of underwear and skulking....

okay, so I know I am going to hell already...
Here I am in the sketchy hotel, right? It's the Nomad, by the way Dale... and things like the tap coming off in my hand as I got ready to shower this morning, the gnarled up bit of two by four holding the bed frame together, the broken chair... literally so broken one cannot sit in it as two of the legs are no longer attached... these are all things that make me giggle and want to stay here again because the owner is this sweet old Asian woman who keeps smiling even as she brings a better chair to my room saying "is okay now, is okay now!" the whole time.
And my brain is stuffed full after the seminar today, with all the different meds you can take for HIV, and what contraindications each carry, and what all the generic and brand names are, and the scientific methodology of how an HIV cell takes over the TD4 cell... on and on... so by the time I had dinner with my colleagues and stumbled back to my smelly room (which no amount of air freshener seems to help) I am ready to take break before I tackle putting grant stuff together before bed.
So off I go to the anti-christ Walmart (I reiterate: I am ALREADY going to hell) to look for a bra and de-stress a little. MIndless wandering through aisles of styles, whiles, and files....
So I am looking over a bra to see if I like it, and these feet appear in my lowered line of view.
"Hey is that you?" I hear a voice say, and the feet remain firmly in my vision.
I look up and this guy from our group is standing there with a few things in hand, staring at me as I grope this aubergine coloured bra, four or five more over my arm awaiting inspection.
"Uh, hi," I say, incapable of recalling his name. "What's up?"
He proceeds to start to chat about how he was bored in the room, didn't want to watch tv, thought he's come down to Wallyworldmart, and lo and behold, there I was as well!
"Um, yeah... I thought I would take a quick break before getting back to work." I say this as casually as I can, considering I am draped in lingerie. I just want him to go away so I can go about my relaxing wee bit of retail therapy. For this to be relaxing, I need to be alone, or at least not feeling like I am being watched.
A few more "SO I was bored" bits of chat and I finally manage to pull away and end the conversation with a breezy "see you in the morning!" and he gets the hint and leaves... or so I think.
I try on a few of the bras, none really work except the aubergine number, and I head back over to another part of the lingerie section to check out a couple more, am engrossed in the literature crowing about this new George line of tee-shirt bras, when from behind me I hear "Is that you?" and turn to see him, again, grinning and standing right behind me.
Now, I should explain, he is a very nice guy, not creepy really, but either really dense, or REALLY bored, or both.
I say a few mumbled words and flee further into the lingerie section, convinced he will not follow me. And I was right. He did not follow, but did seem to circle the area looking hopefully inward now and then, waiting, I figure, for me to finish shopping so I can visit with him over coffee.
So I start checking out socks, girdles, undershirts, underwear, all and any undergarments, all the while dodging about and ducking like some deranged limbo dancer in an effort to see a clear path to the cash register that would give me sufficient cover to pay and get to my car.
I swear I could hear the Mission Impossible theme song in the back of my mind.
Finally, aubergine bra in my clutches along with three Red Bulls, one polka dotted pair of knee high socks and two pairs stripey underwear, I skulk through handbags, costume jewelry and scarves to the check out, all the time peering around like a
nervous lemur on the lam as the girl rings up my purchases.
"Would you like any cash back?" she asks in a nasal tone.
"No, no, just these things," I stage whisper and punch my pin numbers in frantically.
I sprint out the door and to my car, stopping just long enough to sweep off the snow that has collected on it as I was inside shopping/skulking.
I made it back to the Nomad, stealthily made my way to my room where I now sit to tell you all my story.
I feel a little guilty. He just wanted to chat and I made like a hermit and... hermitted.
Sigh.
But I do really like the polkadotted socks.

a hui hui!

Hey all...
It was been quiet in blog land these days, huh? We all seem to have lots on the go.
Just a quick post as I finally take a few moments to myself. I want to do the rounds and see what everyone as been up to. The kids are downstairs doing weekly chores, and I fear going down just yet as I am sure they are likely going painfully slowly... so up here with Jean-Luc I will stay for awhile!
I am off to a two-day training session on HIV so will not be blogging again for a few days... I am pretty sure the hotel I am staying in will not have internet connection... not exactly the Waldorf!
Catch you on the flip side darlings...
xx
Stevie

Hi guys...
Have to blog off for a bit... my friend Diane's eldest daughter died unexpectedly yesterday morning so I'm trying to do what I can for her, which is precious little really, but I need to try.
I'll be back soon,
xx
Stevie

Lest we forget...

As we observed two minutes of silence, from across the street I heard the gentle tinkling sounds of a child’s toy playing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.
I thought to myself, “how perfectly appropriate.”
What could be more indicative of the poignant sacrifice so many men and women made in defense of our freedom? A perfect remembrance: a child, happy, healthy and free.
I know I was not the only one who smiled when the song drifted softly out to the crowd gathered at the cenotaph in Invermere.
Beside me in the parade line my children stood straight, my sons looking handsome and stoic, and when the silence was done, my lovely daughter (step-daughter really, but it is a minor distinction) straining to see the cenotaph and those laying wreaths, her curiosity overcoming the solemn nature of the morning. It was for all intents and purposes the first time she had ever been to a Remembrance Day ceremony and we were representing the Summit Youth Centre.
My sons, particularly my eldest Justin, are old hats at this. They know the drill, and what I expect of them.
But for Hayley this was new territory.
I announced the night prior that we needed to be up early to get to town in plenty of time to pick up our wreath.
She looked at me with an eyebrow raised.
“Um, okay.”
The next morning, the Remembrance Day diatribe went something like this:
“No ripped or ragged jeans, no dark eye make-up, no hands in your pockets, make sure you all have your hair brushed, don’t slouch, brush your teeth, did you shave? don’t pout, no gum, wear a nice jacket and make sure your poppy is on the left side, don’t talk or look bored, be respectful, try to walk in time and remember to start with your left foot.”
At one point my youngest son walked into the kitchen with faded blue jeans on. I looked at him and said, “You don’t think you’re wearing those do you?”
Sighing, he heads back to his room to change, passing his sister in the hall who has a sort of overwhelmed “Stevie has lost it” look in her eyes. Scott responds with an encouraging “you’ll be fine” look.
And of course, they all did very well. I was proud of all three.
I am big on formality. Dinnertime in our house has a specific set of guidelines as well. We talk about our days over dinner and it is essentially a relaxed family time, as long as table manners are adhered to.
The mealtime diatribe, if I were to put it all together, would run along these lines:
“Hold your knife and fork correctly, napkin on your lap, sit up straight, take that hat off, no elbows on the table, do not slurp, smack or gobble your food, no talking with food in your mouth, eat at least some of everything on your plate (one day you’ll thank me for teaching you to politely eat food you don’t much care for), wait until everyone is seated before you dig in and when you are done you may take your plate away but please come sit back at the table as you are not excused until everyone is done.”
I rarely have to actually say any of these things as our kids are more than accustomed to the rules.
Of course, the rules pretty much go for any friends our kids have over as well, and for the most part, it’s no big deal. I think this is because my kids forewarn their friends of what to expect the way the guard warns Clarice Starling as he takes her down to Hannibal Lector’s cell.
I firmly believe it is our responsibility as not just parents, but adults, to make sure our youth have some concept of manners, tradition, respect, and gratitude. It is up to us to be sure they know how to be polite, how to respect other people, how to behave appropriately in the right situations.
It is up to us to teach them to shake hands properly when they meet someone, and most especially, to look our elders in the eye and know to put them first, hold open the door for them, offer an arm when it seems appropriate, and of all things, take the time to say hello.
It’s just manners. And if we fail them, we have only ourselves to blame.

As promised, Ian's column... it made me cry. And it made me love him even more.

Forever grateful and proud
Every year at this time I think of my mother.
Most people don’t think of their mothers on Remembrance Day.
It’s more common to contemplate the sacrifices made by family or friends in any of the wars or peacekeeping actions that Canada and our Commonwealth brethren have been involved in. Mothers are considered when we think of them losing their sons.
Being the son of English immigrants who arrived in Canada shortly after the end of the Second World War, I have known numerous family members who fought in the two world wars.
I was even lucky enough to meet a great-great uncle who, as a mutton-chop-fashioned Sgt. Major in the English Army, led supply caravans across the Khyber Pass at the start of the 20th Century. He was still a large, imposing man when I met him at the age of 11. He was 94 and was long retired from being Harrogate, Yorkshire’s top cop but his mind and memory were razor sharp.
A large, jewelled scimitar (curved sword) hung over his fireplace and it caught my attention, as did numerous other mementos from his military service, which also included time spent in France during the First World War.
I asked him where the “sword” came from and he sharply responded, in a most typical, booming British Sgt. Major’s voice: “Well, that came from a woggie I killed.”
That’s all it took. I wanted to know more. He explained that his caravans were commonly attacked by raiders on both sides of the Khyber Pass — in Afghanistan and Pakistan. One day he was attacked by several tribesmen and one brandishing that sword ran at him screaming.
“I pulled my service revolver and shot him between the eyes. I took his scimitar to honour him.”
They just aren’t made like that any more.
We were visiting him because he was quite ill and ancient and my mother loved him quite dearly, as he played a role in raising her after she lost her entire family one horrible night, May 10, 1944.
My mom was 16 when an Australian bomber, with five Aussie and two English crewmen aboard, clipped the top 30 feet off the 140-foot spire of St. James Church in Selby, Yorkshire and crashed into the back of her childhood home.
The seven airmen and eight civilians were killed when the Halifax bomber, returning from a bombing run over Germany, crashed. Another seven civilians on Portholme Drive were injured, including my mother.
Because her bedroom was located upstairs and at the front of the house, she was blasted out with the wreckage as the plane slammed into the back of her home. Its wings destroyed the neighbouring homes.
Her mother Doris and father William, aged 36 and 37, her 11-year-old brother Brian and six-year-old sister Patricia had bedrooms in the back of the house. They were likely killed instantly, my mother reckons.
It was miraculous that she survived as she was buried in the rubble — with almost every bone in her body crushed or broken.
She has only spoken about the incident a few times. It was something that happened to thousands of British families, she said once.
Luckily, she had family in nearby villages who raised her, with the brusque but kindly Sgt. Major also there for her — a soft spot in his heart for the scrappy girl who survived.
We cannot comprehend the horrors that people in Europe or in Asia endured during that terrible time when our world came within a few bad military decisions of falling into the hands of evil narrow-mindedness.
Millions of people died — military and civilian. I still have a difficult time trying to realize the fact that my mother was so badly impacted by that war — after having already endured about five years of blackouts, food shortages and continuous terror.
If anyone ever had an excuse to chuck it all in and give up, it was Jean Cobb — who did the opposite.
She became a doctor, specialized in podiatry and married a young Fleet Air Arm Spitfire mechanic named Jack, a lad from nearby Doncaster. Soon after the war they immigrated to Canada with $50 each, suitcases and my 18-month-old brother — who like my sister and I was also adopted.
Jean honoured her family and the other people killed that night by becoming a success story — by becoming a woman who charged into a male dominated world — with her purse tucked up against her solar plexis held by a dock-worker’s grip — and became the first woman to open a foot clinic in Western Canada.
Like the kind Sgt. Major who taught her how to drive and imparted his particular wisdom on her — they just don’t make them like that any more.
My mom would likely be a bit put out from me writing these words — for briefly telling a story that a book could only do justice to because she does not consider herself heroic. Her practical nature and extreme intellect would not allow such egotism.
But she’s my hero.
And this Remembrance Day, like all those before it and all to come, I will remember her sacrifice and suffering, like the countless others of her generation who paved the way to this time of luxury and relative ease.
William, Doris, Brian and Patricia would have been so proud of her — just as the old Sgt. Major so clearly was and I have always been.
~RIC~

Home sweet home...

Ian took this picture of "his" kitty yesterday... Jean-Luc got a clean bill of health from the vet, is four months old and the receptionist gave him his very own birthday: Friday, July 13, 2007.
:)
ps
If you click and enlarge, you get a great look at his sweet furry little face!

And the verdict is....

He's ours! Jean-Luc Tete du Poulet is now officially ours!