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

Parenting in a Brand New World

"When we were kids, our parents taught us to meditate. They said 'Sit down and shut up!'" ~ unknown

Raising kids to become responsible, well-adjusted adults is pretty tricky business I think. As the mother of two teenagers, I feel sometimes like I am flailing about in unknown waters as I throw life preservers at my kids. How in the world do you nurture a sense of adventure in your children when what is most important is to protect them from harm? I decided long ago that sharing this world with my children means exposing them not only to its beauty, but also to its unsavory side...there seems no way around it.

During summers when I was a kid, my parents would take us down to the lake for a swim before bed. It meant crossing a road, so we were shepherded from the house by Mom and Dad - an unholy trio of hot kids who couldn't wait to be "the first one in." I remember one night I ran ahead, bound and determined to be the first one to the dock. My father yelled "stop" and so I did...in the middle of the road. "Did you look?" he asked. I looked in both directions and promptly replied, "Yes." "Lookit here...the only thing you're gonna see is the colour of the car that hits you." Then it hit me. Not a car...but that first feeling of vulnerability...mortality. It was a lesson, albeit a brief one, but I still remember it and - well - I couldn't tell you what I ate for lunch last Tuesday so...let's just say it stuck.

We all agree, we don't want to scare our kids, we just want them to be aware. The world needs risk-takers not martyrs and certainly not more fools. It takes courage to know when the risk outweighs the reward and the world needs heroes so we do our best to help our kids calculate risks and then attack life with purpose and clarity and confidence. We hold our breath as they test the waters and hope they survive each and every lesson as they become more practised at managing their own risks. But they are kids, and they are human, and they make mistakes.

Accidents are just that...heartbreaking tragedies that steal and cheat time away from families and friends and futures. There are no reasons to be found...no villains...no dark motives. Just a sad absence that bores its way into the community that loses a life unlived.

Too many young lives end in so many preventable ways but this one...Ben Rogers...hits home. It wasn't misadventure. It was a choice that, under different circumstances would be applauded as a responsible one. I would have done the same thing...I would have walked.

My kids were talking about Ben and, while I normally offer my opinions I could not offer anything of substance...no deeper insight or understanding. No advice. Nothing. I felt only a tightening in my chest and realized I was holding my breath.

Grandma's Little Red Book

I was thinking today of my Grandma. When she passed, a small red book came to be in my care. It is a collection of pages written in the careful penmanship of someone who spent a lifetime scrolling letters across an expansive blackboard. Careful letters canting to the right in a lazy, lovely flow of captured versus. She wrote in this book, quotes and captions that held some secret meaning for her...a cautionary tale, a life lesson or maybe just something to read when she needed to change her perspective. It's too late to ask her why she selected the passages; I can now only imagine why or how she chose each and every one.

On days like today when I wish I could curl back up into her lap like I did when I was young, I get instead to flip through the pages and remember her through her handwriting. I remember being young, sitting on her lap. I remember the way it felt when she ran her fingers through my hair as I leaned back into her. I remember her smell, her voice, her benevolence...the peace I felt curled there in her care.

The words of Taylor Caldwell, Piet Hein, Peter Marshall, Winston Churchill, Euripides and ...wait for it... Led Zeppelin...among others.

"Life itself can't give you joy unless you really will it. Life just gives you time and space. It's up to you to fill it." The Mountain Bar

"The first thing that popped into my head was the last thing I should've said." Unknown

"The reason that worry kills more people than work is that more people worry."

"Use the talents you possess for the woods would be very silent if no birds sang but the very best."

"Those who bring sunshine to the lives of others cannot keep it from themselves." Sir James Barrie

"A girl who thinks she is too good for any man may be right -- but she may be left."

Going Off Half-Cocked

Years ago, I fell in love with language and words. It never ceases to amaze me how "the right word" can capture at once an emotion or an idea that would otherwise be lost. Fact is, English is much like our brain...you can easily function using just a fraction of its true capacity. It happens. All the time.

Admittedly, I have, over the years, become a bit of a "language snob." Ask my best friend. She will testify. I remember hours before meeting someone very special in her life, she turned to me and cautioned..."Do NOT correct him." Ok. Fair enough. Besides, if the worst thing that happens in my day, is that I am forced to read an email littered with the misuse of "they're," "their," or "there," I'm having a pretty great day. That said, there are a few phrases that make me NUTS and this is my soapbox so ....

Please, please, please, let's consider archiving some over-used, mis-used, ridiculous, tired phrases. For instance:

"True Dat"
If you have not produced or performed on a recording that went platinum in the last 3 years, you are prohibited from using this slang phrase. That's our new rule.

"Oh Em Gee" (OMG)
N. O. The beautiful thing about communicating in the 21st century is the variety of methods available to exchange words with our fellow man but...please...pick one...and let's not blur the lines.

"Hate the player, not the game."
Actually, I reserve the right to hate both. If there is no player, there is no game and if you fail to find the truth in that, then you are a worthy target of my loathing.

"I ride shotgun."
Look kids, I grew up in hicksville. Shotguns "ride" suspended in racks in the rear window of a rusted old pickup truck. Does that sound like a comfortable mode of transportation to you? Try, "I ride smelly hunting dog with muddy feet." Still sound cool to you?

"Get off your high horse."
If we need an equine reference to get our point across, how about quietly whispering to the offender..."Stop talking, you sound like a jackass."

"Don't shoot the messenger."
No? Well then...would you be open to a beating?

"Can I play devil's advocate?"
Sure. Let's begin. You go to hell.

"If it ain't broke, don't fix it."
It astonishes me that humanity found itself at a place in its history where this tidbit of advice would be a necessary addition to the English language.

"Going to hell in a handbasket."
Honestly...given the destination...do we truly believe that how we get there is going to account for what is bound to be uncomfortable trip?

"Let there be light."
It was cute when God said it but...really...you changed a lightbulb...can we just leave it at that?

"A picture is worth a thousand words."
So you mean to tell me that at this year's Christmas Party when the boss is handing out bonuses by way of short stories or Chagall you will actually struggle under the weight of the decision? I thought so. Let me grab my hammer.

"It's not rocket science."
No...it isn't. It also isn't brain surgery, air traffic control, facial reconstruction or nuclear disarmament but it is freaking hard and I'm struggling here so please...spare me.

"If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen."
Might I also suggest that you avoid furnace rooms, saunas, blacksmith shops, tire fires, the entire month of August, and various travel destinations that litter the equator.

"Paint the town red."
If you must. But take a spray-can. And don't get caught.

"You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink."
No you can't. Just ask PETA.

"It's not over 'til the fat lady sings."
Yet sadly...it ends...and often in oppressive silence.

I could go on. Push the envelope. Run amok...to coin a phrase. I feel better having vented. Turned out today's blog was probably nothing more than just a flash in the pan. I hope you don't think I'm barking mad.

They say that English is one of the most difficult languages to learn. Hmmmm. Wonder why.

Booger Check

Today I thought I would dedicate a post to the value of the "Booger Check." For those of you that are not familiar with the term, it is simply a tool to avoid the embarrassment of an unwanted...um...uh...shall we say...nose buddy.

Today at breakfast, a waitress came to the table with a...ahem...nose buddy. After a quick first glance, I thought it was piercing because of where it was positioned. She seemed a little old and a little conservatively dressed for a piercing but, hey, I'm not the fashion police so I didn't give it much attention. I asked for a green tea and suggested that she return for my husband's order when he joined me at the table. She came back with my tea and I looked up from my menu to thank her which provided me with the opportunity for a long second look. I realized then that I had mistaken her nose buddy for a nose piercing. I quickly scanned the data banks for any lessons I may have learned on how to effectively yet discreetly address this very personal issue, but she was gone before I could come up with anything useful. I checked my pocket for a Kleenex but found none. What to do? What to do?

At this point, I felt the blossoming birth of curiosity. My husband is a germophobe and is repulsed by anything less than the sterile treatment of his food. I suddenly felt as though I needed to see how he would respond to this particular situation. I had my chance only a few moments later when he came and sat down. He began looking at his menu.

Our waitress came over and asked if he would like some coffee. He looked up to respond and quickly fixed his gaze upon her nose buddy. He looked at me and I gave him "the caution look." (It's kind of a quick widening of the eye followed by a short eyebrow rise served up with a clenched jaw. ) He looked at her, he looked at me, he looked at her nose buddy, then at me again. It was all I could do not to laugh. "I'll take a decaf please," he said. Did he know that his nose was turned up when he said that? I was certain that he was going to suggest that we leave, but all he said was, "the other restaurant is where the 'old boys' hang out," as though we really had no choice but to be served by the waitress with the nose-buddy.

I won't trouble you with the conversation that followed but I can assure you that there was no laughter, no rude comments, no inappropriate remarks. We were just two people every bit as embarrassed by this situation as this poor woman would be as soon as she caught her reflection in a shiny pot.

Again, this long, sordid tale is intended only to promote the Booger Check. You can use a mirror, the studious gaze of a good friend or a discrete co-worker. Children make the best booger checkers though because they take that opportunity to assess your entire facial area. They identify boogers as well as blemishes, stained teeth, tooth-buddies, red eyes, and eyebrows in need of plucking. Remember, if you don't want to know, don't ask.

CAUTION: Beware of the little trolls that decide to exploit their trusted position as your personal booger checker to capitalize on this entertaining situation at your expense. They are evil, evil people.

Not everyone is built to be a booger checker.

Ready...

set...

blow.

What's Your Sign

Another Blogger, The Patient Flosser, wrote that she had thought (among other things) about putting a nasty poster on her neighbour's door that reads, I AM AN INCONSIDERATE F***. She calls him Stompy and you'll have to read the entire post to decide whether he is deserving of the label or not. Here's the link (it's a quick read):

http://patientflosser.blogspot.com/2007/01/stompy.html

She described this act as "stooping" to his level and dismissed it outright. I, on the other hand, found it to be a very compelling idea. Now, I don't want to get into a discussion about Stompy, because it's easy to rationalize behaviour when we have the luxury of guessing about people's motives, but I am interested in the premise. What if this was one of our social norms? What if we were permitted or encouraged to place posters on the doors of our neighbours? What would the poster on your door say? What sign would you leave for your neighbours?

If you've been reading my entries you would probably guess, as I would, that my signs would say "dirty bathrooms," or "sharp tongue" or "flabby abs" or even "quiet, blogger blogging." The neighbour across the street might leave a poster on my door that says "yummy brownies," or "needs bedroom curtains."

I'd be all over this idea. I'm sure I would mostly use it as an opportunity to reinforce good behaviour through positive reinforcement - that, of course, would be the right thing to do. You know, "nice lawn," "world's best neighbours," "great kids live here," things that convey sweet, warm sentiments. That said, I have been known to have some pretty bad days during which I must harness all my will just to hold my tongue. I'm not sure I'd be as successful at self-restraint if I knew that I had this option available to me. An almost anonymous offensive directed at unsuspecting, but deserving people who push my buttons might be far too convenient an opportunity to pass up. On such a day, I could be lured to the dark side with as little as a sideways glance. Most often I just entertain thoughts of retaliation and am rarely compelled to act, but there have been a few regrettable incidents.

Consider this though; how would we behave if we knew that we were going to wake up the next day to a door full of posters? Would we try to be "cute & cuddly" or "strong but silent" or would we just wake up, pull the signs off the door and shout out defenses to our neighbours? Would we be more kind or more irritable? Would we be more tolerant or less judgmental? Would we concern ourselves more with the actions of others (the posters we're going to make), or pay closer attention to our own behaviours (the posters we find on our own doors)?
Let's ask Stompy.

Stompy, if you knew that your insensitive behaviour was going to result in a socially-acceptable method of public and personal defamation, would you be a little quieter? What's that? Go to hell, you say?

Well, there you have it. It's going to take much more than a sign on the door to curb the enthusiastic shenanigans of Stompy. Maybe a poster fastened to a brick with an elastic....

So tell me, what's your sign?

Thanks, Patient Flosser, for opening up this idea for me. It was a fun one to explore.

Do You Miss Manners?

On her Thought Spot blog, Diane talked about formalities and the way that her father raised her in an environment bursting with old-fashioned military etiquette. What she didn't learn from her father would be instilled in her later, as she trained to become a marine officer. (Here's the link.)

http://the-thought-spot.blogspot.com/2006/12/on-formalities.html

I regard manners in much the same way as I do art -- I may not know manners, but I know what I like. I mentioned to Diane that I prefer to use first names in addressing other adults. I feel it's one of my divine rights as a grown-up. I get to eat dessert first, go to bed when I want, and address other adults by their first name. I made it through high-school so I figure I deserve some special privilege in exchange for all the indignities I suffered at the hands of cruel teenage girls...and boys for that matter. I wield first names like a sword, levelling the social playground by cutting through formalities and pretense. "We are all God's children," I tell myself, "no one person is more or less valuable than another. We all have a purpose."

I felt pretty comfortable with this personal philosophy until I read Diane's blog. It made me realize that a little bit of ceremony may not be a bad thing. Remember when you were a kid and you called your friends' parents Mr. & Mrs. Smith? It was a sign of respect. Gentlemen opened doors for ladies, children didn't cuss in public, and we always wore our best dress to church on Sunday. All examples of how we demonstrated our respect for others. Not exactly ceremony, but certainly it offered some semblance of decorum.

Things changed somewhere along the line; I kind of like the phrase "social decay." It suggests that we need to pay attention to our collective mental hygiene (sorry) in order to see improvements. I see the symptoms of this decay everywhere, particularly where manners are concerned. Here are some observations:

"I want some milk," says little Jimmy.
"What do you say?" asks Mommy.
"Please can I have some milk," little Jimmy obeys.
"Sure sweetie," comes the reply.
A few moments pass.
"Go brush your teeth Jimmy or you'll be late for the bus."

See anything missing from this exchange? I do. I see it all the time. I probably commit this crime of omission myself from time to time. I consider it the "do as I say, not as I do" approach to parental instruction in manners. Here's another one.

"Go brush your teeth please, or you'll be late for the bus," says Mommy.
"Huh?" asks Jimmy.
"The word is pardon," comes Mommy's reply, "and I said, please go brush your teeth." "Mommy, I can't find the toothpaste," Jimmy calls down from the upstairs bathroom.
"What?" yells Mommy.

I'm a parent and I hear this a lot. Well, perhaps it's more accurate to say I recognize it more often because I've grown sensitive to it. In fact, there is a particular individual in my extended family that is especially bad for this. He instructs my children in matters of etiquette while completely disregarding these rules himself. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for the instruction part, but please don't confuse my kids by having them follow one set of rules while you follow another. Here are a few other examples of how we muddy the waters:

• parents who smack their kids and say, "I said no hitting;"
• neighbours who play loud music until 2 a.m. and then throw stones at you when you start your lawn mower the next morning at 8:00 and call you an insensitive ass; and
• dentists who charge $50 for missed appointments and then keep you waiting in their foyer until 9:18 for your 9:00 appointment. "Where's my $50 bucks?" I feel like asking.

Speaking of manners...let's talk about chivalry. If chivalry is dead, I say feminists killed it. How would you like to be on the receiving end of a lecture on the history of feminism and equal rights all the while being accused of oppressive sexist behaviour in response to a single, albeit misplaced, chivalrous act? I can certainly understand how a man might be a little reluctant to flex his gallantry-muscle in modern day society. For those of you willing to open doors or donate a hankie but who may feel unsure of how to rebut an unexpected male-bashing, here's a response I found in a book:

"Are you holding that door open because I'm a woman?" she asks aggressively.
"No, I'm doing it because I am a gentleman," he replies.

...and by the way, I can assure you there are women in the world that long for the "old-fashioned" courtesies that used to come our way. A finely pressed white hankie, a door opened, a seat on the bus, an umbrella on a rainy day, an offer to carry my heavy parcels (to my well-lit parking spot in a busy, public lot.) I understand that perfect strangers might be a little nervous about some of these, what with the avian flu, feminism, and rising crime rates, but if you think you're up for the task go ahead and take the risk. I assure you that any lady would respond politely even if it's to decline your kind gesture.

Some time ago, I committed to being the kindest person I know. Since that time, I discovered that this is not entirely unlike being the most polite person I know. If being kind is about being polite, then shouldn't we be concerned by "social decay?" Are we perhaps too afraid to be kind or have we just forgotten how? In this age of technology, we are raising kids that know how to reprogram the clocks on our VCRs but who couldn't recognize a hankie in a linen line-up. Manners are things that we point out as being absent, but that we often fail to acknowledge when they are present.

About ten years ago, we made fun of technophobes when our parents and grandparents were afraid to touch a computer. What we forgot to value, was their exceptional talent for conducting social interactions. Experts say that baby boomers are an important part of the workforce because they can mentor the Gen-Xers in the finer art of relationship building. Gen-Xers demonstrate great aptitude for technology but the word on the street is that they make crummy supervisors. Seems many of them don't know how to motivate or mentor other people because they often lack basic social skills needed for building and maintaining relationships. That's not to say they don't try.

Ever had an acquaintance (or in some cases, a complete stranger) come up and talk to you about their abusive spouse, their recent bankruptcy and their long list of diagnoses and corresponding treatments? It happens, sure it does. Heck, even if you're not the intended recipient of these little tidbits, you have probably suffered through the uncomfortable second-hand exposure to somebody's public therapy session. Social boundaries have been blurred or even demolished by some unknown force. Let's blame reality TV shows. Whether they deserve it or not, I hate them so let's go with that.

As with all rules, there are also exceptions. There are Baby Boomers who are also sociopaths and empty vessels just like there are Gen-Xers who are charismatic and empathetic humanitarians. We refer to them as weirdos and eccentrics. They are scary and strange because they don't follow the norm. They don't get asked to parties very often and they don't watch reality TV shows.

Diane made me consider that, to others, I may appear boorish and insensitive. I suppose I am sometimes, but not due to any mal intent. Any loutish behaviour would be a product of my ignorance. Having said that, "ignorance of the law is no defense," so I decided I should brush up on my etiquette. I'll get back to you on my findings.

For now, I'll adjust my philosophy on familiarity and offer the respect of a title to any police officers, judges, professors, doctors, dentists, military and political officials. In the meantime, I'm going to read Lynne Truss's book "Talk to the Hand. The Utter Bloody Rudeness of the World Today, or Six Good Reasons to Stay Home and Bolt the Door." I'll share what I find in a future post.

A Few Words on Golf

I have one good game of golf every year. Perhaps ironically, it is the one I play by myself after a long winter of not thinking about golf. It is also the one I choose to play alone so that I don't hear "you looked up" umpteen times in one day.

My parents own a golf course in Lanark County. It's called Dalhousie Glen. The picture above shows the 2nd hole taken from the trees at the 3rd tee. The views on the course are sensational, especially near the end of the season.

I don't own my own set of golf clubs so I usually borrow my husband's. I'm 5'9 and I find a lady's club a little short. I could probably try to adjust my swing but, frankly, I'm not that devoted. For any non-golfers, adjusting your swing is roughly the equivalent of reducing your shoe size by one. It's uncomfortable and causes frustration, irritability and pain. It's usually just easier to find a comfortable pair of shoes and try to match them to everything in the closet. Same with my golf swing. I get along fine as long as I look for courses to match my ability. As a matter of courtesy, I steer clear of courses where I may encounter the ubergolfer. You know....

Ubergolfer (pronounced: ooh-burr-gaul-fer)
The loudest, most obnoxious of the anthropoid golfers, the ubergolfer is characterized by its swollen head and unnaturally large mouth. Unlike its cousin the "able-golfer" the ubergolfer is distinguished through peculiarities in its brain anatomy. The cerebellum which helps coordinate movement (balance and muscle coordination) is putter-shaped in the ubergolfer and is known to cause involuntary, repititious golf swings both off and on the course. The frontal lobe (controls problem-solving) is shaped like a driver and lacks the capacity for self-correction though it over-compensates through the correction of others; the pre-frontal cortex (determines personality) is under-developed and is thus attributed to the ubergolfer's personality deficit. Years of evolution have resulted in adaptations in the ubergolfer's accessories so that bags, hats, clubs, etc. are emblazoned with the letters P-I-N-G. This is nature's way of warning other anthropoid golfers that coming into contact with the ubergolfer will result in irritation; prolonged exposure may even cause vomiting. The ubergolfer is semiterrestrial. While harmless on land, the ubergolfer can become aggressive and unpredictable when encountered in sand or water.

I am not a serious golfer and I think I demonstrate that when I leave the clubhouse without either scorecard or pencil. I am, however, sensitive enough to know that my lack of reverence can be offensive to others. I observe golf etiquette in so far as it will impact the games of other players (e.g. I let faster groups play through) but I generally disregard the rules of golf. I suppose it should come as no surprise then, when I say I rarely get invited to tournaments.

In my view, the objective of any leisure activity is to have fun. With that in mind, here are my friendly tips for the novice golfer on how to enjoy a game of golf:

• Buy a nice pair of golf shoes. It's not going to improve your game but - hey -- new shoes!
• Find a small, friendly golf club that doesn't scream hoity-toity when you pull into the parking lot. Avoid any course that has a parking lot full of Mercedes', BMWs, Lincoln Navigators, etc. These are the ubergolfer's preferred mode of transportation. Might I suggest you try Dalhousie Glen?
• Before you leave the parking lot, dump all your clubs on the ground. Pick up your driver, your putter, your wedge and your nine-iron and put them in your golf bag. Throw all the other clubs into the trunk of your car.
• Go to the clubhouse and buy one dozen previously-used golf balls. DO NOT buy a box of brand new balls. You'll feel much better about leaving a $1.00 ball in the water hazard versus a $4.00 ball. Besides, your telescopic ball retriever is in the trunk of your car.
• Grab a package of wooden tees. Don't bother with the plastic tees even if they claim to compensate for your crappy swing. They don't. If they did, the guy behind the counter would be on the pro circuit instead of here trying to peddle plastic tees to you.
• Exit the clubhouse without taking a scorecard and pencil; keep telling yourself that they are the devil's instruments.
• Proceed to the first tee paying close attention to anyone who may be in your immediate vicinity. If you get there with another party, let them play first. Trust me on this. If you have to sit there for an hour while parties come and clear the first tee, do it. If you need to stall, take your driver out of your bag, throw it over your shoulders and drape your hands over either end. This position is called "the warm up." Swivel at the waist or bend left and right a little every now and then.
• When the last group clears the fairway, grab the driver and four balls out of your bag. Drive each of the balls into the fairway. Proceed to the ball that is closest to the green provided that it also offers the best lie and collect the other balls (if you can find them). This is called "best ball."
• Alternating between your driver and iron, continue to swing at the ball until it lands on or near the green. If you over-shoot, grab your wedge and aim back toward the green OR pick up the ball and toss it in a light, underhand motion from the apron. Tossing the ball can loosely be interpreted as a Bisque which can also be loosely interpreted as cheating.
• When your ball finds its way to the green, grab your putter and go to the hole. Pull the flag from the hole and lay it on the green in a position such that it will serve as a backstop for the putt that you are about to miss. Line up your shot. (You can walk around and pretend to "read the hole" if you want to impress anyone looking on, but make sure you don't trip over the flag and attract unwanted attention.)
• Employing a pendulum-like arc, tap your ball with your putter until it drops into the plastic cup. Smile knowingly as you bend at the waist to retrieve your ball and nod deeply as you replace the flag in the hole.
• If you absolutely could not help yourself and you took a scorecard against my advice, tally your score for this hole. To do this, you will need to: add up all your shots; subtract the ones you tried to make with your wedge; and divide that number by the number of balls you have left from the start of that hole -- remember, you started with four.
• Proceed to the next hole and repeat. When you get tired, return to the clubhouse. If you fail to complete the course, remember to reduce the score of you game by the total par of the remaining holes. For example, if you are playing a par 3 course and you quit on hole 12, you reduce your overall score by 18.

Remember, like the old saying goes, "Golf is like sex. You don't have to be any good to enjoy it.

Rock-it Man!

Last night, my best bud and I went to see Elton John in concert at Scotiabank Place in Ottawa. She bought me a ticket for my birthday last month.

The show opened with Funeral for a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding, as 15,000 screaming fans welcomed Captain Fantastic to the nation's capital. Somewhere during the first verse of Benny and the Jets, I decided that this was, without question, the best birthday gift ever!

Sir Elton John is, in my opinion, one of the finest entertainers of our musical history. How else do you explain a career lasting over 35 years? There are only a handful of artists that succeed to this level and last night, it was clear to me why and how this marvel of a musician has endured.

For a man whose image was built upon outrageous costumes that have included, in the past, chicken suits and dresses, Sir Elton's outfit last night would be considered boring by some, tasteful by others. Looking grand in a pop-formal ensemble that featured a modestly-bedazzled jacket and brilliant red shirt, Elton John appears to have traded in garish for glamour. Outfit aside, he did treat us to a few showy antics during "The Bitch is Back" including a diva-like pose on top of his baby grand followed by a mule-kick from his piano bench. It wasn't necessary, and it probably wasn't even safe at his age, but it made this wonderfully quirky man all the more endearing.

One of last night's many highlights for me was the revival-like performance of Take Me to the Pilot, featuring a breath-taking introduction as Elton John thundered on the keys of his piano at a speed that seemed humanly impossible. Praise God and Hallelujah! And, while it's not my favourite song, last night's rendition of "Rocket Man" made me believe it might well be one of Elton's favourite songs. His face lit up as he repeated time after time, "I'm a rocket man, I'm a rocket man...." Yes you are! And I think you will be..."for a long, long time". Yes sir, you rock it man!

The band with Elton John included drummer and vocalist Nigel Olsson, guitarist and vocalist Davey Johnstone, Bob Birch on bass, John Mahon on percussion, and one-man orchestra Guy Babylon on keyboard. The technical crew who was not (and probably never will be) introduced, deserves praise for delivering effects that allowed Elton to sing his own backup vocals during the theatrical climax in Rocket Man.

The concert included favourites like Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters, Daniel, I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues, Sorry Seems To Be the Hardest Word, Daniel, Tiny Dancer, Crocodile Rock, Don't Let The Sun Go Down on Me, Philadelphia Freedom, Saturday Night's Alright (For Fighting), and my favourite song - Levon. He also included in this concert series, the title track to Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, saying that it has been years since he performed the song.

Mid-concert, Sir Elton introduced his new album titled The Captain & The Kid. With something sounding strangely like an apology, he introduced and played new tracks from that album including Post Cards From Richard Nixon, Tinderbox and The Bridge. Incidentally, the song The Bridge is worth the cost of the entire CD - the gorgeous harmony in this song nearly brought me to tears. I haven't heard these tracks on the radio, but trust me when I say that this album is sure to offer some new favourites for Elton John fans.

After over two hours of auditory bliss, the concert closed when Elton John dedicated his famous hit "Your Song" to me...well, to everyone in attendance, but he said "to each one of you," so I'm going with that. It was a beautiful gift and I accept it with thanks.

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And a note to Sir Elton John:

My parents are huge fans that have followed your career from its very beginning. I have inherited their adoration as surely as if it were part of my genetic makeup. Your music is familiar, and in its familiarity I find reassurance, inspiration and passion. You have captured and coloured our social and political history in a way that only enduring artists are capable of doing. To echo your own words, "I thank the Lord, there's people out there like you." You make the world a better place.

Vitamin Pee?

My 12-year old son came to me last night to complain about his feet and how sore they were. He normally discusses his personal health issues with his dad but, you know, sometimes when you feel crummy, you just want your mom. His feet were red, swollen messes and it was clear to me that he had a mild case of Athlete's Foot (in his case Athlete's Feet). Never having suffered with this ailment, it was difficult to commiserate. I could only recall memories of my older sister suffering through numerous bouts of Athlete's Foot during her childhood. I gave him a hug, helped treat his immediate symptoms and promised him that I would find him a cure.

As with most Internet searches, my search engine returned hundreds of thousands of great links to resources for Athlete's Foot including: medical encyclopedias; photos (by the way, I'm passing on lunch today); products; literature (kudos again to Amazon's marketing staff); and, personal web sites and blog entries on the topic. I plan to take Medline's advice and visit my pharmacist to discuss an appropriate non-prescription cream, spray or powder that will relieve the pain, swelling and itching. I will follow Wikipedia's advice and continue the treatments even after the symptoms disappear to prevent re-infection from dormant, yet persistent, fungi that linger in footwear too expensive to throw out.

Among the many links, I found a reference to alternative therapies that piqued my interest. You should know that my preference is to avoid unnecessary medical interventions when a more natural, less invasive option is available to me. Naturally (pardon the pun) I followed the link. The title took me by surprise -- Urine Therapy.

I kid you not.

It seems that medical and laboratory researchers have been conducting research on the healing properties of urine which is known to be a source of vital nutrients, hormones, vitamins and antibodies. According to one site, tests using Urine Therapy have been used to treat "cancer, heart disease, allergies, auto-immune diseases, diabetes, asthma, infertility, infections, wounds, etc." In fact, the author of that site talks about her own experience with Urine Therapy's "profound ability" to heal a crippling disease that was, otherwise, incurable.

Please understand that my knowledge of Urine Therapy is limited to a few facts that I gathered (but did not check) during a one-hour search of the Internet. I neither support nor refute claims made about Urine Therapy; I simply find it to be an absolutely fascinating subject.

Articles on the web repeatedly state that urine is NOT a toxic body waste but rather a purified derivative of blood. This is particularly interesting to me since I know first-hand of more than a dozen people who refuse to eat candies from any restaurant's complimentary candy dish. These people agree that the candies in these dishes are all contaminated by urine from patrons who fail to perform adequate hand-washing after trips to the restroom. Do we deduce then that only people who don't wash their hands eat candies from this candy dish? A topic for another day perhaps.

Toxic body waste or not, you're probably wondering how Urine Therapy is administered, I know I was. Urine can either be administered orally (I'll pass on dinner now too) or applied externally. I found several references that suggest that men in India have been ingesting urine for thousands of years and that this practice is not uncommon in the East. No, I don't mean Newfoundland or Rhode Island, I mean the FAR East.

Through my reading, I came to realize that Urine Therapy was not entirely unknown to me before today. I was first introduced to the notion as a household cure for poisonous bites or stings. That is, I have been told that in an emergency, I could pee on a snake bite to disinfect the wound. That said, I grew up on a farm next-door to my loving grandparents who had a makeshift cure for nearly anything but death itself.

My research produced credible sources and compelling arguments in support of Urine Therapy. If you decide to do your own research, you can also use the term "Urea Treatment" to learn about scientific studies in medicine and agriculture.

The truth is, the list of diagnoses successfully treated using Urine Therapy includes some rather daunting diseases -- cancer, hepatitis, multiple sclerosis -- and conventional medicine doesn't guarantee any cures. Wouldn't you try anything to save your life? What if your life wasn't on the line? Would you commit to a daily dose of "Vitamin Pee" if it offered allergy relief? Would you pee on your snake bite?

If my grandfather was still alive, I'm sure he would suggest that my son stand in the shower and urinate on his burning, swollen feet. In fact I'm toying with the idea of printing off an article that suggests this very thing as a treatment just to see how he reacts. I'd probably stop him before he got to the bathroom. Probably.