Nuthin’ says Luvin’

“So, are you going to eat the placenta?” This from a coworker who had it on good authority that the afterbirth should be consumed as it purportedly offered the mother a leg-up towards recovery. His informant ate hers fried up with onions. Since I am wary of any baked good, gifted or not, produced by a child under the age of fourteen, the thought of eating something after it had been attached to my son for thirty-eight weeks was right out. And forget about roping Rich into the scheme. He won’t even eat things that come out of a microwave.

Why not take all of me?

I ticked the box and let it be; considered it for but a moment and then tried not to think of it ever again. Because, really, what do I care what they do when I’m gone? Hose me down and prop me up in the last suit I’ll ever own. Scoop me out and serve it all up to anyone who will take the stuff, whoever might want my fatty liver, my kiddlies, my lights—just make sure you fry up the rest so that there’s nothing left over for some cheeky soul to inflict upon me one last indignity.

Heartless

My brother, who is a doctor, refers to motorcycle riders as potential transplant donors. Up until recently, when a large contingent of baby-boomers fulfilling their youthful dreams swelled the ranks of motorcyclists, bikers were usually young and therefore still had useful organs; and they died in accidents at a much higher rate than other vehicle users. There are many science fiction imaginings of how the spirit of the original owner of an organ lives on after being implanted in a recipient. Thanks to my brother I have a vivid image of getting the heart of a Hells Angels member.

Spam Filter

It was a rainy drive home from Big Sur and we were all tired. I’d been in the water the entire day. I was lean and fit, never touched alcohol and usually let things just glide past me. That is the irony of it all: I didn’t deserve to die, much less lose my cozy existence. But we didn’t anticipate the sharp bend in the road and the next thing I knew I’d lost everything. They were my heart and my soul, my eyes and my ears. Now I am just an empty vessel. I have become Steve Jobs’ liver.

aBaBccDDeFFeGG

If you’ve only ever seen a few episodes of Star Trek here and there, you’re probably unaware that, in addition to the television shows and all those movies, Pocket Books has, over the years, published hundreds of novels based in the Star Trek universe. I once tried to write one of those novels. And, as if writing a novel weren’t already hard enough, I decided that by the 23rd century, the computers would all be speaking to us in verse—Onegin stanzas in iambic tetrameter, to be precise. Mister Spock would not approve, but I think Steve Jobs would understand.

Heart Smart

Watching Star Trek, I always identified with Spock. I wanted to be like a Vulcan, cool-headed, clear-minded; able to make logical, analytical decisions without being muddled by emotions. I hate the anguish that accompanies major life decisions in which the outcome could be either tremendously rewarding, or disastrously damaging. Over the years, however, I have found myself in many difficult situations in which I carefully and methodically weighed all of the information and took what seemed to be the most logical course of action. All the while my heart would be screaming, “NO!” In retrospect, my heart was usually right.

Spock Was The Smart One

Recently, I caught the final minutes of William Shatner’s Weird or What? It sounded like a low-brow version of Leonard Nimoy’s In Search Of... The latter show was appointment viewing when I was ten. Each week I’d tune in, only to be willingly creeped-out by stories about Nostradamus or the Bermuda Triangle. Now, I love Bill as much as the next person. You simply have to. But even with his twinkle and rug, I can’t bear to watch shows with titles like “Human Popsicle”. But Bill can’t help it, either. He’s always been Norville “Shaggy” Rogers to Leonard’s Rod Serling.

To Bowled-ly Go

In 1973, four years after NBC had cancelled Star Trek, an artist named Franz Joseph published what would become the definitive blueprints of the U.S.S. Enterprise, a little more than three years after they had broadcast an episode called “The Naked Time,” in which everyone on the ship loses their minds to a mysterious contagion brought on board by the landing party, and Ensign Kevin Riley, having taken control of the bridge, orders a formal dance to be held that night in the bowling alley . . . and so, of course, you will find that bowling alley on Sheet 11 (Deck 21).

It Once Stood as a Reminder

Even then the bowling alley on the beach was a relic of the past. You could see the kids who were hired to set pins scurrying around behind the back wall after the end of each round. Scores were kept by hand. It was a great way to escape the intense heat of mid-afternoon, to come in and play a few games – accompanied by the best milkshakes and onion rings available locally. Part of our youth was wrenched from us when it closed. For years it stood boarded up as a reminder of our loss. Now it is gone, altogether.

Little Shop of Horlicks

Raymond’s coffee shop is out of business. At least I think it’s so as the windows are now papered over in newsprint. As we walked by on our way to Roncesvalles we tried to remember the various incarnations of this tiny, doomed boite: Chocolate store, a cheese boutique where the owner’s wife complained to me, “Why am I doing this? I’m a yoga teacher for Christ’s sake!” Then a second cheese shop run by frenemies with creative differences. If it were my venture I’d sell Ovaltine and the New York Times. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel.

Wai Lai?

I didn’t like Henry and trusted him less, but when he suggested we all go for Japanese, I figured it might go some way to getting along a little better with someone I had to work with every day. Hell, I even made a point of riding with him, through the twisty suburban streets, to what he claimed was one of his favourite restaurants: a bustling place with fast service and good food . . . so good, in fact, that when I asked him the next week for the address, rather than tell me, he said it had gone out of business.

Society’s Glue

We are taught that lying is a sin, but the truth is that society would fall to pieces if not for lies. Relationships would be in shreds. At the very least we rely on lies of omission; things better left unsaid. But all husbands know the pitfalls of answering honestly to “Does this make me look fat?” So much so that it is a standard joke. And then there are the other clichés of “Let’s do lunch soon,” and “The cheque’s in the mail.” Yet, we continue to repeat these lies to each other over and over. And believe them!

Off-white Lies

I’ve never understood some people’s compulsion towards honesty. I mean basic, karma-inducing honesty like not stealing stuff or cheating is a given. Take something that isn’t yours or hoodwink somebody and you’ll get it in the end. But I feel no need to answer the phone nor the doorbell just because I’m home. And forget about supplying my real name to the dog-park by-law officer or entering it on classmates.com. In these and in similar circumstances my handle would become Lorraine Tessier or Marie-France Gouin. They are sensible adaptations: Close enough to be believable, but far enough from the truth.

Happy Birthday! Never Mind.

If you gathered all the people I know who were born in 1961, at the front of the line would be my poker buddy and reluctant Facebook friend, Marc Egan. He claims he signed up only to see some photos another friend had posted, and so there’s never been much to his profile but for the single delightful fact that he was born on New Year’s Day, which today would’ve made him the first of us to turn 50, except that, when I wished him the Happy Birthday I’d been saving all year, he confessed he had faked the date.

A Lotto Hope for the New Year

Out with the old, in with the new, so the saying goes. After all the warm wishes, hugs and kisses of the first week we will settle into the new year with hopeful expectations of what it will bring – as if some arbitrary date imposed on the calendar will change anything. Maybe we should ask not what the new year will do for us; but ask what we will do for the new year? Instead of waiting passively for a windfall, go out there and make a change. All the same, I hope my lottery ticket is a big winner.

We Wish you a Merry Mithras

This year I decided to study Mithraism. Mithra, the ancient sun god was born of a virgin on December 24th, sported a halo and wings and except for that (occasional) lion’s head of his could have been mistaken for someone else. If my dear cousin Denis was alive 2,000 years ago, he would have worshiped Mithras, the patron god of the Roman military. Scholars believe that the Romans imported the religion from the near East. Denis is spending the year in Iraq. I’d like to sway as many locals as I can to make sure they look out for him.

Although I did not care for her in the least, Kathy and I shared a moment in 1980. She was telling me about an uncle whose favorite song was “I’ll be home for Christmas”. He never made it. We both cried. My heart still breaks for loved ones who can’t be together for the holidays. Rich and I spent New Year’s Eve apart one year when mom’s hospital emergency saw me bussing it to Elliot Lake on December 31st . I was away from Rich, Dad apart from mom. We turned in at 12:01 am, both thinking about happier times.

Keeping It Light

Last Sunday I got out the Advent wreath. It is really just a five candle candelabra that I decorate with Christmassy stuff. One candle was lit for our Sunday dinner, and one more will be lit each Sunday until Christmas morning when all candles will be lit. Steve derides me for hanging on to Christian traditions when I am no longer a believer. But I am pretty sure many of the traditions around Christmas are hangovers from pagan times. This time of year it is all about cheering up the darkest season. Any kind of sparkle and light will do.

Advent

We haven’t many traditions in our house, but we do like our advent calendars. This year it’s Lego again—one little model every day—and please forgive me, but I bought the damned thing in September, but only because they can be hard to find if you wait too long. One year we ended up with Playmobil instead, but they actually require you to assemble their 24 little toys into 24 little boxes, and I’m sorry but, if I don’t get to play with the toys, I at least want the excitement of not knowing what those toys might be.

It was stupid to buy this year’s advent calendar so far in advance. Every day it reminded me of how little gets done in December, and how a whole year of not doing nearly enough can suddenly come down to the crunch . . . and how are you expected to get out from under all that when there are parties to go to and gifts to buy?
     Then, to make matters worse, I opened the first day of my calendar with a message from Revenue Canada. The second was a meeting where the client didn’t show.
     The third had better be chocolate.

Festive Specials

I hear today that some malls in Toronto have banned the Salvation Army bell ringers from doing their job because of noise pollution. Apparently when they shake their money makers the silvery tinkle elicits some sort of Pavlovian response from the shopkeepers, and instead of the joy of the season these folks are filled with insensate anger. I think this prohibition is perpetrated by the Politically Correct Police, happy for the slack-jawed consumerism so long as it is not associated with the “C” word. Anyone who has really worked retail during Christmas doesn’t need a bell to tick them off.

For years our advent calendar has been a collection of 24 little elf hats. They come in different colours and have numbers perched Seuss-like on their tops. I used to put candy and treasure maps in them when Dan was little. This year we will put in karmic messages and take turns so that Dan doesn’t have to bear the brunt of the goodie-two shoedness. Since I’m dealing with a fifteen year old and an occasionally distracted husband, the duties will be light: pay someone a compliment, pet an animal, answer your God-damned mother when she asks you a question.

Hot and Cold

There was a massive blackout in the middle of the hottest part of the summer. The heat and humidity were palpable with not a breeze of relief. All the same we had the windows wide open. Probably the only difference it made was psychological. I woke to the sound of a car starting. It just sat there; fumes from running it began to seep into our bedroom. After awhile it stopped, then, just as I was drifting of it started again. This was repeated through the night. Our neighbour was sitting in her car running the AC to stay cool.

There was a massive blackout in the middle of the coldest part of the winter. Even bundled in my warmest clothes it was miserable waiting for a shuttle bus because the subway was not running. Bus after bus came, packed so full people pressed against the front window. Any cabs that came by had already been commandeered. Then a woman pulled up in front of me and beckoned me to get in her car. Three others were invited to get in her back seat. Traffic was slow but we were a cheery crowd thanks to the kindness of a stranger.