will be over by then. A lot of little issues with that pooch...

I must say that it worries me a little, yet another change for her. I hope she doesn’t regress, but we don’t really have a choice. We can’t take her with us, and I don’t want my mom to take her for that week, that would just confuse her even more. Especially that my mom’s place is no longer the place that she has known as home… I’m trying to wean her off my mother, so exposing her back to my mom I think would only “relapse” her, and I don’t want that.

So many things to think of... and it's only a freakin' dog! At times like these I sure don't regret not wanting a kid... the worrying I would do... ahhh! Much better this way! ...for me at least!