Lives Well Lived

The following posts may be broken into several sections. It is difficult for me to say everything I want about this subject. There are a lot of memories and emotional components that might get in the way of brevity. I apologize in advance and will absolutely understand if you don't want to follow or go along for a prolonged ride. It might get wordy. I am not sure how it might turn out, but I will try hard not to make it pedantic and deathly boring. I will also try to infuse some humour. There will definitely be some sap and for that, I apologize.

There is a conversation to be had about our "stuff". George Carlin began this dialogue back in 1986 with his brilliant soliloquy. I highly recommend you watch it. Not only is it wickedly funny, but it is truly an excellent distillation of conspicuous consumerism. Carlin was truly on the cutting edge of modern philosophy; an iconoclast ahead of his time. 

It is easy to dismiss the things we keep as unimportant. 

"Why the hell did Bubby keep a drawerful of rubber bands? What was she thinking?"

Bubby probably filled a drawer with what we see as junk because she grew up when everything could be used again. Bubby wasn't necessarily a hoarder, but rather an early adopter of environmentalism. She understood the value of renewable objects. Tossing that stuff into the trash was anathema for her. It was her "stuff" and judging it from across the chasms of time seems disrespectful.

There are so many memories attached to our stuff. The Playbills I keep from live theatre performances are of no value. They are simply printed magazines with pretty covers. But when I see them, the joy I felt sitting in those theatres comes flooding back in jubilant waves. What is the harm in holding onto them? 

The same goes for artwork or chachkas that are accumulated over a lifetime of collecting. Maybe you have mugs or little silver spoons purchased during your travels. Perhaps you are a connoisseur of local artisans. If you are a traveller, buying some knickknacks brings back memories of adventures well-spent. Surrounding oneself with "stuff" can bring joy and contentment. I am certainly not advocating hoarding or a troublesome addiction. I am merely looking at the memorabilia we all collect. At this moment, I am having a difiicult time seeing the downside.

Which brings me to the reason for all of this nostalgia. We are at a point in our lives where we are dealing with downsizing my parents' "stuff." This isn't the first round of divesting. They have moved several times in the past decade, so all of us who are involved are well-versed in the task. This time it feels different, more permanent. As such, there are many emotions that need to be managed and many egos that need to be stroked.

As I write the first of these posts, I am sitting in The Southern Home. It is unusual for us to be here in the heat of a South Florida summer, but my parents recently sold their condo and we were tasked with cleaning out their "stuff". This space is filled with memories from their globetrotting days. They were true collectors of local artisans from all over the world. When we first started this exercise back in the winter, knowing that they would be selling, I watched my mom wander around the apartment in a wistful haze. She and I would decide on what needed to go; I would take it out of the cupboards to mark it for removal; and then twenty minutes later, I would find it back in its original location. It didn't matter what the object was. It could have been a broken serving dish or a drawerful of dried-up pens. My mom found comfort in knowing her "stuff" was where she left it. While Toronto is where their family is, South Florida has always been home for them. Over the past three and half decades, this was the place where my parents thrived. Their relationships, their social situations, and their activities were all far more engrossing and engaging down here. They didn't simply visit for five months of the year. They lived here. My mom and my Other Mom would spend weeks at a time here, just the two of them, while their men commuted back and forth between the countries. The memories here are vivid and colourful and the sadness at them having to part with this place penetrates my soul. 

We knew early in the spring that The Husband and I would be the ones to deal with the sale of this place. (We didn't know how quickly we would have to rearrange things in order to fly down, but that story is for another post.) After all, we are also here a lot and we fully understand the importance and magnitude this space has for both of my parents. My brother and I have the luxury of being on the same page when it comes to my parents' and helping them to continue to live their best lives. Not all families are this fortunate, so I will count my blessings. Walking into their condo on Tuesday was heart-wrenching for me. I could hear my aunt's voice. I could smell the cookies baking. I could see my dad sitting at the pool. Thirty-six years came flooding back in an instant. It was a lot of years, and yet not enough. 

Some of their most prized stuff was shipped to grandchildren and beloved families in Toronto. Some were given to dear friends down here. The buyer wanted a few things, so The Husband made some deals. We had building friends walk through and take mementos. We gifted some things to workers in the building who are forever sending items back to needy families in Cuba and Central America. (We also gifted the staff here all of my dad's booze and told them to have a blowout fiesta in his honour.) Photographs were lovingly boxed to be shipped at a later date. We cancelled their phone number. The same number they have had for thirty-six years. We called charitable organizations to take the furniture. And we called the junk people for the broken and battered "stuff". We did it all in five days. Thirty-six years of memories and "stuff" dispersed in five days.

I have cried more than once during this exercise. I have silently told Marie Kondo to go fuck herself on numerous occasions. The Husband has been my rock. He celebrated his birthday in the middle of this week. It is not an ideal way to celebrate, but he has been unbelievable. He has given me the space to work the problems, and more importantly, the space to grieve. Nobody has died, but a chapter of our lives has closed. (Once again, another post.) 

I wrapped a few small items to take home to my parents. I packed a small mezuzah designed by Agam and a small ceramic gator. They will find places of honour in my parents' new space in Toronto. I also shipped home my mom's favourite wine goblets. I hope to have a toast with her when they arrive north. Because in the end, it isn't just stuff. It is a reminder of lives well lived.

He will have a place of distinction in Toronto

Thanks for reading. We fly home tonight and I will continue this series of aging and downsizing when I return to The True North Strong and Free. 

Almost Wordless Wednesday

My final Almost Wordless Wednesday for Blogapalooza comes from earlier this year and serves as a reminder as to why I love the Southern Home so very much. This shot was taken while we sat on our balcony. This little guy just kept stopping by for regular visits during the latter part of March. He was fun and frisky and we were in awe. The best experiences in life are the ones you simply can't anticipate.

Road Tripping Redux

The Husband and I have completed our annual pilgrimage to the Southern Home and I must say that every year the drive down is filled with more tedium than excitement. Not that I am looking for excitement, mind you. I had enough of that to last me a lifetime the year that we were waylaid for six days by a massive snowstorm in the midwest with nothing to eat but Pizza Hut. (None of us has set foot in a Pizza Hut in more than twenty years.) No, I am perfectly fine with the mundane. But I must say that even after all the years, I am struck by how the little things on a road trip seem to stick with me. This year was no different and offered up a few choice impressions.

• I have never been in the United States for their Thanksgiving. (Sorry Canada. Ours is a pale imitation.) Not ever. I have always envied Americans and their observance of this most secular of holidays. It is an amazing concept. A holiday that cuts across religious lines, is quintessentially American in its origins, involves an entire nation, and allows for gluttony on a national level. What's not to like about that? Watching Americans prepare for this holiday from afar has always been filled with envy and a twinge of sadness. But seeing it up close, even from the limitations of the Interstates, is a revelation. Our hotel was decked out in harvest paraphernalia. The roads were jammed with college students returning home for the holiday in cars packed to the windows with bags of dirty laundry.Thanksgiving specials and flyers were in the windows of even the tackiest of gas station souvenir shops. (I made do without the two-for-one turkey jerky offered in South Carolina.) But my favourite Thanksgiving interlude on the road came from Canonburg Pennsylvania. By sheer chance, (it is almost creepy how by chance this is) we have stopped in the same small town for four years running. It must be that we come through the same stretch of road at approximately the same time every year, given our penchant for starting out early in the morning, or we are just looking for a Subway so that we might be able to eat something vegetarian that doesn't taste like rubber.Whatever the explanation, we once again stopped in Canonburg in order to eat and pee. This year, the only other patrons of the shop were a father and his young son all decked out in pilgrim costume, complete with hat. (I have to say that the hat made the ensemble.) The boy was talking animatedly about John Alden, Myles Standish, and turkey. It reminded me of those days long ago when my own boys would participate in school productions and chatter incessantly about all they had learned. If ever we question the reasons for making holidays fun, interactive, and filled with family and friends, one need only to have watched this little guy exude excitement for the day. It was truly special.
• The border was quiet when we crossed. We were the only ones in the Nexus line, but the heightened security given the Paris attacks was intense and not surprising. We were grilled for several minutes as to the registration of our car, what we were carrying, our professions, and why we were travelling back and forth this winter. We were asked for dates and about the contents of our belongings. We didn't mind, but this was the Nexus line. One can only imagine what the non-prescreened people went through.
• There was many a deer sighting on the road this year. Some live, many not. Bambi and his extended family were actually quite brazen in their appearances, foraging at the side of the road as if it were a Hometown Buffet. It was almost as if they were saying "Hey, we're not turkeys. We have nothing to worry about at this time of year." Of course they probably weren't thinking about the constant barrage of 40-tonne trucks barrelling down on them at every pass. There were deer parts littering the highway all the way into the Carolinas. I suppose Georgian and Floridian deer are smarter than their northern cousins, and stayed away from the Eisenhower-inspired death trap.
• This must be the week that American snowbirds make their way south en masse. It is migration week. So many RVs. So many campers. So many retirees with absolutely no idea how to drive the monster trucks they have purchased. Some are hauling their entire lives in a bus; others are merely hauling SUVs, boats, bikes, and seadoos. It is a wonder any of them reach their destinations safely given the fishtailing, swerving, and odd lane changes. There were times I hung on and just  quietly uttered the Shema hoping for the best. 
• As per usual, The Husband and I fought over the radio. I am perfectly happy with my Broadway channel, while he just drives and stews until I change to a different station. I don't mind The Bridge, but the playlist is limited and I draw the line at the constant repetition of Eagles and Fleetwood Mac tunes. I mean really? How many times in 24 hours does one need to hear Say You Love Me? I say 4 is plenty. So we switched to The Coffee House, a channel that plays hits reimagined acoustically. But Sting waxing with poetic angst on Message in a Bottle put me over the edge. We returned enthusiastically to Broadway. I was struck by some of the ironic music experiences we had. Carly Simon's Anticipation played as we were stuck in a traffic jam outside of Charlotte, and Carolina Day by Livingston Taylor was on as we crossed the state line between the two Carolinas. Coincidence? Probably, but it was still weird.
• The Sunshine State was definitely not. We crossed into Florida and the rain started....hard....and it stayed that way for the next 5 hours. The only positive is that we had no real impetus to stop so we made it down in two full days rather than two and half. 

It is so nice to be here. Of course there are a myriad of problems in the condo that need to be addressed. Aren't there always? A defective toilet flapper is causing one kimode to wail like James Brown. The storm shutters have a rusted lock, meaning that we can't open one side. A call to the experts is on the docket. But the season has begun. Hello South Florida. Nice to see you again.

Routine Is Not An Ugly Word

One of the many things that I had hoped to accomplish following my retirement was to dispense with daily schedules. I really wanted to let my life choices dictate the clock and the calendar, rather than allowing the clock and the calendar to dictate my life choices. I certainly didn't have any grand notions of existing within a "Freedom 55"  commercial at the still very youngish age of 52. Me sail away on a schooner? Yah...not with my motion sickness. Instead, I saw the the future as a giant tabula rasa that could only be limited by personal preferences.

Naïveté is a peculiar circumstance.

While it is true that part of my mind knows that there is nothing stopping me from staying in bed until late morning on occasion to luxuriously read the newspaper, another part screams obscenities at me if I laze around for too long. My reason says "Relax. Take your time.", while my body yells "Enough already you lazy arse. Get your shit together and let's get moving." And so it is that I find myself back into an early morning exercise regime. 

While I am comfortably ensconced in The Southern Home, the majority of that activity consists of a lengthy early morning walk, either around the neighbourhood or down on the beach. After all, we have all been told that sitting is the new smoking, and since I have never so much as taken a puff, I figure that I need to get some real value out of my $99.00 FitBit Flex. 

It's funny. Even though my schedule has become much more fluid and flexible, the world around me, both human and natural, obviously still adhere to theirs. During those walks, I have encountered the same school children waiting for their buses, the same landscapers going about their business, the same locals exercising their dogs, and the same customers at Starbucks purchasing their morning caffeine injections. That's normal and to be expected. What was gloriously unexpected was my encountering of the same wildlife, in the same locations, doing exactly the same things every single morning. There is the squirrel in the park who actually responds to my mother's call and expectantly waits for bits to be dropped. (I won't allow her to give in to her better urges simply because he is a squirrel and I consider his northern cousins to be mortal enemies.) There is the large orange iguana who has taken up residence with his family in the mangrove trees abutting the Intracostal near our home. But I am most totally engaged with these White Ibises who cross my path daily.

As you can see, they are unfazed by human involvement and they are just quietly going about their morning routine, which usually consists of breakfast and crossing the street. Note to self: Resist urge to tell Ibis crossing the street joke.

They are awkward looking creatures who are as ubiquitous down here as sparrows are up north, but there is something about their patterns that has me mesmerized. I see them every single morning on my walk, and then miraculously, every single evening at dusk, an entire flock (I'd like to think it is the same birds) flies in perfect formation low in the sky right in front of my balcony. I could swear that they are dipping their wings in a familiar salute to me as they pass. (I have tried on several occasions to grab a photo or video clip, but they simply move too quickly and I am simply not that great a photographer.) I know it seems crazy, but it feels like my own remarkable interspecies moment. I have actually taken to parking myself on the balcony for an hour or so before dusk waiting for my friends to arrive. It is a magical moment that I now joyfully anticipate.

Yesterday as I watched my new friends perform their evening ritual, it struck me that schedules aren't the evil notions that I had made them out to be. Rather, it is how and what we choose to fill them with that truly matters. So far, mine doesn't suck.

Quotes Heard From or About Dawn On This Her Birthday

Yes. Today is my birthday.

Happy Friggin' Birthday to me.

It constantly amazes me how much birthdays seem to lose their impact and importance with each passing year. The only thing that I can honestly say about having yet another one, is that I would rather have them than not. So in that vein, here are some of the gems either uttered by me or by a loved one on this the anniversary of my mother's first labour.

"Hey honey. I just realized that you are finally playing with a full deck."~The Husband as he realized that this was indeed my 52nd birthday.

"It never really feels like my birthday until I get an email card from my optometrist."

"I had to do something productive on my birthday, didn't I?"~Said as I shlepped the linens off the bed and into the washing machine.

"Where's Season 7?"~Said by me as The Husband so very thoughtfully gifted me with the DVDs of Seasons 1-6 of my everlasting obsession, Murdoch Mysteries.

"Every day is somebody's birthday."~Said as The Husband regaled me with the names of celebrities with whom I share this day. Did you know that Mary Tyler Moore is 78 today or that Ted Danson is 67? Whoopdi f***ing do.

"Facebook has an interesting way of making you feel loved and disconnected from family and friends all at the same time on your birthday."~Said by me as my phone began to vibrate with vigour and purpose.

"I think that you should wear your birthday suit all day." The Husband. (He is nothing if not endearingly predictable.)

"Have you ever noticed how long a song 'Happy Birthday' is when you are the one to whom it is being sung?" My brother remarking on his own milestone birthday celebrations yesterday.

"Have you ever notice how much longer it is when it's being sung to you in a restaurant?" Me in response to his remark.

"The Leafs couldn't even manage a win for you on your birthday?"~My Father trying to salve the stinging pain of yet another in person Blue and White collapse.

"Only on my birthday could we manage to lose our car in the garage at the beach. We are showing our age."~Said I to The Husband after a glorious early morning walk on Hollywood Beach. As we wandered aimlessly from level to level, faint calls of "Tabarnac" could be heard from all the French Canadians in cars following us, desperately hoping to snag our soon to be vacated spot. It was so coveted that when we finally did manage to locate our car, a guy got of his, placed himself directly behind us so that we had trouble backing up, and stood in the spot until his buddy circled back. Can you say "Sheldon"?

"Walking down to Walmart is no way to spend your birthday. How old are you again?"~The Husband, whom I suspect was just trying to escape the agony of grocery shopping.

"Starbucks should have free drink day on your birthday."~Said by me as I hoped the barista would overhear and gift me my soy mocha frappucino light. She didn't.

"What kind of schmuck doesn't call his mother on her birthday?"~Older Son

"Do you want to grow old with me bugging you?" The Husband. To which I replied: "I am growing old with you bugging me." That's what marriage banter sounds like after almost thirty years.

Birthday orchid from Other Dad

Gus and Younger Son's Beshert win the Birthday message of the day. They managed to infuse it with just the right amount of cuteness, pathos, and guilt. Well done!! The Husband's JibJab post was just plain disturbing. (I won't even comment on the virtual card he sent that had me wishing I could hard scrub my brain cortex.)

There is still time to add to the list. If somebody says anything remotely amusing in the next 8 1/2 hours, I will amend.

Packing

I have been doing a great deal of packing lately.

Some of it has been done with great excitement and great anticipation.

Some of it has been done with profound sadness and much stifling of tears.

Packing is one of life's true paradoxes. We want to transition to different experiences and exotic locales, but we can't seem to accomplish that task without dragging copious amounts of "stuff" along for the ride. We accumulate, we hoard, we collect, and we stockpile believing that we will need it all someday, but in actual fact we use but a small fraction of our accrued shit. (Check out the brilliant George Carlin's take on "Stuff" which I have included at the bottom of this post.)

And yet...

There is something about this paraphernalia that gives our lives balance and meaning. We rescue old and faded photographs from the back of a drawer, knowing that we can't bear to toss them in the trash for fear of forgetting. We rescue baking supplies and recipes so that we might recreate that which can no longer adequately be produced. But we so very desperately want it to be, so we pack them away. We compartmentalize. We move forward while one foot remains firmly embedded in the past.

When we journeyed to the Southern Home at the end of December, it was done in haste and with escape from misery in mind. There is no question that I was running away and I packed the way a 5 year old might if he was planning his getaway. There was no thought, no planning. Just a "get me out of town" mentality to go with some clothes, some toys, and my passport.

Packing to come home has been a very different experience. There is careful calculation and examination of what it all means. This place has always been my oasis, my haven, my retreat. But as I prepare to return to Northern climes, I find myself not simply packing tangible items like clothing, but also fond memories of this locale that has now been irrevocably changed for me. It is still my Southern Home, but it is a little less idyllic because she is no longer here to share it.

I pack to come home. I pack to move forward. I pack to remember.


)

The Chihuahua That Destroyed Hallandale Beach

I have a dog problem. I realize that this sounds strange coming from somebody who last had a canine in residence five years ago, (Wow-can it really be that long?) but I really do. I have spent the better part of my life in the company of furry four-legged friends, and believe there are some dogs with whom I would much rather spend an afternoon than some people. Dogs are loyal, trustworthy, and love unconditionally. Yes, they can be sloppy, drooling, shedding, needy, and many times overwhelming creatures, (all of this is a shout-out to The Husband and a means to pacify his somewhat ill-conceived logic as to why we do not currently share our lives with a dog) but to call me anything other than a dog person with a deep seated love and longing for all things canine is to deny a huge part of my psyche. I am not usually the person in the room who complains about dogs, and I have zero fear when it comes to even the most surly of animals, but I think that I have finally found my Achilles heel.

We live a pretty quiet and unassuming life when we are down in the Southern Home. It is true that condo life is not for the faint of heart or the politically squeamish, but we avoid most of the huge pitfalls and for the most part fly under the condo bullshit radar. We have had a mostly peaceful co-existence with our neighbours and, truth be told are not even certain as to some of their identities-even those on our own floor. Our little corner of the 5th has been for the most part all about exchanging morning pleasantries and inquiries as to weather and daily health. That all changed this year, when our neighbour across the hall, who had been previously renting out her unit, decided to move in full time and bring along her obnoxious Chihuahua. Ay Caramba!!

It should be noted that chihuahuas are amongst my least favourite of all breeds. They tend to be miserably tempered, oversized rats with stupid looking satellite-sized ears. And this was before bored women with too much time and money on their hands decided that it would be cute fashion to dress the poor creatures up like a Barbie and carry them around in expensive Coach bags! They are ankle biters and barkers because, really what else do they have? Their entire defence mechanism revolves around making a great deal of noise and hoping against hope that the perceived threat won't discover that the squeaky series of yelps and growls is actually emanating from a three pound misery on four legs. I have such a nightmare living across the hall from me, and as I type this post she is creating yet another in a winter-long series of commotions about absolutely nothing. The Husband has told me that when we Skype or speak on the phone, he can actually hear the wretched thing coming through the doors and walls. Various house guests over the past couple of months have remarked on the gigantic lungs on the creature, and how her barks awakened them in our second bedroom.

She attacks when I open my front door to remove garbage, and she starts up when the elevator arrives at our floor. She is worse when her people are away, and she can actually be heard by residents a floor below. I tried to enlist the opinions of another neighbour thinking that there might be safety in numbers, but I was accused of not being "a dog person". That one hit hard. I know that I should register a complaint with the building management, but I just cannot seem to do it. I really like my anonymous existence here and the last thing I want to do is start a war with my neighbour. I tend not to be all that confrontational with issues like this one, and as we all know people can be pretty sensitive when it comes to criticizing their dogs or their kids. I am at a bit of loose ends.

I know what I must do, but I am really not looking forward to it. I have come to realize one thing, though. Big dogs have it all over their pint-sized cousins. I will take the sloppy, drooling, shedding, neediness any day over the Napoleonic complex miniature anything. I am thinking a chocolate lab this time instead of vanilla. Husband?

What Shall We Do For 26 Hours?

It has been many many many years, fifteen in fact, since The Husband and I have made the winter exodus down to the Southern Home the old-fashioned way-via Henry Ford's grand invention. (Or in our case, the technological advancement of some genius Japanese engineers at Lexus!) The last time we attempted the drive, Bill Clinton was still in the White House basking in the afterglow of Monica, OJ's glove didn't fit so the jury acquitted, Yitzchak Rabin was brutally murdered after a peace rally, and the first Toy Story movie had just been released. A lifetime ago! The boys were quite young and it was the only way that we were able to afford a trip south for the four of us. Flights from Toronto at Christmas were and still are, quite expensive. By throwing the kids and their paraphernalia into our very suburban mini-van, we were able to make the drive in about 26 hours of highway time and get away for a couple of weeks at minimal cost. The  results were usually lovely and uneventful, but on the return trip in January of 1996, we were waylaid by Mother Nature, Pizza Hut and the good people of Kentucky. The story is long, convoluted and ridiculously  absurd, but suffice it to say that the four of us were stranded under 5 feet of snow in the hamlet of Mt Vernon Ky for almost 6 days with nothing to sustain us but cable TV (how I learned to loathe Nickelodeon) and a Pizza Hut that adjoined our tiny motel. None of this prose is in any way, shape, or form exaggerated. Honest!! If any of you faithful readers are really interested in the whole gruesome story, post a comment and I will continue.

It was because of that incident that The Husband swore off driving to Florida in the winter. That time was the last time. The rental car costs were nothing compared to another incident on the snow-covered interstates. But this year, he seemed open to the idea of a return trip. I am spending larger chunks of the winter in the Southern Home, and the irritation of not having a car all the time was beginning to wear. The cost of renting down here during the winter months is ridiculous. I was thinking of offering the car companies the soul of my first born son, but I believe that it is already spoken for. Thus, The Husband suggested (it was HIS IDEA!!) that we drive this year and leave the car here until the middle of March. He figured that if we left early enough in December, we probably could avoid the worst of the weather and vice versa come early spring. Wishful thinking? Perhaps, but his intentions were good.

Two days before we left, Buffalo got slammed with a major winter storm that closed the NY State Thruway for 24 hours stranding tens of thousands of cars. The weather channels were calling for snow showers, snow squalls, or snow flurries (anybody know the difference?) on every route available to us. In the end we decided to go with the known quantity, the tried and true. We headed down I75 just like before. The drive is a few hours longer, but at least we knew where we were, and the hope that the further south we travelled, the less the possibility for the white stuff. We decided to get a jump on the weather by heading out on Saturday afternoon after Shabbat morning services.

We were so concerned about the weather that we forgot that we needed to occupy ourselves for many hours of drive time. I75 is one of the most boring stretches of road ever constructed. What would we do? Here are a few impressions of 26 hours alone with a husband of 25 1/2 years.

• We crossed the border around 4:30pm, just as dusk was hitting. Our border guard seemed to have a Napoleonic complex and kept asking us how much money we were bringing into the country. We said we only had a few dollars and he couldn't seem to grasp how that might work. When The Husband explained the concept of a ATM, he seem perplexed. He kept grilling us about our condo and our luggage. He didn't seem at all happy to be working on a cold Saturday night, and we were his convenient targets. God bless The Husband. His cool demeanour seemed to throw off The Emperor until there was nothing left to say. I, on the other hand, was ready to go all Waterloo on his ass. Off we went.
• We had heard tales of snow in southern Ohio that day, so The Husband desperately wanted to stay in front of what might be heading north. By the time hunger had set in, we were cooked and fairly confident that we had avoided the worst of it. We stopped for the night in Bowling Green Ohio and we couldn't figure out where all of the college-aged young people in our hotel had come from. It turns out that we were staying directly across the street from Bowling Green University and a visiting basketball team had come into town for a game. There were a line of vans in the parking lot and a bunch of kids in matching sweatsuits in the lobby. It seems as though we got our room just in time. 
• I finally got to taste Chipoltle's fine cuisine. The Husband and I have been very concerned as to what we would eat on this road trip after our nauseating experience with highway fare this past summer. The American Interstate's food system just wasn't considering vegetarians at all when it decided that Mickey D's was needed at every exit. My boys have raved about Chipoltle's for years, so when a franchise was next door to our motel, we silently cheered. Not bad for fast food. Huge veggie burrito, but very heavy on the salt. Still it beat out the alternative dinner of Doritos and Diet Coke. 
• As we passed Mt. Vernon Kentucky the next morning, The Husband perversely exclaimed that we should stop at Pizza Hut for lunch. I decided that spitting out the window as we passed by was more to my liking.
• There was more snow in Knoxville Tennessee than there was in Cincinnati. What is up with that? The temperature actually dropped from the morning in Bowling Green to midday in Knoxville. The squalls were worse the further south we travelled. Certainly not normal to our experience. By the time we stopped for the night 2 hours south of Atlanta in Perry Georgia, the thermometer read -5C. (For my American friends-that is f*&@ing cold!!!)
• I just want it on the record that my knowledge of American midwest geography is better than The Husband's. He thought that Columbus was west of Cincinnati. We fought about it until we saw the sign directing traffic east. I win! (A big apology to Younger Son's Young Lady for that gaffe!!)
• I love satellite radio. What a wonderful invention. The Husband, however is ready to murder me and any direct relative that introduced me to Broadway show tunes. Sirius/XM has a station on channel 75 strictly devoted to Broadway. After 6 hours of said music, The Husband got a wild look in his eye reminiscent of Freddy Krueger, Chucky, and Jason. I quickly switched over to the 60s channel strictly for self preservation. After hearing Marianne Faithfull sing As Tears Go By three separate times over the next 12 hours, I went back to Broadway. We are still talking, barely!!
• Florida-what is up with the anti-abortion billboards on the highways? They are ubiquitous!! Every few metres or so, these huge nasty slogans screaming pro-life talking points came at us at 70 miles/hour. I tried to get a picture, but really-what for! What was even more distasteful were the gun and ammo ads that were right behind them. It seems it isn't okay to "destroy" a human life through a pregnancy termination, but it is perfectly fine to blow them away with an AK47 legally purchased at any number of outlets advertising on the Florida Turnpike. 
• A few more random thoughts: Burger King has a veggie burger. Who knew? Not great-but edible. Perry Georgia? Not all that Jewish. The deer hunting magazines and Christmas decorations were everywhere, but nary a Channukiah. American mega churches seem to gravitate to the Interstates. What is up with that? We must have seen at least 10 with direct proximity to exit off-ramps. 

So we finally rolled in around 4:00 pm yesterday afternoon, and after an excursion more dangerous than the drive down (grocery shopping at Publix on Hallandale Beach Boulevard!) we are settling in. I love my man for doing every minute of the driving and I need to tell him publicly that he is way more than just my chauffeur. Any man who can put up with me and Broadway show tunes for 26 hours in a car with no escape hatch must be my B'sheret!! By the way, for all of my friends and family freezing and digging out, it was 0C this morning in Miami. Hope that makes you all feel a bit better.

Making the Most of the Final Few Days

I am headed home to the north country tomorrow. It has been an interesting (to say the very least!) experience to spend an extended period of time in the southern part of the continent. I have regaled you all with stories of shopping, driving, politics, parking, dismal manners, behaviour and language that could make a sailor blush. I have enjoyed nature, strengthened relationships, forged new ones and attempted to clear my head and start anew. I thought that I had seen it all, but apparently the denizens of South Florida weren't quite done with me. 

Two separate incidents yesterday convinced me that, contrary to popular beliefs, this area is far from being God's waiting room. The dating, mating and social culture is alive and well, no matter how old the participants. In the first episode, I had the extraordinarily odd sensation of watching my father flirt. Now, please understand me. My father is so entirely clueless as to the machinations of the female psyche, that he had absolutely no idea that he was in fact flirting, but that is exactly what he was doing. Sitting at the pool yesterday, we were happy to make the acquaintance of 7 or so middle-aged nurses on vacation from Montreal. These women were laughing, drinking and having a grand old time. My dad, always the social butterfly and never able to harness his loquacious mouth, began to chat them up. By the end of the first quarter hour, he knew every name, job description, where they resided and had begun to play the "do you know" game. One 40-something was so taken with Dad, that she parked herself in an adjoining cot and spent the better part of the next hour with him. These ladies were so smitten, that they insisted on coming together for a group photo, with my father parked squarely in the centre. I should advise that my mother was sitting directly to his right, but was completely ignored throughout the entire spectacle. Mom turned to me and laughingly stated that it has become increasingly apparent to her that if, God forbid, she should go first, Dad won't even be out there on the market for the duration of shloshim, (thirty days!) so she has decided to make him sign a waiver ensuring a respectful period of time. Women will be pounding on his door with casseroles and cookies in hand. He is quite the operator, my father is. I honestly think that I could have done without the sexualization of my Dad, but it was funny.

But, turnabout is fair play. Later in the day, my parents (all four of them!) and I were doing some after-dinner shopping at a warehouse-style store called BJs. (In light of the topic of this post, I find the name slightly ironic.) Since I had absolutely nothing to purchase and because the store was freezing, Mom and I decided to wait out front in the warm evening air. We were just chatting when a 60-something man pushing a cart approached us and asked if we were ok. Assuring him that we were just fine, we joked with him about possible frostbite from the indoor air conditioner. He laughed and then, quite disturbingly commented on how beautiful my smile was. (Now, I haven't been hit on in years and here I am being approached by a man at least 20 years my senior. OY!) Mom and I doubled over in gales of laughter and when Dad joined us he thought that we were shitting him. As we walked to the car, the same guy pulled up next to me in his van and (I absolutely swear this is the God's honest truth!) called me over using the name "Beautiful Smile Girl,"(gag me!!) handed me his card and told me to call him to get together for a drink. My father was slightly horrified and my mother was laughing so hard she couldn't see straight. She grabbed the cards and made certain to dispose of them. (I am not quite certain as to what she thought that I might do with them, but she wasn't taking any chances!) I contacted The Husband to tell him of my potential suitor, stupidly thinking that he might like to defend my honour. He responded that sluts don't have any honour to defend and that picking up a guy in the BJs parking lot was certainly slut-like behaviour. That's my guy!!

It just goes to show that the battle of the sexes is alive, well and kicking it up here in Miami. Maybe it is all of that sunshine that gets the engines revving. In northern climates, we are quite content to hibernate. See you back in TO!

Gotta Hate February!

Jerry Scott and Jim Borgman must be living a parallel life to mine. Zits is one of my all-time favourite comic strips, in part because I have lived through parenting two teenage boys, and in part because it is just plain funny. Today's strip seems to sum up the feelings of most people who live in the north. February may be the shortest month of the year, but it feels like the longest to anyone who has to endure the gray, the snow, the ice, the gray, the mess, the gray, the lack of sustainable sunshine, the gray, the salt stains on the bottom of every pair of  pants and did I mention the gray? Why else would I escape and spend as much of the month in the south as I can? I used to joke with Younger Son that the only redeeming thing about the month of February is his birthday. I have come to believe that this is not so funny anymore. As this nightmare of a month draws to a close, just remember that the days are getting longer, the temperatures are getting a bit warmer and the gray is becoming a bit less pervasive. I will be rejoining you all very soon, when I can be certain that there are a few more bright days than gray ones. Until then-laugh a little at Zits.

Miss Manners Could Make a Fortune Down here!

I like to think that there is a shred of decency and integrity amongst the residents of this area, although on many days identifying the "politeness gene" takes a great deal of effort. I have spoken at length about some of my interactions with the "manners challenged" at the grocery store, banks, drug stores and the like in the southern home, but it is in parking lots that the true rudeness of many South Floridians really shines through. 

Some friends and I decided that we would take in the annual Coral Gables Art Festival today. It is a glorious Saturday in Miami. The temperature is in the low 80s and there is a slight breeze. The sun is shining and there isn't a cloud in the sky. I am relating the weather because this is the kind of day that lifts the spirits and increases the happy quotient. I promise all of my friends and family who are struggling with colder climes that I am not gloating in the slightest. I merely am pointing out that it is a perfect day to do whatever the heart wants. (Valentine's Day pun!!) We decided to head down to the show early, because prior excursions have proven the scarcity of parking and we wanted to beat the heat. We scored. We found a wonderfully convenient location within easy access of the festival and adjacent to a lovely outdoor cafe where we had decided to lunch. All in all, the day was looking quite perfect. 

After spending about 3 hours milling about with hoards of other art lovers, we headed back to the restaurant and dawdled over lunch. As an added bonus, our server informed us that if we presented our parking tag, she would validate it for us, saving about $20.00 in forced taxation without representation. As the four of us returned to the car, we noticed a number of drivers aimlessly circling the lot, desperately waiting for someone to vacate. As we approached our car, a lovely young man politely asked us if we were leaving and if he could have our space. Of course, we obliged and even slowed our steps in order to give him time to swing back around toward the spot. We also informed another driver that we had already promised the prime piece of real estate to another. We felt like the prettiest girls at the ball and everybody wanted to dance with us. We backed out slowly, as our new friend waited patiently beside us. Just as we completed our exit, a prima dona in a very expensive SUV gunned her motor, and literally flew into the spot ahead of the polite young man. We stared at each other dumbfounded. She knew that there was somebody else waiting for the spot. We did everything but paint a bright red sign on it. She casually exited her vehicle and with no embarrassment at all, walked away. Bitch with a capital "C"!!!! We tried to console our new friend, but he just shrugged and continued the search. I almost felt like getting out and keying her car, but this stupid sense of morality that I have, dogs me with every thought. Not only that, they carry guns down here! Who raised these people? When did it become ok to screw your fellow human being at every turn and only look out for oneself? The entire city needs a course in manners!!

So You Want to Know Why I Spend So Much Time in Florida?

If any of you are still wondering why I spend so much time in the southern home, I thought that I would post a couple of photos from my windows comparing where I was yesterday and where I am today. No joke! These are actual pictures and views from my windows in both the northern and southern homes. God, I REALLY HATE WINTER!!!!

Weather Thoughts From the Comforts of South Florida

I am a proud Canadian. It is often said of Canadians that we are obsessed with two things in life; hockey and the weather. Actually, if you think about it, the two are inextricably linked. Winter life bred our consumptive fascination with shinny. But, it is our interest in the weather that I find truly interesting. 

My guess is that our history as an agrarian society has some basis for this passion. Farmers need to follow weather patterns, else they perish. There was a time in the not-so-distant past where a majority of my compatriots depended on rainfall estimates and wind models for their livelihoods. Not so much today. More than 80% of Canadians now live in major urban centres, where weather is a thing to be loathed, embraced, feared or mocked. Ask any Canadian today what the temperature is and they will answer something like this: "Well the actual temperature is a brutal -21 degrees C, but if you factor in the windchill, it feels more like -32!" (For all of you Americans who still haven't embraced the metric system like the rest of the world, that is translated as f*&$#@g cold!! As a touchstone, you might want to remember that -40 is the same on both the Fahrenheit and Celsius scales!) The same holds true in the reverse. If you were to ask a fellow countryman for an assessment of the searing summer heat, you would get a response close to the following: "Well the actual temperature is hovering around 32, but the humidex has it closer to 43! It is stifling!" We can never just say the real number, because the real number doesn't feel like the real number. 

We pour over the weather reports like crack addicts. We need to be the most accurate and the most up-to-date. "It isn't -21.  CityPulse said it was -19, and they are never wrong!" Cold is cold people! We are incredibly loyal to our weather casters. Everybody has a favourite. 

"I watch Dave because he is always accurate." 

"Are you nuts? Susan is the best! She has never steered me wrong!"

Dipsticks!!! They all get their information from the same place, Environment Canada, and they are all preaching the same bullshit. You like Dave because he can write backwards with both hands and you like Susan because she is hot! You could be just as accurate by walking outside and assessing it yourself.

And, we are pompous about our weather acumen. We brag about our heartiness and we scoff at blizzard reports. Snow? Bring it on! Heat? We're tough! Rain? We'll compare our floods with your floods anytime, anywhere! Most of us own several winter coats. One for looks, one for warmth and one for frigid. When a former mayor called upon the army for aid during a particularly horrific storm, we Torontonians cowered in shame at the images broadcast. We were the laughingstock of the country. (It is interesting that we also can't forget about it. The ten year anniversary of this event occurred last week and it was marked with commemorative newspaper articles and interviews galore.) We mock our southern brethren when they close schools for an inch or two of the white stuff, and we laugh out loud at the mess they make of road clearing. Yes, we Canadians know our weather.

It is amusing that this obsession transfers when we travel or relocate. Whenever I come to the southern house, The Husband always immediately checks out the weather channel. We worry when a cold front is approaching (as if a 70 degree temperature will seem chilly to us!) and we stress over the number of rainy days. (I will admit that being down here for an extended period of time this year has made me far less involved with the atmospheric conditions!) You wouldn't believe how many native Floridians are wearing turtleneck sweaters and ski jackets today in what they laughingly refer to as a cold snap! We Canadians? Today you can find many of us at the beach soaking up the sun. 

I know that whatever I say today will be of zero comfort to my nearest and dearest back home, stuck in the midst of a miserable deep freeze that is showing no signs of abating. That is the reason that I winter as much as possible down here. I may be a proud Canadian, but I sure as hell am not stupid!!

The Bloodsport of Shopping at Publix!!

I am not a terribly competitive person by nature. Opinionated, yes! Expressive in my thoughts? Absolutely! But, competitive? Not so much. I play for the fun of the game. I enjoy the strategy and the machinations, but the outcome is not really an issue for me as long as the game has been played by the rules and fairly. (In the interest of absolute transparency, I should offer the following caveat. When it comes to games of trivia, all bets are off. In those cases, it is every person for themselves and I promise you that I will show no mercy!!!) But, I find myself in a whole other game-playing dimension when thrown into the ring of hand-to hand combat. This occurs every single time I undertake a shopping trip to Publix on Hallandale Beach Boulevard.

This is the den of the devil; the pit of mass destruction. One better be prepared for all comers, else one perish. Octogenarians armed with canes and carts engaging in wheelies in the aisles. Single mothers attempting to corral escaping children with snot-filled noses with one hand, while tossing boxes of sugared cereal with the other. Women screaming obscenities at the deli counter along with their orders for roast turkey. God help the wait person who slices 12 pieces instead of 10! Scooter driving maniacs who are better suited for Daytona, than a residential grocery store and check-out staff whose faces bear the scars of verbal encounters in several languages. This is Darwinian shopping; shopping where meekness cannot be tolerated and only the strong survive. 

I drip with perspiration at the very thought of my descending into the bowels of the beast. I psyche myself up for the task at hand, and I head out into the fray with a self-promise to stay patient and aware at all times. This will be the time that I survive intact. This will be the time that I don't get rammed from behind by an old lady hopped up on caffeine. This will be the time that I don't get pushed over by an obese, sweating man at the bakery counter. This is my time and my time is now! Armed with my list, (NEVER, EVER go to Publix without a list! It is like baking without a recipe. Disaster will certainly ensue!) my people and I headed out for our confrontation with the enemy. You all should have seen us! We were like a finally tuned offense. Three carts working in tandem. When one stopped, the others kept moving, scouting, looking for deals. When one needed to search for coupons, (the coupon fetish down here is a whole other post!) the others provided cover and shelter. When the old man brandishing his cane as a weapon shouted at me in a voice reminiscent of "The Shining", "MOVE!!", I silently complied so as to avoid a beating, all the while the other members of my team were loading up. We glided up and down the aisles with military precision; we took no shit and we took no prisoners. We were in a word-SPECTACULAR! Any of today's NFL playoff teams would have been left slack-jawed at our synchronicity. I felt like patting them all on their butts and giving them all a high-five. Way to go team!

I can't promise that my next trip into the lion's den will have as positive an outcome, but just for today I feel as though I have won the Super Bowl. 

Oh, The Things One Sees!

Have you ever been in a situation where you wished you had remembered to throw your camera in your bag? You are quite safe in the knowledge that without verifiable proof, nobody will ever believe what was actually witnessed? I had such an occasion very late last evening on the mean streets of North Miami. Oh, how I wished I had carried my camera!

The Husband and I ventured out into the balmy South Florida night at around 1:00 am to retrieve The Progeny who were flying into Miami International from the frozen tundra. We are located much closer to Fort Lauderdale, but given airfare at this time of year, Miami was a much cheaper alternative. Given the weather nightmares that are occurring all across the continent, the boys' flight was about an hour behind its scheduled arrival, and as such we found ourselves traversing the still busy Miami roadways at this ungodly hour. (It is truly unbelievable to me what can be done at 1:00 am. We could have eaten at any number of diners, drive-ins or dives, shopped at the local Walmart for those last minute "just can't live without" holiday items, taken in the early show at the strip club up the street, had our prescriptions filled at Walgreen's, bought a fifth of anything at the liquor store and done our banking at the drive through! We are Canadians. Our cities close at ten. We aren't accustomed to all of this conspicuous commercialism. My American friends have learned to thrive in a 24/7 world, while my country-people are more the 12/5 type! But, I digress.) As we headed west along Hallandale Beach Boulevard towards the entrance to I95 south, we noticed that there was an increased police presence on the roadways. Given that it was 1:00 in the morning, The Husband and I found this little occurrence quite comforting. I mean, this is the city where last week a husband and wife attacked each other with kitchen knives! The police were out in full force. In the span of a few miles we noticed cars from both Aventura and Hallandale. Three cop cars all within our vision. As we approached the final traffic light before our turn onto the highway, we found ourselves parallel with a solo officer in a marked Aventura cruiser. We noticed that he was busy punching something into his onboard computer touch screen; checking a suspicious license plate, no doubt. As we pulled up even with this joker, we saw what it was that was really eating into his concentration. This dedicated "keeper of the peace" was playing Microsoft Solitaire online. The Husband and I looked at each other incredulously and just broke out into gales of laughter. We couldn't stop. My asthma kicked in and it took me a good few minutes to breathe properly. This was a classic example of our tax dollars at work. I remarked that I wished that I had my camera, but the husband noted that perhaps taking a flash picture at 1:00 in the morning of a cop with a gun "doing his duty" might not be the smartest move in the world. They do have a tendency to shoot first and question later. It is interesting to note that at least they have made an effort to train these officers in computer literacy. What's next? Tetris?

My Parallel Existence

We all take tremendous comfort from our memories. There is a calming stasis that exists within them. High school friends with their natural hair colour, (or in the case of some of the guys-any hair at all!) or old homes with rooms that seemed much larger at the time. Our memories have this innate ability to remain constant, while everything else around us goes through a natural metamorphous. People and circumstances remain constant in those reminiscences, while reality moves forward with light speed. Such is the circumstance in which I find myself whenever I trek to the southern home. 

We started coming to this place when Older Son was but a lump in a stroller. My parents purchased this home away from snow so that they could escape the miseries of winter. At the time, they were amongst the youngest snowbirds in the building, not much older than I am now. Over the years it became a regular retreat for all of our families, and when Other Mother and Other Father bought their place one floor up, the December exoduses seemed carved in stone. The Husband and I purchased our sanctuary in the building a few years back and a certain circle of completeness was neatly formed. 

The characters in the condo seemed to be never-changing. We would return year after year to find the same people with the same stories and the same miseries. True, we would hear about weddings, babies or bar mitzvahs, but they seemed to occur in another space and another time; a space and time to which we could never fully relate. I had a real life of work and family and friends north of the border and these people existed solely in our parallel universe of snow-birding in South Florida. 

Then slowly, as my attention was diverted by my real life, things started to change. Every year, one or more of these individuals wouldn't return. Age or infirmity or time had called, but still we carried on and moved forward with those that remained. We kibbutzed and played as though we were safe within our protective bubble of this parallel world. 21 years is a long time to be oblivious, and so it is that I find that I can no longer ignore the realities that have interfered with my parallel universe. This year change has smacked me hard. 

The physicality of the building is changing. This is a good thing. The 1980's have been over for decades and this place is in dire need of a facelift. There is much grumbling and much discord from the denizens, but they will survive once they embrace the change. It is a virtual impossibility for every single person to agree on decor and design, and the animus right now is profound, but I have hope that once the mess is over they will move on to the next fight. No, the change I feel runs deeper than tile and carpet. There is a connection that has been severed with the loss of two specific individuals. The first was a kindly gentleman who became a sort of adopted grandfather to all. He was omnipresent in his captain's hat and he always had a hello and a story for all he encountered. He was here the first day I entered the apartment, and his void is felt keenly by all, especially around the pool where he was a regular. The second was a regal lady who was a survivor. Never a hair out of place or a shoe that didn't match the bag, she relished the life she had built. She had her difficult moments, but she and I connected, and I always felt that her inquiries about my children were heartfelt. I will miss her class. 

The characters in this parallel universe are changing. I can no longer avoid it. I need to embrace it. I am establishing new connections and new ties that will eventually lead to new memories. My real world and my winter world are converging, and I can no longer cling to the fantasy that time stands still. My bubble has finally and forever burst and I am the better for it. Thanks for the memories.

Travel Shit and Other Transient Thoughts

I am not known as a relaxed flier. (This little tidbit of information surprises you?) I am able to muster up a tremendous amount of anxiety when I spy that tin can with wings approach the gate. I find myself fully ensconced in the camp that wonders about the logic of thousands of tons of metal and gasoline lifting 40,00 feet off of terra firma. I also suffer from an extreme case of motion sickness that morphs into vertigo at first puke. The anxiety that I experience in flight, only serves to exacerbate the barfing. It has always been this way.

I have been a projectile vomitter for as long as I can remember. Many a family car trip was interrupted by pit stops at filthy restrooms, so that my extraordinarily patient mother could wipe emesis from my clothes. One would think that age and experience would cure my issues, but no. If I ride in the back seat of a car, I require a window cracked open a hair to allow for airflow. I cannot read, play word games or move from side to side while a vehicle is in motion, else the heaving starts. Boats on the water? Forget it. I have been seasick in some of the most beautiful places in the world. I was nauseated on ferryboats to Sausalito and Prince Edward Island. I puked off the back of a launch in Ochos Rios Jamaica. I was leveled by a hydrofoil in Capri, (I puked into a baseball cap for 45 minutes!) and I hung my head out of a covered launch in Santorini Greece. I have left little parts of my meals in locales the world over. And, planes are the worst. The stench of jet fuel mingling with body odours and weird foods is almost more than I can bear. Combine that with slight fear, and there exists a recipe for disaster. (One of the first times that I flew all alone, with nobody to cover me, I was pregnant with Older Son. The husband was on a business trip and I decided to head to Florida to spend 10 days with my parents. I was about 4 months along and the flight was incredibly rough. I couldn't reach for the bag fast enough and thus, I threw up all over my seatmate. He was an incredibly lovely man who told me not to worry. His wife was also pregnant and he was quite used to a woman vomiting on him! My embarrassment knew no bounds!) I now take a very strong anti-nausea that at least keeps my stomach contents where they belong, if not fully curing the illness, but the pills make me incredibly groggy and I am often passed out cold before the plane is in the air. This state of being is not usually an issue when I am traveling with somebody, but when I am alone, as I am today, it takes all the energy that I can muster just to stay conscious.

Flying has become a chore rather than an excited enticement for travel. Airlines have found ways to suck every taste of joyousness from the experience. The constant leveling of surcharges has forced travelers to stuff their personals in cases so small that it is a wonder that people ever change their clothes while on vacation. Flying with anything in liquid form is strictly prohibited, so most people are left with the options of purchasing their shampoo and toothpaste on arrival, or living the organic life of a 60's commune dweller. Every bit of baggage is scanned and scrutinized and shoes have become lethal weapons. It is not like any of these restrictions are new, but every single time that I line up for security, there is always one dipshit who thinks that they are special. Today it was the asshole who decided that her shampoo and liquid foundation wasn't liquid enough to qualify for the 1 litre Ziploc and held up the entire line while she systematically tossed the entire case into the trash. Then there are the fun people who have made it their life's ambition to entertain us all at the Customs and Immigration booths. The lines today at Terminal 3 were extensive. The wait was at least a half an hour to enter the 7th circle of hell known as the interrogation by US Customs. There are normally 20 or so booths available, but the joke for today was that there were only 5 open. As I finally made it to the front of the line, the booth that I was waiting for, inexplicably closed. I was shunted to an adjoining booth where I met Chahima, the most colourless and most humourless woman on the face of the earth. Chahima is obviously of Semitic descent, and I think that she felt it was her duty to oppress all of us in much the same manner that she herself has probably been unfairly racially targeted. By the time that Chahima and I met, my medication was kicking in big time. My tongue felt like it was coated with a layer of velour and I am not altogether certain of what I said to her. I might of accidentally admitted to a third world revolt. After a thorough grilling as to my profession and how I could afford to take the time off, (she also inquired as to the husband's line of work-as if women can't afford to do these kinds of things without the support of a man!) she grudgingly allowed me to pass. 

Breakfast was not an option. Why does every food item in airport cafes have cheese as its major ingredient? I had to fight for a plain toasted bagel and OJ. The terminal was spinning at this point and sleep would hit me soon, whether I was ready for it or not, but at least I knew that my nausea would be contained. 

I finally settle into my seat on the plane and am readying my ipod into position, when my seat mates join me. I was seated next to a shi tzu. Not a woman who looked like a dog, an actual dog! Tiger Lily. Who in their right mind names a dog Tiger Lily?  That is such a cat name. No self respecting canine could answer to such a name in the dog park. All of the other dogs would laugh and beat her up. But here I was, seated next to Tiger Lily and her very nice people-both large in stature-so that I was pressed right up against the window. Poor Tiger Lily. She was not a happy flier. They fed her doggie Valium, but her anxiety was so acute that it wasn't working. She was only happy when she was seated in Mrs. Tiger Lily's lap, and luckily for them, I didn't mind a bit. Better than the screaming twins that were seated three rows behind. Mr and Mrs Tiger Lily kept apologizing to me for their little girl's behaviour. They offered to buy me a glass of wine, but with my meds, I might still be on that plane. I offered to give Tiger Lily a taste of my pharmaceuticals, but we all thought the better of it. Three hours and a long nap later, I arrived at my destination. Stomach contents still in place and free from doggie breath, I am still heavily sedated, but I am where I want to be-in the land of the warmth and water. My guess is that Tiger Lily will be sleeping it off as well.