Peace on Earth Through the Internet

All I wanted were a few extra lights. I figured since it wasn't even December yet, hitting the local hardware store wouldn't be too much of an ordeal. However, a month before Christmas, the aisles were already teaming with cranky, overtired holiday shoppers, and the shelves were mostly picked-over. Even the parking lot was depressing, a zig-zag ballet of distracted drivers.

When I got home, there were reports on television about tramplings at department stores, and frantic pilgrims shooting each other over the last Tickle Me Elmo. The tumult was such that it had been declared "Black Friday". Ugh.

I decided I could make due with what we already had, and more importantly, that I would avoid shopping malls and big box centres like the plague until well after Boxing Day. For the next month, there would be lots of baking sessions, and tree trimming, and listening to Jimmy Buffett's version of "Christmas Island". There would not, I vowed, be any unnecessary contact with nasty vibes. I didn't want to have to stoop to doing anything that might get me on the naughty list.

At that point, I uttered a prayer of thanks for the Internet for making it possible for me to remain in my happy little holiday bubble. I could do my gift shopping online, and have goodies show up at my house, as if left by magical invisible elves. I could donate to charities while sipping cider and eating cookies. I could send greetings around the world without unnecessary paper waste and postage. Cyber-cynics could gripe all they wanted about a lack of human contact, and the downfall of social relations. Perhaps they were right, but at this point in the calendar, I was happy to stay away from other people, to wish them well from afar, and to not be part of the tinsel-trimmed insanity.

Declaration of the Picky Foodie

One of the highlights of my recent trip to Chicago was a food tour. We walked, we chatted, we admired the architecture, and we nibbled liberally on all sorts of delicious tidbits. I had had my very first Ruben sandwich, followed by samples of imported tea, exotic spices, handmade chocolate, and a slab of the miraculous, deep-dish pizza for which the city is famous. While exploring the city on our own, we noticed that literally every third building was some sort of market or eating establishment. Here, sustenance was serious business, and it came in every shape, form, size and flavour imaginable. This was a city that took its palate seriously.

Keen to get in on the action, we found a nearby Gastro-Pub, a place which was supposed to serve down-to-earth, comforting fare with a gourmet twist. Our hearts sunk as we read the menu, which boasted inflated prices, and options that looked like the chefs were trying entirely too hard. Evidently, using young (aka small) chickens, pureed liver and a few sprinkles of exotic pink salt was all that was needed to elevate their cuisine to a higher level. We left the restaurant hungry and discouraged.

Hope returned the next day in a tiny Thai cafe, with a plate of steaming, spicy noodles. We gobbled as fast as our chopsticks would allow us to. Later in the week, we tucked hungrily into a savoury steak sandwich so greasy that the bun disintegrated before we could eat all of it. I decided one morning to have fresh mini donuts and hot chocolate for breakfast. Heaven.

I think I've given up on the notion of fancy food. Intellectually, I get the subtle nuances of adding a wee sprig of this or that rare herb, or essence of something or other, or stuffing this food with that food. I appreciate when things taste different, or when someone has gone to the trouble of inventing an entirely new dish. Haute cuisine has indeed become a modern art and for this, I praise it. I just don't like eating it.

When I think back on Chicago, I'm going to remember that slice of pizza. When I think Austin, Texas, giant gingerbread pancakes from Magnolia Cafe will spring to mind. Honolulu will conjure images of Cocoa Puffs from Lilha Bakery. Barcelona will be about Churros con chocolate, and Paris will be about lemon tarts, and Tokyo will be about humble buckwheat noodles with soy sauce. The most memorable things I've ever eaten have been on park benches, or while hovering over the kitchen sink. I may be a right little cretin, as far as my culinary aspirations go, but I'm a cretin with a satisfied stomach.

Death By Pollen: A Note on the Superiority of the Human Species

Shakespeare once wrote, "Why man, he doth bestride the narrow world like a Colossus" to describe the human tendency to stomp around like we own the place. The bard was smart that way, and was courageous enough to be brutally honest about our flaws. We really do take for granted that we're secure in our spot at the top of the food chain. We're stupid that way- really, really stupid.

If you want to look at the bigger picture, you can read up on swine flu, killer bees, or tidal waves. On a regular basis, Mother Nature makes it very clear that she could take or leave us. This time of year, in my particular corner of the universe, I get a polite, but firm reminder of my own cosmic insignificance. I get this reminder shoved right up my nose, as I'm taught humility by a mangy little weed in the backyard. Actually, I'm schooled by the stuff that blows off the mangy little weed.

My hay fever isn't really even that bad. I am however, suitably impressed that a handful of spores, invisible to the naked eye, can leave a giant sack of meat like me mouth-breathing and clammy for two weeks. It brings to mind the work of another literary giant, Dr. Seuss. My hat's off to the universe for helping me to remember that I am more of a "Who" than a "Horton".

Behind Every Great Author...

I just saw "Julie and Julia". It was one of those evenings during which I got to see bits and pieces of my life flash before me. No, I'm not a gifted chef (yet) or a best-seller (yet), but I am a writer, and like both Julie and Julia, I spend a lot of time being neurotic and cranky about the stuff I'm working on. Like both women, I also have a husband who has to put up with me being neurotic and cranky. Mine watched the film eagerly, with a knowing smile on his face, occasionally squeezing my hand when the episodes on screen seemed a little too familiar.

It's occurred to me on a number of occasions that having a writer as a partner is probably a lot like being married to someone with a parasitic twin. There's a third person in the relationship, one that takes up considerable space, time and energy. This grouchy squatter doesn't pay rent, do laundry, or make nice with the neighbours. Worst of all, getting rid of it would likely kill the writer.

I'm not sure if literary "better halves" get the recognition or praise they deserve. True, life with one of us creative types is rarely dull. There may be some sort of thrill in knowing that the manuscripts being mashed and bashed beneath your own roof could be read for centuries to come. If you're lucky, your angst-ridden paramour may turn out to be the next J.K. Rowling, and you'll be fiscally rewarded for your patience. Still, one has to wonder if Shakespeare's move to London without his family was instigated by a fed-up wife, or if Virginia Woolf's husband longed for the day when she would take up plumbing.

I'd like to raise a glass to all of our co-vivants. Here's to the dutiful and loyal souls that know when to back slowly out of a room full of crumpled up papers! Hooray for those who bring us tea and cookies as we struggle with yet another draft! Long-live all of the partners who become in-house proofreaders and amateur therapists! We may not be able to promise you peace, quiet, or even sanity, but chances are, when we write you into our next great masterpiece as a character, you won't be killed off.

Yet Another Farewell to Michael Jackson

This is probably a little late in the game. The shocking news has been announced, the memorial services have been held, and Entertainment Tonight has almost run out of things to talk about. Perhaps now that the dust is starting to settle, I'll throw in my two cents and pay my respects.

Although Michael Jackson and I have fallen out of communication over the past decade or so, I did admire him once. Nine-year-old Amy had a Michael Jackson doll, a Michael Jackson t-shirt, and Thriller on vinyl. I spent hours sewing crooked silver sequins onto one of my grandmother's old white cocktail gloves, and I endured teasing when I wore a black and red pleather ensemble to school. I grilled my parents for details about his career with The Jackson Five. As an adult, it hurt to look at photos of his latest plastic surgery adventure, but I still bought his music on CD and admired his ability to put together funky beats and interesting lyrics.

The most poignant lesson Michael Jackson has taught me doesn't really pertain to his music. It has to do with our inability to let an artist's work stand for itself. I wonder if it's possible, in 2009, to just step back and say "Great song!" without wondering who put it out, what they were wearing, and how many times they've been photographed without underwear. Do we really need to know how much of a weirdo someone is in order to enjoy (or condemn) what they create?

Historically speaking, a lot of great creative minds have been perverts, hooligans, recluses, drunks and all-around creeps. Jeremy Bentham, proponent of utilitarianism, insisted on having his remains stuffed and put on display at a London library. Shakespeare was a player in more than one way. Virginia Woolf was chronically suicidal. The list is endless, but in most cases, we still admire their work. As far as I can tell, very few great artists ever ask the general public to walk in their shoes. They just want us to pay attention to their stuff.

I'm not prepared to forget Michael Jackson's fall from grace. I don't know if he was really a pedophile, or if he was guilty of any of the sins of which he was accused. I do know, however, that when played at a party, "Billy Jean" will get people on their feet. I know that I still occasionally catch myself trying to moonwalk. If you need an example of the wonderful ways in which his music (and not his life) have inspired people, go to Youtube and look up the ABC scene from "Clerks 2". Trust me.

Change in Schedule for Children's Workshop

"What Are We Really?", our workshop for children interested in philosophy and the environment, has been moved to Thursday, July 23 from 10-11:30 am. Young thinkers ages 7-12 are welcome, and this is a free event. There will be discussions about critters of all shapes and sizes (including humans), fun activities, as well as take-home resources for parents. Space is limited. To reserve a spot, please contact POWER Halton Hills at info@powerhalton.ca, or at (905) 873-1820. If you'd like to know more about the workshop itself, feel free to contact Amy Leask at amy@enabletc.com, or at (905) 864-1858 x3. Hope to see you there!

Three Grandmothers, Two Decades and A Bunch of Ugly Scarves Later, I Get it.

They were incredibly patient with me. I was a geeky, awkward kid who just wanted to eat Oreos and watch cartoons, but they dutifully sat and instructed me. I dutifully poked the needles around in the wool, looped and stitched and pearled the raw materials into monstrosities that looked positively lopsided and moth-eaten. I clunked my way through two grandmothers, both of whom had the awe-inspiring ability to knit without even looking at their work, to churn out sweaters and blankets and pillows in record time. In the end, I waved the white flag, decided that I didn’t need to know how to do stuff like this. When I grew up and found my true love, I had to tell yet another doting and knit-talented grandmother that while I admired her work, I wasn’t interested in producing my own.

And so it went for about twenty years, with me reading Sartre and listening to jazz and watching art films. I fed my head twenty-four-seven, and my impatient, itchy little fingers only got to feel useful when I decided to bake a birthday cake or hem a pair of pants. I worried about all the things I hadn’t had time to do in the past, and all of the things I needed to do in the future, and occasionally, when I had a spare moment, I might enjoy the present.

About a year and a half ago, some very wise people introduced me to the idea of being “grounded”, of sticking my feet in the dirt and getting out of my head once in a while. There are all kinds of ways to do this, most of which are a challenge to a type-A cliché like me. Eventually, however, I found my way back to the needles, and in the process, I found a way to anchor myself to myself again.

It started with a book of patterns for amigurumi, little yarn dolls in all manner of shapes and sizes. The ones I had my eye on were zombies and sea monsters, not your average craft projects. The end products looked so cool and quirky that I resolved to get over my childhood aversion to traditional handicrafts. I might not be able to sew, or knit, or do needlepoint, but I knew that if I really tried, I could deal with a simple crochet pattern.

Somewhere between a three-inch-tall ninja, and a tennis ball-sized frog, I entered the zone. I was no longer buzzing about my next writing project, or unpaid invoices, or office politics. All I could think was “Chain stitch. Chain stitch. Chain stitch.” I was there, on the couch. All of me. No exceptions. The tranquility I sought, I found with an aluminum hook and a bucket of polyester yarn.

Coming Events!

• Diversity matters! Learn about the many species that share our planet, and discuss ways to keep them happy and healthy. Visit Amy and POWER at the Georgetown Market place on Friday, May 29 from 4-8 for demonstrations and information.
• Adults need philosophy too! Step into big ideas and discuss our place in the ecosystem at POWER Halton Hills on Thursday, June 25 from 7 to 9 pm. Email amy@enabletc.com or call (905) 864-1858 x3 for details.
• Kids care about the environment! Join us for a children's eco-philosophy workshop at POWER Halton Hills on July 16 from 10-11:30 am. Email amy@enabletc.com or call (905) 864-1858 x3 for more details.

My New-Aged Ipod

When I bought my Ipod, it was with great chagrin. I was teaching at the time, and I competed with the little electronic beasts for my students’ attention on a daily basis. I did the “pull out your earphones” gesture about as often as I turned a page. I wanted one so that I could keep alert and relaxed while slogging my way through my very large pile of marking, and it worked. Within weeks, I was so smitten that I purchased a colourful sticker to disguise its bland, silver exterior, and I hungrily downloaded anything funky enough to capture my interest. It was cute as a button, and it seemed that whenever I needed a lift, the perfect song title would dance across its tiny screen.

It didn’t take long to notice that my new musical friend played favourites. Songs and artists tended to repeat themselves. One week, my Ipod had a thing for Blondie, and the next, it was preoccupied with George Clinton. I turned it over and over in my hand, wondering how musical taste could be built into something the size of a credit card. It occurred to me that my Ipod’s predilection for choosing certain songs could be put to good use. One day, when I was contemplating the mysteries of the universe, I set the little gadget to shuffle, took some cleansing breaths and asked a few key questions.

I wondered “What should I do about this manuscript I’ve been working on?” and hit play. Bob Marley reassured me with “Don’t let them change ya! Or even rearrange ya!” Interesting.

Then I inquired about another project that wasn’t getting the reception I had hoped for. The answer came from The Doors, who reassured me that “People are strange, when you’re a stranger.” Whoa.

When I asked how my friend in a different province was feeling, Neil Young responded with “I need you.” I called her later on that evening.

No, I didn’t start thinking that my Ipod was possessed, or that helpful little house elves were sending me messages through something I bought at a big box store. I like to think that the universe has better things to do than speak to me through my stereo equipment (that’s what grilled cheese sandwiches and sweat stained t-shirts are for). It wasn’t fool-proof either. I’m still trying to figure out what spiritual lessons can be learned from “The Macarena” or “The Devil Went Down to Georgia”.

The entire exercise did, however, demonstrate that in some bizarre, Jungian way, one can use the songs in a playlist to help clear one's head and get some much-needed perspective. Even a beginner model Ipod like mine can hold enough tunes to a keep person surprised. An eclectic music collection helps too, as wisdom and clarity often come in unexpected forms. If one listens with one’s right brain, “Baby Got Back” becomes a lesson in positive body image, and “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” encourages one to lighten up a little. Songs like “Shiny Happy People” and “We Are the Champions” are fairly self-explanatory.

Music has always been used to “soothe the savage beast”. Apparently, with the help of a hand-held MP3 player, and a willingness to listen to just about anything, it can also serve the same function as a deck of tarot cards, or a magic 8 ball. Life, the universe, and everything are much easier to decipher while singing off-key and dancing around the living room.

Chivalry Isn't Dead. It just got shorter.

Reaffirmation of one's faith in humanity is found in strange places. Mine got a little kick start last week, at a technical competition in an enormous conference centre, surrounded by robots of various sizes and functions. The machines themselves were impressive (though they didn't resemble anything from The Jetsons or Terminator movies), but the young people designing and driving them were nothing short of admirable. It wasn't their technical skill or mechanical know-how either. I was surrounded by thousands of them, aged six through eighteen, and with almost no exception, they were...well, they were nice.

To begin with, they were actually excited to be there. Wifi didn't really work in the convention centre, and there were very few laptops without actual code on the screens. The lack of the usual brand of stimulus didn't seem to phase them. They made and distributed buttons with team logos, danced around in costumes, and high-fived other teams as they made their way into the arena. Even more shocking was their unrelenting politeness. I actually heard please and thank you, and when one team had a piece of broken machinery, another gladly gave them their spares. When one of the robots failed to ship, the teams nearby offered to help build a last-minute replacement.

I was a little confused. Where was the attitude, the abject nastiness this generation was supposed to dish out? Where were the sneers and the indifference? Why were they cheering each other on, jumping up and down in the stands and praising complete strangers? I asked one of the coaches to explain this bizarre phenomenon and his answer explained everything.

"Only the grown ups involved get grouchy and competitive."

An “Adult” Relationship

It was a great anniversary, although a fairly no-frills one. We were on our way home from a business trip, and had the better part of the day free. We had a great lunch in a small, but charming bistro. We walked in the park, sat in the sun, and got caught up on each other’s lives. At one point, my sweetheart paused and remarked “You realize our relationship is old enough to vote.”

Yup, it’s now been eighteen years, really good years. Our first years together were spent flirting across the room during band practice. At university, when I’d been up all night studying, he’d wake me around noon with a sub sandwich and a cup of tea. We’ve been through four degrees, three houses, four continents, and a dog. We’ve crammed as much wonderful relationship stuff into eighteen years as two people can. Our relationship has definitely grown up.

It’s ironic that what’s got us here is our habit of being distinctly immature. Eighteen years has taught us that it’s okay to admit to being hooked on cartoons and cheesy talk shows. We’ve learned that bed heads and wrinkled pyjamas can be charming. We still hold hands and tell stupid jokes. We’ve found that an argument is officially over when one of us starts giggling. Our couplehood may have reached adulthood, but we as individuals have fought hard to remain the same dorky teenagers that we were when we hooked up.

A long time ago, we danced together for the first time. The song was “Forever Young” by Alphaville. Hmmmm…good advice.

Putting Barbie in Her Place

I had to suppress my gag reflex as they raised a glass of cheer in honour of her 50th. Words like "style icon" and "beloved" were rolled around as I rolled my eyes. Thankfully, I ran across this article http://www.thestar.com/living/article/599343.

I'll admit, I had a collection of Barbies as a kid (feminists like me don't like to fess up to that). Despite my mother's best efforts, the little plastic terror snuck into the house, along with her pink sports car, her prized plastic poodle, and her crew of factory-extruded friends. My sister soon added her own horde to the collection. In time, an entire Barbie compound occupied a sizeable chunk of the basement.

Barbie's life in our house, however, was less than fabulous. In the commercials, she cruised the strip with Ken, bought stylish knee-high boots and giggled on the phone. Our crew waged hostile take overs, got into in fist fights, and routinely lost limbs. We put Barbie through Darwinesque dramas, not to mention some goulish haircuts. Even as children, we saw through the carefully-moulded perfection that came with her in the box. Just as we kicked over lego buildings and purposefully dried (and ate) play-doh, we deconstructed Barbie, found out what really made her tick. If the manufacturers didn't want us to know her head was empty, they shouldn't have made it so easy to remove. According to my husband, it was just the right size to fit into her patented pink dryer.

Happy Birthday, old girl! Here's to fifty more years of little girls who aren't afraid to kick some plastic toy ass.

Lessons from My Dog and Bill Murray

He's flopped out in the middle of the floor, sporting bald patches and a handful of big, ugly stitches. There's a plastic cone around his neck that smacks of a bad episode of The Jetsons. In the past week and a half, he's been stoned from anesthetic, had his teeth cleened, had three lumps removed, and hasn't been able to do anything more than lift his leg without one of us checking on him. None of this has stopped him from wagging at the sound of his name, or draping his sixty-pound frame over my legs while I'm trying to sleep. A few years ago, when he cut his foot on some zebra mussels, he spent three weeks flying around the house in a permanent pirhouette, as if his fourth leg was, and had always been, completely superfluous. This is a creature who has taught himself to undo zippers so he may get to the granola bars at the bottom of our school bags, the same one who is happy to drink from a mud puddle or a toilet bowl when there's nothing else that's cool enough. When it comes to rolling with the ups and downs life sends, there is no one nearly as adept as my dog.

Recently, a very wise person pointed out that life goes in waves, like the rise and fall of the tides. Being happy when the tide comes in is easy. Knowing what to do with oneself when it recedes is the tricky part. For a control freak like myself, it's a bit like torture to be stuck on the proverbial sand, surrounded by nothing but flotsam and jetsam. But I'm learning a great deal from Zen masters such as the furry one sleeping on the floor, snoring with all four legs stuck in the air. I'm learning that there's peace to be found when life, the universe and everything tells me "Sit. Stay."

When I need an extra nudge to knock my out of my Sisyphusian rut, there's always Bill Murray's speech from the movie "Meatballs". http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g3S_k1dRbXY

Things I Tell Myself As I Shovel

Yeah, I do the same thing that anyone does when faced with an obscene hill of white crud. I pull muscles trying to get the driveway cleared before my feet freeze. I forget to lift with my legs. I get a runny nose, and I curse my ancestors for ever leaving the homeland (even though the homeland isn't a whole lot warmer). I threaten to defect to somewhere tropical, even if it means putting up with a dictator and chronic sunburn. And then I finish, I go back inside, and I get philosophical about the whole exercise.

First of all, it's only snow. Instead of shovelling meteorological slop, I could be pushing a scoop through manure, entrails, or any manner of unspeakable goo. It's a neutral colour, it doesn't stain, and it doesn't stink.

From a cultural perspective, I'm a Canadian, and part of my identity hinges on this beastly ritual. This, along with taxes, is the price I pay for free healthcare, safe streets, Tim Hortons and excellent comedians. Moreover, if it weren't for winter, I'd have far fewer impressive horror stories to tell people in other countries.

Metaphysically speaking, it's important to remember that without evil, there can be no good. Without darkness, there can be no light. Without months of this depressing, chilly purgatory, there can be no appreciation of the bliss that comes with spring. In six months, the BBQ will taste better, the flowers will seem more colourful, and the popsicles will seem that much more refreshing because I had to wait for them.

When it comes down to it, this is Mother Nature's way of reminding me of how very little control I have. I may be master of my own destiny in many ways, but every so often, it's healthy to be humbled like this. Some mornings, it's actually nice to be told "Sit. Stay."