Head Case

So here's the thing. We learned a couple of years ago that my sister had a brain tumor that we would later come to find included stage 3 cancer. Her prognosis was poor and she was preparing for the worst while hoping for the best.

Over a year later she has a new, optimistic prognosis and is well on her way to recovery. So we're writing her story. Which means one more blog.

I have Intermittent Tappings of a Wordpecker where I write about the world I see. I have a private blog - Uncivilized Me - that captures my most intimate thoughts - thoughts not fit for public consumption. My sister and I have now built BigBrainInc on Wordpress to build her book and tell her story.

So what?

So during this project, Intermittent will be just that. Things I feel I need to share with and about the world I live in. Uncivilized will continue to serve as an outlet for my most deeply personal experiences...a way for me to remember some important developments in my inner life. My diary so to speak.

Stick with me bloggers and followers. I promise to check in, but be patient as I venture down a new path. My sister's story would be the first telling I have ever attempted. It is important to me to do it justice. I promise to keep you apprised of our progress.

Still drinking coca cola? Watch this!

I've been living in my head lately, posting often to my private blog with little consideration for my conversation with the world I live in.

Then I stumbled across his video and thought...Yah...let's rag on Coca Cola.

In previous blogs I have talked about my immense loathing for Coca Cola. They are not good global citizens. They pirate resources in collaboration with corrupt governments of underdeveloped countries and replace fresh water with coca cola stands for nations that need nourishment.

I have a real hate on for Coca Cola. They lack conscience. My blog, my topic. Sorry.

Check out the video, brush your teeth, be sure to floss and...oh yeah...stop drinking coca cola.

A Message from the Universe

Change will not come if we wait for some other person or some other time. We are the ones we've been waiting for. We are the change that we seek.

~ Barack Obama

I won't say I was struggling with a decision when I saw it, but I was thinking long and hard about something in my life.  I'm pretty slow to make big decisions if there is no urgency involved.  I like to know that I gave these decisions proper and thorough consideration...especially when the decision may impact others.  I get embarrassed sometimes because I feel as though I have this inflated sense of self...like MY decision has a lot more weight than it truly does.  I suppose some of that is just the burdensome responsibility that comes with being a single parent. I am not so arrogant to believe that my decision will change the world...but the big ones often change my world...so that's enough reason for me to give thoughtful consideration to things.

Laugh if you will but when I am really labouring over a problem, I pray for guidance and then I watch for signs.  I listen intently to what others are saying...or not saying.  I pay attention to what song plays on the radio when I'm thinking about my issue.  I pay closer attention to random messages in my everyday -- street signs, newspaper ads, advertisements in windows, greeting cards, news stories, banter on the radio.  It's like an awakening I think, when you open yourself up to world around you after you throw out a simple S.O.S. to the cosmos.  So when I saw it, I knew my decision was made. 

As I left the office, I saw in the sky a Phoenix.  It could not be missed.  The timing was perfect.  I get that it's a cloud, but in that moment, at a time in my life I needed to "see" something, THAT cloud became a message that promised rebirth.  It was relevant and it was timely and it was obvious.   Some will poo, poo this as a coincidence, but it doesn't matter to me because I had asked for guidance and I saw it in the sky.  If you don't ask, you don't get -- so...in the end...what's the harm in asking? 

Besides, in those moments when I believe the universe is communicating to me, I experience a sense of belonging which compares to no other.  It is transformative and powerful and it is the fundamental reason behind the feeling I have that I am blessed.  And to the cynics I would suggest, "Why wouldn't the universe communicate with me?  I am open, I am listening and I am worthy." 

So, thank you universe.  I accept my message.  In return, I send out love.

I Walked Across a Smile

"A smile is happiness you'll find right under your nose.

~ Tom Wilson

I try to walk every day.  In the heat of the summer, that sometimes means an early morning walk before work.  Most days, I like to get a break during my workday and get out for a walk to clear my head.  Occasionally I walk after work to exercise away the day's stress.  I've walked hundreds of miles on the same streets of Perth over many, many days, but today was different.

Today on my walk, I happened across a nice surprise.  As I was headed back down main street to return to the office, I noticed an arrow drawn on the sidewalk in chalk.  I was headed in the direction of the arrow and thought little of it.  I was half expecting a game of hopscotch on my travels but discovered instead a simple message...."Smile." 

I did.

I continued past "Smile" and found myself a the end of the block and a four-directional arrow.  It was clear to me that some kids had been playing a game of some kind -- a treasure hunt maybe.  I crossed the street and continued along my way.

Within half a block, I happened across another message...."One Happy Thought."

So I conjured one...

...and I smiled again.

It was completely unexpected and absolutely delightful.  It brightened what was already a pretty awesome day. 

It would be nice to think that the universe was speaking to me but I get the randomness of it.  Some kid wrote it...I just happened across it.  BUT...it could have rained and washed away; I could have taken another route; it could have been a game of hopscotch.  None of that happened, so I'm taking it as a hug from the collective consciousness of the universe.  It was a message and I received it.

Thank you universe.

Right back atcha!!

So here's my little message to the kid who wrote the message.  "Thank you for not drawing a penis or the chalk outline of a dead person or another hopscotch pattern that I never know whether to jump across or walk around.  Thank you for choosing a five letter word instead of a less-complimentary four letter word.  Whether you had intended it or not, you had an impact.  The choice you made brought joy to another person -- ME -- so....kudos to you Random Nameless Kid.  You rock!"

Sometimes I Feel Like a Watcher in a Dream

I sometimes feel like a watcher in a dream.
Sequences unfurl before me, around me
Manifested by a tired mind
Puzzling through the leftovers of today.

I sometimes feel like a watcher in a dream.
Gazing through windows in a room without doors
The intentional design of a sleepy architect
Longing for someone to serve witness to their existence.

I sometimes feel like a watcher in a dream.
Searching the horizon for footholds of reason
Constructs of truth in a make believe world
Where paths are made of both stone and quicksand.

I sometimes feel like a watcher in a dream.
Borrowed scribe to chronicle naked testimony
Of reasonable and unreasonable judgements
With a pen that drips empathy on stacks of blank paper.

I sometimes feel like a watcher in a dream.
Trapping understanding in locking boxes
Built by Freud and churches and worried mothers
With porcelain keyholes and glass tumblers and crystal keys.

I sometimes feel like a watcher in a dream.
Muted by a divine yet nebulous purpose
Galvanized by faith and confidence and duty
Where I may silence the aching isolation of my disconnect.

Playing Hostess - Setting the Stage

One might well say that mankind is divisible into two great classes: hosts and guests.

~ Max Beerbohm

I'm a guest.  I am a kick-ass visitor.  I am NOT a hostess.

Having confessed this, you should know that I'm hosting a very dear friend and her family on the upcoming long weekend.  While I want everything to be perfect, it won't be -- because that's not how things go.  It is not her expectations I fear, but rather my gnawing tendencies towards perfectionism.  Strangely, once she's here, I will stop measuring "things" like how clean the cottage is, or how good the food is, or if there's anything "missing."  I will go crazy stressing over food, cleaning, lawn care and activities until she arrives and then those shallow things will fall to the wayside as we simply enjoy our time together.

Until then....I make lists.  Lists for food, lists for ingredients, things to do, things to buy, things to have, things to clean, things to fix, lists, lists, lists.  I make lists.  I even make a list of lists I will need.  Lists, lists, lists.  

I initially asked for help with the menu from my dear friend "The Foodie" whose strength (as you can imagine by the nickname) is food and menu ideas.  He is a very good cook and food is important to him -- he is my life's version of Wolfgang Puck - food is his hobby.  It drives me nuts.  I subscribe to the "live to eat" notion that food is necessary fuel for our bodies.  I remember to eat when my stomach growls but more often than not, I skip meals like a hopscotch champion.  On weekends, I generally eat a pot of coffee in the morning and then make something late afternoon when I have a chance.  It's a terrible, unhealthy habit but it's an incredible time-saver and I don't usually have a sink full of dishes waiting for me.  The Foodie plans his activities around meals most days.  I have a real problem with it. 

The Foodie and I had a falling out, however, so I took it upon myself to Google some meal ideas.  I have a rough idea of dinners, lunches and breakfast.  We'll have at least 1 meal out -- maybe 2 -- and the rest will be taken care of.  First night is Mexican-ish-y fare ... mostly because I want to mix up some Margaritas...bad...I know.  Saturday will be seafood lakeside with cedar grilled salmon and skewered shrimp with vegetables and rice.  Sunday is either steak or chicken...maybe both.  I think I have this food thing down.

I spent the last week doing deck repairs to avoid an injury (or worse, a lawsuit) involving my company.  My friend has a young daughter so I'm cleaning up the kayaks and have found a small(ish) life jacket for her.  The pool at my parents (across the road) is on stand-by.

I weeded the garden, and The Foodie dropped by today to apply a fresh stain to the bench on the deck.  He also kindly dropped off two lounge chairs in anticipation for my "girl time" lakeside catching up.  Thoughtful!!  Hmmmm, maybe sucking up....not sure...possibly both.

I spent the weekend burning crap from my deck repairs and cutting the lawn and stacking some wood by the bonfire pit.  The lawn looks pretty good except for all the crud washing up with the high water and the flooded part of the lawn.  It's as good as it's going to get.

I cleaned the bathroom and washed the floors and took a stab at the cobwebs -- though cobwebs grow overnight here at the lakeside.  I know, I know, I will freshen up the bathroom before she arrives -- maybe twice.

Things won't be perfect, but the weekend will be.  She has already warned me..."We are not coming to see your house...we are coming to see YOU."  She is an absolute joy to be around so I know that everything will be just fine and our time together will be fun and full of laughter.

I found this quote from Eleanor Roosevelt, however, and I thought, "I can live with that."

"The only advantage of not being too good a housekeeper is that your guests are so pleased to feel how very much better they are."

~ Eleanor Roosevelt

The Miracle of the Dragonfly

                 The Dragon-fly                   ~ A poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson

 

Today I saw the dragon-fly

Come from the wells where he did lie.

An inner impulse rent the veil

Of his old husk: from head to tail

Came out clear plates of sapphire mail.

He dried his wings: like gauze they grew;

Thro’ crofts and pastures wet with dew

A living flash of light he flew.

The Miracle of the Bumble Bee

"Aerodynamically, the bumble bee shouldn't be able to fly, but the bumble bee doesn't know it so it goes on flying anyway." 

~ Mary Kay Ash

"A bee is never as busy as it seems; it's just that it can't buzz any slower." 

~ Kin Hubbard

"To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, One clover, and a bee, And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few."

~ Emily Dickinson



Lakeside Living - Art in Nature

"Nature will bear the closest inspection. She invites us to lay our eye level with her smallest leaf, and take an insect view of its plain."

~ Henry David Thoreau

The waves battered the shoreline Saturday as the day spun through patterns of snow and rain and everything in between.  When the sunshine arrived early Sunday morning, I walked along the shore in search of the usual offerings of litter and found objects that arrive after a day of whitecaps. 

Along with bait containers, bobbins, tennis balls, soda cans and beer bottles, I found the shoreline shrubs in a sheath of ice.  The only evidence on this peaceful morning, of the battering they endured the day before.

 

Lakeside Living - A Storm Rolls In

"I was a complete tomboy. I loved wandering out in storms or walking on the beaches in the dark. It was a very free upbringing, and I'm grateful to my parents for that."

~ Amanda Burton

I was summoned from sleep Saturday morning by the sound of ice pellets tapping against my window.  I cracked an eye to the grey dawn and burrowed further beneath the blankets.  Some time later, the sound of the rising wind drew me from my bed.  I stood by the window and watched a squall work its way up the lake.

Our lakefront cottage provides front row seats for every system that settles in from the northwest -- and most of them do.  We watch fog creep up the lake or burn away under the heat of the morning sun.  We watch storm clouds roll and churn and tumble up the lake.  And sometimes, as it happened on Saturday, a squall arrives like a curtain drawing its way across the lake.

I am captivated by the way that nature can breathe life into a day with a breeze, that rises to a wind, that manifests into a storm and then dissolves back into a clear day.  A photograph may capture the mood, but never the energy..

I wish that I could find words to describe the miracle of nature.  Instead, I can explain only by saying that I feel closest to God when I am in the temple He created...rather than rejoicing in one we created for Him.  

On KD and Soda Pop

"No disease that can be treated by diet should be treated with any other means."

Maimonides

Food bloggers, I've learned, have started a petition to remove the artificial food dyes that are responsible for Kraft Dinner's distinct appearance. Tartrazine, or yellow food dye #5 and #6 is an approved food additive according to North American food watchdogs. It serves no nutritional purpose and does not affect product flavour...just colour.

In fact, and I find this strange, the same food dye is NOT in the same product sold overseas to European consumers. Hmmm.

In reading the article discussing consumer petitions, I learned that PepsiCo recently made modifications to their product after a consumer petition received national attention.  Good job active consumers!

I'm not a fan of Kraft Dinner.  I was raised on a macaroni and cheese casserole that my mom makes with tomatoes and sharp cheddar cheese.  There was not a lot of prepared food in our home.  Sliced bread, margarine, Miracle Whip, Peanut Butter, sometimes cookies and the occasional store-bought buttertart (thanks Dad), but otherwise we were a meat and potatoes, snack-deprived family. Apples were our snack.  "Have an apple." "Oh you're hungry?  Grab an apple, dinner will be ready in two hours."  Apples, apples, apples. 

Our meals were almost always made from scratch. The exception was grocery night which was, almost always, hot dog night. Fortunately, due to this tradition, I have already consumed my lifetime quota of hot dogs. KD was usually purchased for nights when the kids had to make dinner.

As far as PepsiCo goes....ahhhh geez....don't get me started.   I have a very low opinion of soda pop. At our grocery store, there is an entire isle dedicated to chips/snacks and soda pop.  One isle. An entire isle of carbonated, sugary drinks. Empty, pointless, tooth-rotting, belly-busting, soda. I can choose from over 20 kinds of soda pop in my grocery store. There are precisely three varieties of mushrooms in the vegetable isle. The bananas are almost always green and you have to check the bottom of the berries to make sure you're not buying half-rotten fruit....but there's a crap load of soda pop on the other side of the store.  ..... Sorry....didn't I say "don't get me started?"

KD is a childhood food really. I remember it from my childhood and I fed it to my kids when they were younger. I stopped buying it when my kids were able to eat using their own knife and fork....around the time KD hit a buck a box. I occasionally crave the nostalgia of Kraft Dinner but have learned, after a few failed attempts, that it's true...you can't go back. 

As a result, KD has been forever banished to my food category  "foods that you think you want, until you eat them, and then you're just disappointed."  KFC is also on that list....and fried egg sandwiches.

So there you have it.
1)  Kraft Dinner may become a paler version of what you're used to but...hey...they still eat it across the pond. 
2) Consumer petitions can be effective but the biggest impact consumers have is their choice to buy or not buy a product. 
3) I would strongly suggest you consider NOT BUYING soda pop. 

It's my opinion.  You are, as always, invited to take it or leave it.

Public Health Care - Canada's Frankenstein

"Time and health are two precious assets that we don't recognize and appreciate until they have been depleted."

~ Denis Waitley

I was born and raised in the province of Ontario. I am average, I am in good health and I pay taxes.  I use the health care system as necessary but I wouldn't want to rely on it to save my life.

Public health care is a noble idea.  When it was first introduced it was intended to provide its residents with emergency medical services and preventative care at no charge. (Well, no additional charge -- the "system" after all is financed through taxation.) It meant that the impoverished or the uninsured/uninsurable could access basic health care. Honourable.

Some forty years later, Ontario introduced an additional health care premium on personal tax returns based on annual earnings.   The same year the new levy was introduced, the provincial government began to de-list services that had, until then, been made available through OHIP.  Residents were now being asked to pay more for less. Those of us paying attention noticed that certain health care coverage was now offered to individuals under the age of 19, over the age of 65, or to individuals on social assistance.  Wage earners -- those funding the program through taxation -- were being asked to pay out of pocket for services available free of charge to the unemployed.

The fact is, our medical insurance program lost sight of its original purpose -- to provide emergency health care and preventative care at no cost.  It has grown over time to fund diagnoses and treatment across multiple modalities from birth until death on an inpatient and outpatient basis.  It became and unwieldy beast.  Our Canadian Frankenstein.  It was a good idea at the time...but it soon grew out of control.

How could an idea conceived 50 years ago integrate contingencies to reflect decades worth of medical advances and their financial implications much less anticipate swings in the economic landscape and changes to the the nation's demographics?  It cannot.  And, as with every other government program, failure to manage the program has resulted in a crisis.  That, in my opinion, is the single biggest flaw with government health care -- it is not managed.  It is budgeted, it is regulated, but it is not managed. 

So now what?  So now we have a system that is built to fail.  It is unsustainable. Worse still, Canadians feel it is their birthright and they become outraged when insurance drops another service.  Our health care program has become a political playground used to launch platforms and criticize government spending.   Now, doctors and bureaucrats are playing tug-o-war with our health insurance as the latest cuts focus on a "wage freeze" for physicians.  That's right...our government currently maintains that the health care crisis is partly due to medical professionals who have benefited from a 75% increase in earnings over the past 10 years.

Canadians need to read between the lines.  Politicians will not freely endorse or work towards a two-tiered system until it has the support of the Canadian public.  There is too much unease around any inequities that may follow.  We all agree that class should not dictate the level of care one receives...but it does.  It always did.  It always will.  If you have money, you can spend it on your health.  It is as simple as that.  Let's not be naive. 

Private health care options already exist in Canada, however they are few and far between.  The Canada Health Act penalizes provinces who, among other things, make private health care an option for their residents by reducing federal transfer payments.  Some view the penalty as an acceptable loss in exchange for alternative health care solutions that would alleviate a program in crisis.  Clearly it's a financial win for some provinces. 

Canada needs a strategy that would provide health care solutions for individuals covered by private insurance plans or who may be willing to pay out-of-pocket for health care services; a two-tiered system that alleviates a straining health care system without diminishing services to those that rely on a public health care.  A system that keeps health care dollars in Canada to promote research and development and create jobs for health care professionals that are being lured south of the border.

There has been no health care reform in Canada.  If anything, Canadians should not be upset because services are being de-listed, they should be outraged that their government is not planning a strategy that will outlast its term of office.

Bucket List - Yi Peng Festival, Thailand

“No one lights a lamp in order to hide it behind the door: the purpose of light is to create more light, to open people's eyes, to reveal the marvels around.”

~ Paulo Coelho

Each fall in Thailand, the Yi Peng lantern festival is held in Chiang Mai.  The picture below taken by Ng Chai Hock was recognized in Sony's 2013 Photo Awards.

The lanterns are released in respect for Buddah.  It is thought that this symbolic act would release bad memories and that the lantern would transport a wish for the future to the heavens.  It was monks who had traditionally released the lanterns but the festival has grown so that anyone may participate.  In the evening floating lanterns are released all around Chiang Mai province. 

This event has made its way to my bucket list.

Soul Sista Lost and Found

Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is far the best ending for one.

~ Oscar Wilde

I met Nori one summer at a local campground.  I was a shy teenager completely captivated by this outgoing, cheerful, funny dynamo who was unlike anyone else I had ever met.  She truly was one-of-a-kind.  We spent a lot of time talking and I credit her with being a trusted confidante and a guide, of sorts, as I stumbled -- often blindly -- across the minefield of teenage angst.  She kept me happy and real and positive.  I met her when I absolutely needed her and am better for it.

We found each other on Facebook a while ago and tonight we talked on the phone for about an hour.  It was interesting to hear about her life and all of the changes.  I am beyond thrilled to learn that she is a mom -- because when I met her all those years ago, there was nothing more important to her than having children. 

People change over time.  We see it every day.  Some people resign themselves to their life.  Some people trade their ambitions or desires for the role of parent or partner.  The people that learn and grow from their trials become better versions of themselves; the people that don't are at risk of becoming empty husks. 

Nori is a light.  She is everything I remember but better.  I can't wait to see her. 

I sometimes make fun of Facebook because it can be bogged down with pointless remarks and hurtful messages.  Sometimes though, it delivers a friend.. For that, Facebook, I am grateful.

My Asshole Cat. Part 4 - The Surrender

Kneading on You. You may think this is a sign of affection, but your cat is actually checking your internal organs for weaknesses.

~from How to Tell if Your Cat is Plotting to Kill You

Yesterday, I carted up Mac and we headed to town for our vet appointment. I dropped Lys at the high school and made my way across town to collect my drive-thru breakfast before making a quick stop at the office. Within a few minutes of dropping Miss Alyssa, I was assaulted by a stench that – literally – brought tears to my eyes. I lowered the windows and tried to calm Mac but her nerves clearly had gotten the best of her. I stopped at the office for some paper towels and some cleaner and decided to make an early appearance at the vet clinic.

Dr. Greg hadn’t arrived yet so I begged the vet tech to borrow an exam room and clean up Mac before her debut appointment. Once in the room I forced open the windows and released Hell herself from the carrier. She left her prison like a shot and was soon a drenched, smelly mess on the other side of the exam room. I decided to let her gather herself so I took the opportunity to clean up the carrier. There are no words that can adequately convey to you the breath-robbing, eye-stabbing stink of that cat. I dabbed and rubbed at her wet fur without any measure of success.  It really seemed like nothing more than busywork.

As Dr.Greg entered the room, his first words were “Wow, smells like a tom cat in here.” I quickly apologized and explained that she messed herself in the carrier on the way over. He placed Mac on the exam table and after the briefest palpation exclaimed – “…because it IS a tom cat.”

Congratulations, it’s a boy!

I burst out laughing. “Boy, do I feel stupid!” He assured me that I shouldn’t feel bad…it would be far worse, he explained, if THEY got it wrong.

(You should understand that this man knows that we have not actively pursued “pet owner status.” We do not go to pet stores, choose our pets, build our intelligence about their breed and behaviour and then dote upon them with our vast knowledge and skill. We are…instead…a small family of bleeding hearts that cannot turn their backs on a stray animal in peril and so we commit to their care in the absence of a loving owner. We are pet owners by circumstance.)

He excused himself from the room to gather the vaccinations. I could hear him tell his tech to correct Mac’s chart to show a male cat…”the she is actually a HE,” he said. I smiled and turned to Mac… "You tricky little bastard,” I whispered. I took those brief seconds to reflect on Mac’s behaviours and things began to fall into place. Wait until I tell the kids, I thought..

The rest of the appointment went very well (obnoxious odour notwithstanding) and Mac was treated for every possible parasite and disease before returning – with much help from Dr. Greg – to the carrier for our return trip home. I paid for the appointment and booked Mac’s neutering for next Thursday. The tech and I laughed about the Mac’s sexual confusion and I told her it was going to take some getting used to – I refer to the cats as “the girls” so I’m going to need some retraining. I suggested that in all likelihood, Mac would return to its rightful owner AFTER I vaccinate and neuter him and the tech reassured me that “at least” neutering was less expensive than spaying to which I thought…OK…silver lining. (I clung desperately to that little thread of positivity as I tried to bathe the stink off that tom cat later in the evening.)

So there you have it.

I confess to being an inadequate pet owner – so much so that I failed to correctly identify the sex of my cat. I confess also to surrendering to this irksome little beast. While I will continue to fondly refer to “my asshole cat,” I have to admit that he has grown on me. If I’m being honest, I kind of prefer “spunky” behaviour – predictable can sometimes be boring – and this little jerk kind of fits with our familial band of misfits anyhow.

Love him or hate him…Mac’s vet record clearly shows that we are now, officially, his family.

My Asshole Cat. Part 3 - Staging the Coup

I had been told that the training procedure with cats was difficult. It's not. Mine had me trained in two days.

~Bill Dana

It has been several weeks now since outdoor cat made her appearance and there is no sign of her leaving despite all of our encouragement. It’s clear she wants to stay. So, she has plotted her takeover.

I recognize and easily admit that I am the weak link. She has broken me down using clever sleep deprivation techniques. She has walked across my remote control in the middle of the night waking me to the fevered pitch of late night info-mercials. She has stepped on my snooze button releasing country music into my otherwise silent night. With my defenses down, she manipulated me with cuddling and soft, soothing purring, focusing her feline attentions on me until I submitted to the Stockholm Syndrome that has defined our relationship.

Our household rhythm has slowly changed to follow the beat of our little outdoor drummer. Wake-up call is precisely 5:45 am each and every day without fail. Outdoor cat jumps to the bedside table where she quickly bats any loose objects onto the floor before short-jumping her way to the bed. Once there, she begins with a “brrrip brrrrip” to signal her presence (in case I missed the remote control hitting the floor) and then takes position on the side of my pillow that I am currently facing. As is our usual routine, I roll over and she begins noisily cleaning herself until I throw back the covers in surrender.

We traipse down the stairs together as she commences the morning workout with agility exercises, zigzagging her way down the stairs in front of me. Once downstairs, I prepare the coffee maker and my servitude begins. The cats are fed twice daily – once when I wake (which outdoor cat orchestrates) and once when I return from work (though it took a while for outdoor cat to understand that this does not mean every time I come in the door from outside). Once the cats are fed, I turn my attention to the hated litter box which is scooped twice daily and thoroughly scrubbed once a week. While I may be able to tolerate cats, I absolutely hate the smell of a dirty litter box. I have designed a concept for the outdoor kitty litter box which I will experiment with once the warmer weather arrives.

This winter has brought with it some very hostile weather which meant that “Outdoor Cat” has become a bit of a misnomer. I suppose we could rename her “Fairweather Outdoor Cat” or simplify that with the slightly more fitting acronym FOC, but I’ve always thought pet names should be “call worthy.” You know, you stand at your door and call out the name of your pet – here Skippy, here Buster, here "insert name here" -- so it must be inoffensive, short, catchy and identifiable at high volume. “My Asshole Cat” is not call-worthy, but I’m thinking MAC may be a fit for this little furry jerk. Move it Mac! Hey Mac, what’s the problem? Yup...Mac is the winner.

Mac heads to the vet this Friday for a full work-up. I’ve been avoiding this appointment but it’s clear that this cat is officially ours so, we’ll concede that she staged a successful coup. The vet appointment, I can re- frame for my own purposes as a calculated maneuver recommended by General Sun Tzu…”know thy enemy.”

My Asshole Cat. Part 2 - Into The Breach

"Staring Contests: If you get caught in a staring contest with your cat, do not look away. Looking away will signal to your cat that you are weak, and an attack is likely to follow. "

~from "How to tell if your cat is plotting to kill you.

Outdoor cat spent her first night indoors one rainy night last summer. Outdoor cat brought her fleabag self into our home and immediately began her skulking. She wandered around eyeing up the place like a dieter in a bakeshop. Lys eventually bundled her up and took outdoor kitty to her room to retire for the evening. We all took to our beds and turned out the lights. Moments after arriving at the coveted REM sleep, the night was perforated by the wailing banshee. It was a God-awful, unnatural shriek that was at once irritating and terrifying.

It took me a few seconds to get my bearings and locate the source of the hullabaloo. I turned on the light and there she was, in the middle of the kitchen, just looking around wailing. A cat person might say she was mewling or meowing but I am not a cat person; I am a person fixated on achieving 4-6 hours of REM sleep a night. This was going to be a problem. She was not in distress, she was not in heat, she was neither hungry nor thirsty. It was the equivalent, I felt, to waking up in the middle of the night to find someone singing at the top of their lungs in the middle of your kitchen and, as you turn on the light, they turn in your direction and smile as they begin the second chorus. I stared slack-jawed in stunned disbelief.

I opened the door sure that outdoor kitty was in need of some fresh air figuring this vocal exercise was her jailhouse rock. She ended with a big finish and came to stand beside me in front of the open door. She looked up at me, looked out the door, then looked back at me as if to say, "where you headed at this hour?" I closed the door and returned to bed. turned out the light and resumed my pursuit of restful sleep.

At precisely 5:45 am, outdoor cat jumped on my head. I burrowed beneath my comforter and pillow but she persisted with a leggy tap dance on my kidneys. She followed with some "brrrip, brrip" chatter that immediately made me think of the movie "Gremlins" and I made a mental note to keep her away from water. Her tireless efforts finally paid off as I threw back my covers and returned to the kitchen. I filled up the empty dishes and then made my way, blurry eyed, back to bed.

I must have dozed off, because it seemed like only seconds had passed before outdoor cat jumped onto my chest for an early-morning staring contest. I lost. Then I lost it. I picked up outdoor cat and encouraged her outside for some early morning sun -- and by encouraged, I mean I opened the door and threw her outside onto the deck.

I returned to the warmth of my bed and curled beneath the blankets and rested my eyes. Unable to fall back asleep and resigned to the lost opportunity for a leisurely sleep-in, I cracked open my eyes....to see her....staring at me from the window. I dragged my butt out of the bed and turned to see her walk away, satisfied that I was finally out of bed. My brand new alarm clock. My new asshole cat.

My Asshole Cat. Part 1 - The Infiltration

When my cats aren't happy, I'm not happy. Not because I care about their mood but because I know they're just sitting there thinking up ways to get even.

~Percy Bysshe Shelley

Our family has a long history of taking in stray animals so when I saw a small, skinny kitten hanging around the cottage this summer, I got a sinking feeling. We had, just one short year ago, taken in an unwanted farm cat (whose bleak future included population control) after repeated pleas from my daughter. Enter Meeko. Lys's love affair with Meeko lasted about seven months. Meeko is now my cat. She is the cat I never wanted. So, as you can appreciate, this newest arrival was not met with my warm welcome.

The kids and I agreed that we would not name the cat or feed the cat but that instead we would look long and hard for this stray cat's family. We called the local vet, inquired at the nearby campground, enlisted support at the local corner store and twitted, tumble'd and facebook'd news of this lost (or was it found) cat. We were told by the vet that cat owners (read bad cat owners)were known to DUMP their unwanted pets in the country to let them live or die on their own. This, he said, was a common occurrence. My hopes of finding kitty's family were suddenly dashed. What's worse, I was conflicted now with feelings of compassion for this animal -- compassion that wasn't there seconds before when I simply thought it was misplaced.

The night that "outdoor kitty" showed up was a fitful one. I lay in bed and wrestled with figures as I adjusted our monthly budget to allow for vet bills, flea treatments, cat food, litter, and a contingency fund for cat emergencies. I eventually fell asleep with the hope that I would wake and kitty would have returned to her rightful place. It was not to be. During the night, the kids had prepared a cardboard box, lined it with a towel and placed it in a sheltered spot on the deck for maximum comfort. I discovered this "kitty cat comfort inn" when I took my coffee on the deck that morning. Imagine my surprise. This initiative from two teenagers who need to be reminded to put their dirty clothes in the hamper. I felt the odds beginning to stack against me.

On day two of the infiltration, "outdoor kitty" slept in the sun on a quiet corner of the deck as my kids questioned the depth of my humanity. How could I leave it there without feeding it or giving it water?   Did I have to point out that there is a lake less than 10 metres from where the cat lay languishing? Now I am suddenly the patron saint of stray cats? The Highland's version of St. Gertrude. Why not?  After all, what single woman doesn't want to run the risk of becoming known as "the cat lady?" Spectacular!

On day three, I was forced to acknowledge that this cat was going nowhere. It had not, to my knowledge, breached our points of entry but it was working on the kids' defenses...OK, our defenses. Meeko offered her own brand of uninviting feedback through several exchanges mediated by the patio door though the kids were far more easily swayed. I have to take ownership of some of the blame though...I am a sucker for "cute." Besides, I kept replaying this vision of "outdoor kitty" being thrown from the window of a car by a hellish cat owner as he drove away with a maniacal laugh. He didn't even take the care to stop the car. (Well, that's how it played out in my head anyway.)

Needless to say, we all bought into the cute kitty act and you know what followed. It began with a bowl of milk, then a few scraps of cat food, then we were petting kitty on our laps and discussing the logistics of an outdoor cat. Days passed.

Then it happened. It rained. Not just a light shower, but a wicked rainfall complete with thunder and lightning. We opened the door and "outdoor kitty" ran inside.

Little did we know that we had been infiltrated by an asshole cat.

Are Farmers an Endangered Species?

There are two spiritual dangers in not owning a farm. One is the danger of supposing that breakfast comes from the grocery, and the other that heat comes from the furnace.”

~ Aldo Leopold

I was fortunate enough to grow up on a farm. My family owned beef cattle, a few hens for eggs (and an occasional chicken dinner).  We grew our own vegetables, farmed hay for the cattle, we grew and sold corn and had a small sugar bush that produced a spectacular maple syrup. We did not live in opulence, but we worked hard and we ate well. What’s more the community to which we belonged…simply by choosing a farm life….became this incredible extension of our family. We supported one another, worked with each other, helped one other through hard times and celebrated during good times. I remember it as being such an enriching and rewarding, and demanding, life.

The future of farming is a popular topic where I live. I wonder what it will be like in 10 years, 20 years or even in 50 years. The 2011 Canadian Census reported a 10% decline in farms since 2006 with the number of farm operators following suit. What is more startling, is that farmers are getting older and they aren't being replaced.

• In 1991, 48% of farmers were between 35 and 54 years only.  Young farmers (farmers 34 years of age or less) made up 20%.
• By 2001, 54% of farmers were 35 to 54 years old.  Young farmers dropped to 12%.
• In 2006, 90% of farmers were 35 years or older.   
• By the 2011 Census more than half the farmers were over the age of 55.  55!!!  

Canadian farmers are aging. They are retiring and the family farm is dying. Fewer and fewer farm kids are taking over the family farms. Since 2006, there has been a 9% decrease in the number of farms in the province of Ontario and farm acreage in this province has dropped by 5%.

I watched this statistic unfold in my own family. My father did not choose farming as his livelihood. My grandfather always said that farming was tough and you only got paid once a year. It took discipline and frugal measures that tested the limits of even the most Scottish of farmers. We ate in season, we froze and pickled and canned our goods to hold us through the winters.  We prayed for weather that would give us what we needed to survive and thrive. But my grandfather eventually became too old to farm. The cattle were sold, we stopped cutting the hay and tapping the trees and the cornfields lay fallow. The farm ended.

Today, the net income per family for a cattle farm operation is estimated to be $6279; poultry farms are more lucrative at an average income of $52,000 with vegetable farms hovering somewhere in between at an average net income of $22,076. For comparison purposes, consider that the average Canadian earns $32,100 per year and the average Canadian family earns $76,600.

So why do people farm? Because they love it. Because it's not a job, it's a lifestyle. Maybe they do it out of a sense of duty to their God and to their neighbour. Here's the thing. If we don't support our farmers, if we don't protect them and promote then, we're going to be forced to become them. 

Check out this video.

http://youtu.be/dIsEG2SFOvM

Part Owl, Part Dove With a Just a Hint of Peacock

“The single biggest problem with communication is the illusion that it has taken place.”

 ~ George Bernard Shaw

As I mentioned in my last post, a friend suggested that my latest break-up could very likely be due, in no small part, to my lack of communication. I've been spending a lot of time mulling over this idea.  Did I fail to communicate?  Really?  That seems so unlike me.

I was raised by parents who strongly believed that if you don't have anything nice to say, you don't say anything at all.  I recognize that this little lesson is intended to serve children as they learn how to develop their own little filters to keep them from thoughtlessly hurling insults at others.  Its purpose is to teach empathy and impart socially acceptable behaviours and otherwise prevent children from having their assess kicked across the nation's playgrounds -- at least on the days they aren't serving detention. 

As adults, the rule mutates and further tests our mettle. As grown ups we're not only expected to speak nicely but we are required to do so while maintaining open and honest communications. No wonder so many of us just smile and nod our heads! Sometimes it takes days to craft an appropriate response to a personal affront. You've been there.  I know you have. You're having a conversation with someone when they say something so offensive or obtuse that your jaw literally drops open. Your mind races for an appropriate response as you fight the urge to convey the most natural one. You know EXACTLY which one I mean. The "you're a f*!@king  ass#@le," response to human stressors. But you don't say it because you are an adult. You stammer and choke, maybe say something weak like "I'm sorry you feel that way," or laugh with the hope that it was a poor attempt at humour.  Then it comes to you, three days later while you're brushing your teeth in the bathroom mirror -- the perfect response. An especially thoughtful remark precisely balanced with quick wit and disarming simplicity with a flawless delivery that you practice over and over again to the audience in your bathroom mirror. You smile and nod at your satisfied reflection because it is truly perfect...then you slowly shake your head because you know that it is now, three days later, a painfully useless retort.

Regardless of which side of the conversation you find yourself in most often, there are four distinct communication styles -- the Driver (Eagle), the Influencer (Peacock), the Compliant (Owl) and the Steady (Dove) communicator. Some people fit perfectly in one of these quadrants without venturing outside their communication box. Most people generally fit into one of these styles while sharing characteristics from one or more of the other types.

My communication pendulum swings between Compliant and Steady 90% of the time. I can be an Influencer but only if I'm heavily into "sales mode" or talking about something that I feel especially passionate about. I am not a Driver. Not even a little.

How I Communicate
I try to speak with purpose. I weigh my words carefully. I don't talk to hear myself speak. I don't feel the need to share every thought that pops in and out of my mind. If what I am thinking does not add value, it probably won't make it to the conversation. I am not under the misguided belief that I must share my every opinion with the world. I reserve judgement. I know that words can hurt so I try to be kind; I will, however, hurt you with my words if I'm pressed. I do not feel the urge to sway your opinions or beliefs though I am happy to openly explore them with you. Even if I don't agree with what you are saying, I will respect that you do. I don't need you to see the world my way. If you did...there would be so few conversations...so much less to talk about.

How I Feel
Knowing that I feel this way, it is reasonable to assume that mean-spirited remarks will be frowned upon and condescension will be met with contempt. I believe that if your mind is closed, so is your heart. I believe in the sanctity of a trusted confidence; if I feel that what I say is being met with criticism I will not share; if the confidence is broken, the conversation is over. I believe that character can be measured by the way a person treats his mother, his animals and restaurant wait staff. I believe that even if you deserve every good thing that happens, it doesn't excuse you from giving thanks. I believe that if you carry the burden of anger and resentment you have done so by choice and not by circumstance.

I speak with purpose. I did not speak at length but I spoke clearly about what I expect from my partner, how I feel, what I need and what I want. The behaviour and choices that follow are products of conscious decision-making -- we are, after all, agents of free will. Communication is not just talking...sometimes actions speak volumes.

I do not feel the urge to sway your opinions or beliefs.... I do not nag. You are who you are. You have the right to live your life the way you choose. I choose to live my best life.

“The most important thing in communication is to hear what isn't being said.”  ~ Peter Drucker

Working Bilge Pump Needed

"Commitment doesn't scare me.  The thought of committing to the wrong person does."

~ Anonymous

A friend and I were performing a post-mortem on my latest relationship when he suggested that I have commitment issues. The 73 minute phone call began with a 15 minute discussion followed by a one-sided dissection of the relationship, my behaviour, my needs, my hang-ups, his merits, his mistakes, his devotion. He talked, I listened. In the end, he simply felt that the breakdown could all be explained by my fear of commitment or, quite possibly, by my lack of communication.

The commitment remark offended me but I was trying to be a good listener and didn't want to interrupt so I silently seethed while he continued to wonder at my decision to end things. His point about my lack of communication was fair but really a matter of perspective so, once again, I listened in silence and made note of the absence of any desire to defend myself.

That's when I recognized it...that familiar vacuum of apathy that sucks away the space that belongs to angry shouts of self-righteous indignation and hurt -- space that belongs to the gritty hallmarks of passion. It was nowhere. It could neither be summoned nor manufactured. It didn't make me sad so much as it made me sure. Something was missing. Something I knew I needed but that had failed to materialize during our time together.

Truth is, I am not afraid of commitment. I think that's the easy part. Commitment requires loyalty, patience, respect and trust. I can do all that and I'm confident in my abilities to recognize those traits in a partner. Over time, however, I have learned that other qualities are critical to a relationship's enduring success. There are things that each of us can or cannot live with or without. We all have our own deal breakers and our list of must-have's. I have no plans to list mine here but, in the end, I must have unwavering faith in the relationship's sustainability before I will surrender to it completely. To commit to a relationship absent of passion, at least in my mind, is defeat not surrender.

Relationships are complex -- easy for some, less easy for others -- but they are as unique as the individuals in them. The only thing they have in common is that they are imperfect. Every relationship is a leaky boat. The trick is to find the leak and determine what you need to staunch the flow.

It takes courage to enter into a relationship. We move forward with open hearts and open minds, of the attitude that we will learn something valuable whether or not we succeed. In every case we grow; we learn more about ourselves and others through our failures as well as our successes. And sometimes...we have our ass handed to us. So we rally...and we find a new boat...and we step lightly packing our bailing bucket, just a little bigger than the last one.

A Blog's Identity Crisis

"A blog is merely a tool that lets you do anything from change the world to share your shopping list." ~ Anonymous

How lame is it to blog about your blog?  OK, well, I'll keep it short.

Fact is, I haven't changed this site since I first created it so I really felt like the time was ripe for change.  Besides, every time I open up my Blog account, the template creator takes centre stage and it seems -- at least lately --  like it has taken on a more menacing quality.  Blogger has a new look!  (so update this tired mess)

Naturally I resist.  I can follow but I'm not a follower.  (I dance to the beat of my own kazoo....if you get my drift.)  Having said that, after seeing "Blogger has a new look!" day after day after day, a seed had been planted and I guess the idea finally grew roots.  Suddenly, nothing is more important than replacing the old polk-a-dot page.

I flipped through the templates and fell in like with page after page of fun and colourful designs.  I tried on a few bright and bold templates but the look felt pretentious.  I drafted up a couple of "awesome template" samples but in the end I felt like the template over-promised.   Let's face it...this isn't your source for daily news or market tips.

The blog references the wordpecker so I instinctively leaned towards nature, birds, trees and settled on a look that felt like a fit.   I can tweak it over time but...for now...welcome to the Wordpecker's new look.

Should Have Demanded A Handshake

Be true to your work, your word, and your friend. ~ Henry David Thoreau

Last week I had the pleasure of chatting with one of our clients  -- a senior citizen with a lovely disposition and a wonderful sense of humour.  During the course of our conversation, he came to tell me about how he acquired his first home mortgage.

About sixty years ago, this fellow walked down the the local sawmill to meet with the owner of the mill.  A successful business man and a pillar of his community, the owner of the mill was a friend to everyone.  My client explained to the sawmill owner that he was interested in a particular home "down the road" that was for sale along with considerable acreage.  The sawmill owner asked about my client's family and then quickly and directly explained his lending terms.  "I will finance the purchase at 5% on the condition that you pay each month without fail.  If you miss a payment, you make it up and pay the note out at 10%."  Needless to say, assured my client, that he never missed a payment.  They shook on it right then and there on the floor of the sawmill office.  The lawyers drafted the note but it was a done deal as soon as they clenched hands.  Sixty years ago a man's word was his bond.  It was currency.  It was credibility.

Three hundred and sixty days ago I shook hands.  I stood on a sawmill floor myself and promised I would knuckle through twelve months of an unfavourable term to break through with considerable gain at the end of the year.  Short term pain for long term gain.  A risky investment fueled by emotion more than logic but justifiable nonetheless after a quick cost-benefit analysis.   There was no kindly sawmill owner.  What there is, regrettably, is a bureaucracy with a deeper sense of responsibility to its shareholders than to the individuals in which they invest.  I was an investment and, as good as it was...they want more and have no compunction whatsoever in reversing their original agreement with me.  The terms have changed...just when they were supposed to turn in my favour.  At least they will, if I don't terminate....and I will terminate.

I am the first to admit that I am hopelessly naive but it is only because I have an unwavering faith in the goodness and truth of others.  Don't get me wrong, I can spot a fraud, but all things being equal, you have to earn my mistrust.

This experience won't change my outlook. I know that because I've survived worse and I still believe in the greater good.  

Next time I'll be sure to insist on a handshake.