From Russia with Haste

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“Russia!” I told my assistant.
“I want to roam the largest country in the world. I want to shop on Tretyakov Drive in Moscow, attend the ballet in Saint Petersburg and nosh on caviar by Lake Baikal…”

“Билеты, пожалуйста, прямо сейчас!”1 I ordered.
And just like that I was whisked away …

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To the vodka aisle at the LCBO.
“Поди ж ты!”2

Expecting the fanfare befitting a duchess, I was flabbergasted – I tell you – when the Ruskies surrounded us.
“I am no spy! I am no gypsy! I am no sinister villain!”

IMG00082-20130425-1102My protests were for naught.
In a flurry of officious pomposity, they threw us out of the country.

Travel, my pets, is always full of surprises.

Don’t let a few nincompoop ambassadors sour your taste for exploring new territories and sampling their delights.
In honour of Mother Russia, let me share with you this вкусный3 borscht recipe.

Journeywoofman Borscht
adapted from food.com
2 cups shredded peeled beets
1 cup shredded carrot
1 cup chopped onion
½ cup chopped celery
3 cloves garlic, crushed
1 tablespoon olive oil
3 cans beef broth
2 cups coarsely chopped cabbage
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
¾ cup chopped fresh dill
sour cream, for topping

Saute beets, carrots, garlic, onion and celery with olive oil in a large saucepan. Add beef broth. Simmer for 15 minutes. Add cabbage and cook uncovered for about 15 minutes. Stir in lemon juice and ½ cup dill. Refrigerate for a day. Served chilled with a dollop of sour cream and chopped dill sprinkled on top.  наслаждаться!4

I also share with you a few travel tips:
Tip #2
Be sure your passport is updated before you venture into the great unknown. That way you’ll avoid potential ouster from foreign locales.

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Tip #3
When travel plans go to the dogs, head directly to Plan B: the staycation destination. A bottle of vodka, a couple of ounces of caviar and a rerun of the 1972 Canada-Soviet summit series should do the trick.
Tip #4
Wherever you may land … er … refrain from taking companion animals into retail locations full of breakable glass.

1 Tickets, please, right now!
2 Drat!
3 tasty
4 Enjoy!
* That assistant? I think he needs to learn Russian.

Small World, Big Hearts

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What do a Toronto art gallery and autism have to do with the Boston Marathon? More than you might think.
Rosa Graci is curator of the Joseph D. Carrier Art Gallery at the Columbus Centre on Lawrence Avenue West. She is also a lovely, kind lady.  A few days ago, her husband, Tony, and her daughter, Elysa, were running in the famous international footrace.  Scores of athletes that day were undoubtedly aiming to finish the course within a certain time frame or to beat a personal record.  Not Tony.  He was running for autism. In an email the lawyer sent out earlier this month, he described his endeavour this way:

“I am running with and raising funds for the Doug Flutie Jr. Foundation for Autism. Doug Flutie, whose son suffers from autism, was a great football player, who won three Grey Cups in the Canadian Football League, two with the Argos. 

 Autism is a neurological disorder that inhibits the normal development of the brain in the areas of social interaction and communications skills.  The diagnosis is a heartbreaking one for parents.  I hope that you will support me in this very worthwhile cause.

I am also running for my 13 year old buddy Cody, who suffers from autism.”

A lot of people and families grapple with autism. The Flutie Foundation is dedicated to improving their quality of life. Over a dozen runners were part of Dougie’s 2013 Boston Marathon Team and they raised over $222,000.  Hopefully, they escaped injury.  Although the event is over and it ended so tragically, donations to support this team’s efforts are still being accepted; you’ll see Tony Graci’s name right there on the list of fundraisers.

Can you believe just last Monday two bombs exploded on Boylston Street, a city was terrorized and the world watched in horror?  Rosa was there by the finish line. She was one of the spectators near Copley Square.  Elysa had already completed her race and Tony was still on the road. It was Patriots’ Day, the crowd of spectators was huge and the impact was without question dreadful.

That’s why it is worth remembering all the good and honouring the spirit of caring six days ago in downtown Boston. Please consider supporting Tony Graci’s effort. It, too, has an impact that will last.

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A List and a Peek at Autism

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“No, no, no!”
I hear it all the time.
Somebody’s always saying, “Don’t do this. Don’t do that.”
It’s annoying.
Not to mention insulting.
Meanwhile, it’s okay for everybody else to waste their time pursuing stuff that makes no sense:
Status symbols?
Upward mobility?
Youthfulness?
Hello.
Practically the whole world seems genetically fixated on keeping up with the Joneses and keeping up appearances.
It baffles.
There they are – Dick and Jane – having their faces injected with Botox because they don’t want to look like themselves.
They paint their driveways with toxic tar so the pavement will look nice and they get down on their hands and knees to pick weeds out of lawns so they’ll have “perfect grass.”
They wear fake Rolexes (or work 80 hours a week to pay for real ones) and guzzle gas to travel to another country to purchase disposable goods.
It’s ridiculous.

So why is it that when I try to be practical, it’s called a disaster?
All I did was buy a clipper kit at Walmart.
And give a pet a haircut.

Still, the spousal unit and the plural offspring and the randomest of random others have been heard to say, ”No, no, no!”
That’s a fact.
So let’s take a look at the To Not Do List:

The LIST

The LOGIC
 1. Do not run from police.  Running isn’t a crime.

2. Do not clean the oven without reading the instruction manual.

 “Billowing toxic smoke” is a matter of interpretation.
 3. Do not use the snowblower in October.

I was moving it. Who could predict it would bump and dislodge a gas pipeline?

4. Do not take the dog into the LCBO.

 The dog was welcome at Tweed and Hickory, the drug store, the bank manager’s office and the home improvement store.  Perhaps it’s an LCBO customer service issue.
 5. Do not win the war, when it’s a high-priced bidding war at a charity auction. You object to philanthropy?

6. Do not welcome Jehovah’s Witnesses for a Saturday morning household tour.

 Kindness? Inclusion? Are these just words?
 7. Do not detour to a shopping mall on the way to catch a train for a vacation. Umbrellas are a travel necessary.
 8. Do not rearrange or dispose of another person’s worldly belongings. Hoarders need help.

9. Do not invite strangers to be houseguests.

 Refer to #6
10.  Do not bury your mother in a cookie jar.

She didn’t want money wasted on anything fancy.

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It’s a Trip: HostelBookers 7 Super Shots

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Psst. It’s me. Pam. And it’s you, You. Here. Together. In the dark.
I know it’s gawdawful early and all we really need is intravenous coffee or another 120 minutes of dead-to-the-world relaxation and I know all the compartments in your head are full to busting and you should know I’m on the way to the rink in about five minutes ago and my whole cellular being is already frozen solid and as soon as any logic at all kicks in it’s party over so while we’re here – You and Me – in the delicious soupy murk of this netherworld, let’s go for a trip.  (Call it a ramble… I am taking part in HostelBookers 7 Super Shots, courtesy of the irresistible @jackstrawlane from http://jackstrawlane.com.)

Okay?
Good.

Got your bathing suit?
First stop is a little spot in New Hampshire called I Don’t Remember.

A photo that…takes my breath away 

There’s magic here.  You’ll find it in the mountains, where the moose droppings are real and heaven is closer. Joy spills over.

Ready?

A photo that…makes me laugh or smile
This is the land of Sniff  ’n Scratch, with Holyflyin Piranha at the wide-open Window of Promise.
“Woo hoo world, I’m comin atcha!”
(Yes, she will let you share your ice cream cone with her.)
Let’s stop for a minute now.
Brace yourself.
I’m going to tell you a secret, a deep, dark secret at our next destination.
Better grab your hat, mitts and coat.
A photo that…makes me dream

*Whispering* Did I ever tell you I love hockey?
You will too. Close your eyes. Pull on these skates, tie the laces, put on the rest of the gear and venture gently, tentatively, tippily onto the ice. Watch it, lift your feet; it’s easy to trip hurtling from the door.
Now go. Skate.
Faster. Come on, faster. See?
You are flying.
Can you feel it? Can you?
Yes. You are Maurice Richard. I knew it.

Yooou?
Pssst. You?
Can you see me?
We’re really in the dark now. You can hold onto my hand.. that’s holding onto yours. It’s a long walk to Age of THINK.

A photo that…makes me think

Every time I go to THINK and arrive at G1 existence, I see this.
Pretty scary.
…
I’m feeling a little weak.  You? How ’bout a time-out? Perhaps a little nourishment?

Sure.

A photo that…makes my mouth water

That’s better. Food for the sole.
Sometimes I go to the shoe department  to pet them. Once upon a time my offspringalings and I were rambling along in the daylight when we happened upon an ambulance in front of Winners. While they were dithering between a heart attack in menswear or a twisted ankle in housewares, I led them to the truth:  two ambulance attendants cruising the Size 8 aisle.
Sigh.

Ready for story time? We’re heading to Cuba. Welcome to the Plaza de la Catedral in Old Havana. The sun is smiling down on this afternoon, the air is shimmering with music, the edges are a crumble of magnificent history.  We’re mid dazzle.
See over there – beyond the patio tables lush with food and drinks and humanity? There’s an antique couple waltzing around in Gatsby costumes.
And look! It’s a dachshund waddling along in a blue and white striped suit and a straw hat!
Oh my. There’s another all-dressed dog, in the basket of a bicycle. He’s got wire-rimmed glasses – and a necklace with a soother attached.
Will you look at that! The wiener-dog baby has the soother in his mouth and he’s getting a picture taken with a mommy-tourist in front of the 18th century baroque cathedral.  (He must take after his father…)
Now who’s this approaching us? A street artist?
“Hola.”
What do we have here? A caricature?
*Gasp*

A photo that…tells a story

It’s the stuff of family legend.

So.

Dark has slipped into light.
The day is revealing itself, and we have arrived at our final destination:

A photo that…is my (not) worthy of National Geographic shot

Morning, You. Thanks for spending this nethertime with me.
Wishing you a glorious day and an opportunity to participate in the 7 Supershots challenge. To get things started, I am nominating five (brilliant, talented….) bloggers to give it their best shots.

@larawellman from  www.glidingthroughmotherhood.com
@LizMcLennan from http://lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca
@tweepwife  from      www.lifecache.ca
@SaraMPhoto from   http://mypointsofview.ca
@NickiLynnM from     http://perilsofaworkingmom.blogspot.ca

Yes, they’re fabulous. No, they don’t want to disembowel me for this. (It’s too early for carnage..)

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Blood, Guts and Head Games

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I began to feel woozy in a cubicle. The air got thick, heavy. My throat was dry. Sitting steady, calm, eyes straight ahead, I answered no, no, no.  Plowing through her list of questions, the nurse didn’t notice the sweat beading on my forehead.  When she left for a minute, I pulled my shirt up – twice – to wipe it away. By then I was hot and cold and swallowing to stop the nausea from having its way with me.

Gutless wonder. That’s what I’d say except my guts and nervous system were, in fact, full of trouble, loudly and obnoxiously letting my brain know what they thought of this business of giving blood.

Not gonna do it.

I started to shake, just a little. Goose bumps on my arms were doing the cha cha, so I waited for her – a brown-eyed young woman in a red uniform top – to get up and go first so she wouldn’t see if I tilted sideways while I was rising from the chair. The youngest was standing by and accompanied me to an area full of big black chairs and paraphernalia. Was I green? He didn’t notice.

What I noticed was all the people casually and unassumingly popping into a high school cafeteria to give blood. There was a teenager with a ball cap, a spattering of acne and a thick chain around his neck, a young Asian woman and a compact older man with wavy white hair and a blue shirt.

They were sitting there nonchalantly, la-de-daing their way through the procedure. The guy in the red T-shirt was talking on his cell phone as his blood pumped into a see-through plastic bag.

Me? I was soaked in sweat. And mad. No way I was going to be sent home for being a scaredy cat.

It happened before. Back in the big-hair, small-waist days of my 20s, I signed up, arm out, at a blood donor clinic and they told me to forget it. After I turned white and listed to the left.

It’s funny how one part of the Central Nervous System can override another.  My thinker was saying, “Let’s do it!” while my doer had the brakes on full-tilt. (Who’s really in charge, anyway? Is that you, Freud? It’s me – Chicken. )
Before he died in 2007, a physiologist by the name of Benjamin Libet showed – in experiments – that the brain responds before a person makes a conscious decision. Aha! Blame it on the neurons.

But it was Erica Ehm who got me thinking. January 30, the mother of two published a post about bleeding internally and being rushed to the hospital in an ambulance. A transfusion was needed: four units of blood. Her story compelled me to comment:

I opened my big fat pushed the post button. Only problem? Such impulses necessitate conscious action. That’s why I wound up on a Wednesday afternoon with my imagination skittering from Southern belles swooning in Gone with the Wind to Freddy Krueger-style gore movies.  When my 4:45 p.m. appointment to donate blood rolled around,  the monster was in my head.

By the time I finally landed in the donation chair, I was afraid they wouldn’t let me do it. The nurse noticed my skin was clammy. Another one noticed I was pale. They stood looking, tut tuting, shaking their heads. “Are you sure you want to do this?” they asked. “Don’t do it if you feel sick.”

Only thing I’m sick of is letting fear be the boss.

You can reach Canadian Blood Services at 1 888 2 DONATE (I 888 236-6283).

My next appointment is already booked.

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Melba, Queen of the Maids

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Once upon a time, long, long ago, I was a maid. A chambermaid. I wore a red and white checked polyester dress with a long metal zipper up the front, a white collar and a chain-link belt with room keys at the end. It was a bit like wearing a tacky picnic tablecloth and cutlery. At age 18, I loved it.

On a sunny winter day, wind blowing, I got off a bus in Banff, Alberta. Skis, boots, poles and everything else I owned, including a shoe collection, were heaped in a pile beside me. There was no one waiting. No job. No contacts. No reservation or place to go.

I was free.

English: Banff Springs Hotel

Image via Wikipedia

In a handful of days, I had friends and roommates, a top bunk and a job cleaning guest rooms at the Banff Spring Hotel. It was – I often think – the best job I’ve ever had. Swooping fresh laundered sheets in high, billowing arcs over beds, I sang as I tucked in corners. We chambermaids and housemen boys, all of us teens, socialized through the day.

Guests were mostly families on ski packages, Asian tourists and businessmen with fancy suites who left us the dregs – snacks and bottles of liquor and pop – from their entertaining. Often we had our own after-party parties right on the spot. Scotch I traded for danishes from a pastry chef in the kitchen. Daily tips and leftover food were welcome, especially when I discovered we didn’t get paid for the first month. (Skis collected dust.)

In all the years since, I’ve never had such good work. Back then I daydreamed, gazed through windows at mountains dipped in white frosting, and at the end of each carefree day the job was done. People showed their appreciation by tucking money under pillows and more than once there was a marriage proposal written on hotel stationary. “You be my wife, miss?”

No.

Satisfied? I wasn’t.

Zelda, the Anna Wintour of chambermaid supervisors, was eventually discovered to have a soft spot and she permitted me to transfer to another job. In the hotel pecking order, I went from the bottom of the heap to the top when I started working at the front desk. That polyester tablecloth dress with a chain was replaced by a green vest and knee-length skirt while the hotel – a fairytale castle of a place – rose up majestic as I greeted people from around the world.

Still. The pay was the same. No tips. No singing. No outrageous, impromptu parties. And when guests in $250-a-night rooms called down to complain mice were having babies on the shelves in their closets, it was up to me to convince them it was all part of the period charm.

That’s why I honour Melba, Queen of the Maids.

Beautiful, she is, smiling with her eyes. Talented.

I could do nifty hospital corners. Melba sculpts with towels and a bedspread. An elephant, swans, hearts, fans. Each day, she creates a new piece of artwork with a king-size bed as her canvas.

And she smiles.

Me? I wonder about the nature of freedom and satisfaction.

I am also in awe.

Grateful for an elephant made of towels.

Thank you, Melba.

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Choosing to be Kind

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Do you choose to be kind?

This week, February 17 to 24, is Kindness Week in Ottawa. It’s a celebration, complete with fanfare and special events, to remind us we can all play a role in making kindness a way of life in our community. I don’t know about you, but I welcome the nudge: I’m not as kind as I want to be.

Since my kids were in diapers, we have said a prayer each night at dinner.

“Please help us to be kind and gentle and patient and tolerant and respectful of ourselves and others.”

I estimate it has been said at least 5,375 times. Adjectives have come and gone over the years, but the prayer always starts with kindness. It’s not about religion. It’s about wanting our children to grow up as decent people.

As much a wish and a plea as a sermon, the prayer started with an incident in our leafy-green backyard on a popsicle-filled, hot summer day.

The baby was waddling around in a diaper with a trail of purple Freezie juice down his belly. His older sibling was cranky, in the snit of all preschooler snits, and jealous of the attention his brother was getting.

It happened in the blink of eye. He picked up the wee wood chair and threw it at the baby’s head.

Oops.

He missed.

I am grateful to have two live children. In an effort to keep them that way, I launched the sermon at the table. I started actively and concretely –  with words and actions – showing them how to be kind and gentle, how to be tolerant and respectful members of society.

Ever since, with the kids in mind, I have been trying to live that way.

And I fail. My temper busts loose. My ego. Insecurity.

The surface stuff is easy. How hard is it – really – to smile, say something nice, hold a door open for the person behind, and give $10 or $20 to a neighbour collecting for charity?

I have trouble with the tough stuff.  On occasion, my mother-bear instincts drown out any thought of being charitable. Often I don’t look hard enough past a rude or rough exterior to see the humanity within. My do-good intentions are genuine, but I don’t always follow through.

In this town, there is real kindness.

Some of the people I admire most are Jeff Turnbull, Keenan Wellar and Julie Kingstone.

Dr. Turnbull has fancy titles. He is president of the Canadian Medical Association, chief of staff at Ottawa Hospital, and founder of Ottawa’s Inner City Health Project. His humanity is what’s notable. He’s a guy who cares for and about the homeless – face to face. Keenan Wellar and Julie Kingstone are co-founders of LiveWorkPlay, an Ottawa organization that supports people with intellectual disabilities to have a good life.

LiveWorkPlay’s stated mission is “helping our community welcome people with intellectual disabilities to live, work, and play as valued citizens.”

That’s kindness in action. These folks walk the walk.

Thanks to Kindness Week and the Kind Ottawa initiative, people and organizations across the city are joining the movement. I want to be one of them. This year’s campaign lists the top five ways to be kind:

  • Give
  • Volunteer
  • Say thanks
  • Celebrate kindness
  • Pay it forward.

My goal is to move out of my comfort zone in choosing kindness. That starts with giving blood. Volunteering. Paying it forward to people I normally sidestep. After all, once upon a time we were all babies waddling around in diapers…. life’s obstacles in the air, hurtling toward us.

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