Jack

Like the rest of the country, I have been caught in the whirlwind reaction to the death of Jack Layton. While in Toronto for a back to school shopping trip to the Eaton Centre, I told my son Jack that we would be stopping by the chalk memorial at Nathan Phillips Square. I wanted him to experience this historic moment even though he had little knowledge of who Jack Layton was or what he represented.

It was the kind of request that used to send me into a tailspin, like when my parents would announce we were stopping by the Parliament buildings on a family vacation. As a young child, I remember meeting John Diefenbaker on the stairs of Parliament when he stopped to shake my 7 year old hand. Though I had no idea who he was, my parents near hysteria tipped me off that this was a big deal and I remember it vividly to this day.

So, I wasn’t surprised when I got the standard teenage pissy response that is a given when you try to divert a 13 year old from his intended target, this being the Hot Topic store for back to school shopping. Still, I held my ground and steered him into the centre of the square.

I was immediately struck by the silence. In a square full of people there was a stillness that was quite surreal. People were bent over writing, roaming, weeping. It was remarkable and in the middle of the city, it felt so safe and warm.

As I was reading some of the chalk offerings, I noticed my Jack bent down with chalk in hand. He was writing a message to this man he knew little about but clearly got that he had done something remarkable. And sure the name didn’t hurt either.

As I continued to walk the square, we stopped in front of the makeshift tribute of flowers, candles, mementos. A crowd was gathered as a woman placed an orange cardboard sign with the now famous words from Layton’s letter.

My friends, love is better than anger.
Hope is better than fear.
Optimism is better than despair.
So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic.
And we’ll change the world.
Jack Layton

There was a collective sigh from the crowd as the woman teared up. I felt my son’s hand rest on my back.
We continued on to the Eaton Centre but I knew this was 20 minutes of his life that he will remember forever.

I know there is a sentiment that perhaps we as Canadians are overdoing it, the reaction is over the top and insincere. God forbid, we are making a spectacle of ourselves.

I say it’s about time. You have to let people feel what they are feeling. It’s that simple.
God speed Jack Layton.

Old and Single-A day in the life.

This past Friday night, I got a call from a friend of mine asking if I wanted to grab a drink and a bite to eat. I jumped at the chance to sit in a room that wasn’t my living room and have a good chat and chew with a buddy. I should lay some foundation here in regards to my pal. She is in her forties, insanely energetic and perky, runs marathons for shits and giggles and will do tequila shots from her belly button on command.

It’s a challenge keeping up with her at the best of times and the few times we have gone out- men end up joining our table to salivate while I sit like a circus freak and scan my blackberry in hopes that someone is trying to contact me.

So this past Friday we ended up at a local roadhouse called the Cat’s Caboose.
It’s a casual joint around the corner from my house which acts as a harmless family establishment during the day but morphs into a version of “ Looking for Mr. Goodbar” for the 40- 60 year old demographic at night.

They usually have a band playing nostalgic dance tunes. The dance floor is crowded with single women shaking their groove thing and the air is thick with sweat, perfume, hair products and aftershave. Tight jeans and high heels are mandatory, bedazzled t-shirts and big, big hair. It would be fine if this could be enjoyed as a spectator sport but when you sign on to an evening at the Caboose, you are expected to participate.

As we finished up our meal, my pal suggested we go closer to the action and watch the band, so we saddled up to the island by the bar for a closer view. There is, I must confess a tiny voice in my head that says, “ So what if you happened to meet the man of your dreams at the Cat’s Caboose?”

Spend 20 minutes in there and you will quickly understand that it ain’t gonna happen. As I anticipated, a group of men gathered around the island to watch my pal shake and groove. I looked to my left and there was a bald man wearing a ton of bling including an unusually large stone necklace. He stood about 4ft, 11 inches and had a thick French Canadian accent. He leaned in and shouted, “ Dis band dey do good song eh?”

I asked him to repeat the phrase several times as “Brick House” thundered in my ears. I think I caught him craning to look past my breasts to catch a glimpse of my friend. She was busy entertaining a 60 something year old man, again with the bling and a perm.
He introduced us to his sad sack friend saying, “ He used to live in LA and work in the movie business but he quit that and came home” By the looks of him I wasn’t convinced that it was his decision to quit the movie business. He nodded hopelessly and turned his attention to my pal.

I caught the eye of a large man standing opposite me as I tapped my foot to a little ditty about Jack and Diane. He was bald, imposing, decked out in a 3 piece suit, diamond pinkie, no surprise bling and a tattoo sitting dangerously close to his Adams apple that read,
“ Fuck Pain”

I am not easily deterred by a bad boy but something about this guy really screamed turn and run.

There are many reasons that I may not be a prize and yes I am a snob ( there I’ve said it) but this was like walking into a scene from Pulp Fiction. And when did men start wearing so much jewelry? Is this really what is left when you get to my age? How do you bridge the 25 year old that is still in your mind with the 50 year old that is now inhabiting your body? This scene would be totally acceptable 20 years ago. Going out to dance and mingle and flirt. Why does it now seem so ridiculous and embarrassing? And yet, I’m not ready for the singles’s cruises or lawn bowling. I’m stuck in a horrifying limbo that can only lead to a continued relationship sharing blissful hours watching other people’s reality.

I miss my 25 year old self. I used to love sport flirting, spontaneous dancing, unhealthy choices and carrying on till all hours. I was at my afore mentioned friends house for dinner a while back. Our kids are great friends and they were playing downstairs. It was a Thursday night, nothing crazy. She had invited a male friend of hers to drop by and we lingered over after dinner wine as he aggressively tried to sell me on some ponzi scheme involving internet advertising. ( more on that another time)

Suddenly my fit young friend jumped up and turned on an English Beat CD and called us into the living room to dance. Don’t get me wrong, I love her energy and free spirit, I really do but the idea of the 3 of us dancing in her living room on a Thursday evening at 9:20 seemed horribly wrong. No one needs to see that, I thought to myself as I reluctantly got to my feet. I was uncomfortable and imagined myself outside of the situation watching from the corner. God I would have loved to witness it from that perspective.
I shifted my feet a bit to “ Hands off She’s Mine” and tried not to make eye contact with my other dance partners but it was hopeless. I couldn’t get my groove on.

I’m not saying I’ll never dance again. Ten drinks and I’m yours. I still think I’m fun, at least I amuse myself to no end but I’m leaning more towards a dinner party filled with good food, good wine, lots of quips and some semi-intelligent discourse that stops short of politics or green energy.

Rock on Cat’s Caboose, there is no shame in getting dolled up and hitting the bricks looking for love. It’s just not for me. The very idea of meeting strangers seems overwhelming. What’s the big fat idea around coupling anyway?
Seriously, Fuck Pain!

My Husband Doesn't Wear White Shoes

Lately I’ve been mulling around the concept of positive thinking. It’s nothing new, people have been raving about it for years. Think positive thoughts and the universe will align.
That’s all fine and well but I’m wondering if maybe there is a way to up the ante. I am looking for something more concrete.

A friend of mine advised that I should write down the things I want to happen. The act of laying it out somehow creates a shift in tides that opens the door for all the good stuff to come to fruition.

Why stop there? What if we just start verbalizing our dream scenarios?

It started innocently enough. I was treating myself to a mani-pedi at a shop around the corner when the woman filing my feet started grilling me about my life.

“What your husband do?” she asked, clearly with no thought that I may not have a spouse. I paused for a moment and considered the consequences of coming clean on my marital status. This would no doubt lead to much explaining and justifying, met with awkward silence. She’d then start cutting corners and using the cheap polish because she felt that I had somehow misrepresented my happiness.

“He’s in finance” I replied as I dipped my toe into the warm waters of deceit that would grow to be so familiar. I chose finance because it sounds like there is money involved and it is ambiguous enough to stop follow up questions.

“Oh, that good” she beamed. We were off and running.

“Are you and your husband going to go on vacation?”

“ Yes-we are leaving for California on Tuesday” I answered. That was only partially fiction. I was going to visit a friend in California on Tuesday. I thought it best to walk before I ran and anchor my fantasy life in half-truths.

“That nice! Your husband get vacation time” she affirmed.

“Oh yes, he gets lots of vacation time” I assured her. Might as well aim for a husband that makes tons of dough but still has plenty of time for leisure.

She shifted to questions about my children which was easy as I just inserted my real son into the scenario. I didn’t even feel bad about that.

The only glitch happened on my return visit. I treat myself to manicures sparingly so it was a good long while before I went back. My manicurist picked up right where we left off, her memory unfailing. I on the other hand was having trouble keeping track of my bullshit. Did we vacation in New Mexico last time or was it Dubai??

Had we already completed the remodel of the kitchen? My mind was scrambling as I buried my head in a magazine. I may have to tell her that he slept with his secretary and I was taking him to the cleaners.

This little exercise began many years ago when I lived in Winnipeg. I had moved there to study with the Royal Winnipeg Ballet ( this part is true) and as I stood in a room of strangers at a social event, it occurred to me that I had no personal history with anyone in the room. It felt so liberating that I got carried away. Someone asked me what I did and I spontaneously told them I was a race car driver. I was giddy with the possibilities of reinvention. Unfortunately, my choice of profession couldn’t have been worse. I didn’t even have a drivers license at the time, leaving me wide open for discovery.

What kind of car do you drive?

Red...

Like so many artists, I had to find a waitressing job to sustain my meager existence. Problem was, I had never waitressed before. Wait a minute, not a problem. I have no history here, I can invent all that!

I had my first interview at a sporty eatery called “ G Willikers”
The manager was a dashing young gay man that I instantly gravitated to. He asked me about my employment history and I told him I had worked at Bemelmans, ( a Toronto hot spot where people went to be seen).

His eyes lit up and he blurted out excitedly, “ I used to work there too! We must have just missed each other!”

Shit, Shit, Shit! This can’t be happening to me in Winnipeg. Why did I have to pick the popular spot?? I knew I should have gone with the Magic Pan!

I was in the thick of it now and there was no turning back. We bantered back and forth about mutual acquaintances, him asking me how so and so was doing and me affirming that all was good with them-making sure to steer away from details of any kind.

Good news is, I got the job and Cavin and I became fast friends. When he referred to a former coworker, I nodded and laughed or rolled my eyes, careful to follow his visual cues. It was exhausting.

Several months into my gig, Cavin came into work one day bursting with news.
“Stephanie and James are coming to Winnipeg for a visit!”, he announced breathlessly.
I stared at him blankly, my mind a bit fuzzy from too many pirouettes the day before.

From Bemelmans!, he screeched. My house of cards was crashing. Okay, I had passed my 3-month probation period and Cavin and I had become buddies, going for after work drinkie poos, sharing war stories, revealing, plotting. I was standing on solid ground when I exhaled deeply and said, “ Cavin, there is something I have to tell you.”

“I knew it!! he screamed. There was always a moment of confusion on your face when I talked about the old days.”

Though I was busted, we had forged a good enough friendship to laugh about it for years to come but phew, that was a close one.

I no longer think of it as fabrication. I look at it as life affirmation. If you say it out loud, it will transpire. It’s become a natural part of my visualization process. I routinely shop with a dear friend and we entertain ourselves picking out clothes for our fantasy spouses as well as furniture and appliances for our fantasy cottages. We pass the hours holding up outfits that won’t fit us, items we can’t afford, discussing itineraries for trips we aren’t taking. After a couple hours of laughing our way through our perfect fantasy lives, I feel a hell of a lot better.

And for sure, write down your lists of wants. Can’t hurt to cover all bases.

I’ll start.
1.I want a kind hearted man who is crazy smart and funny to love me forever
2.I don’t ever want to worry about money
3.I want someone to take care of all landscaping for the rest of my life
4.I want my digital cable to stop pixelating.
5.I don’t want me or my loved ones to ever be sick. Ever!
6.I want to look like I do yoga, twelve times a week without having to do yoga twelve times a week.
7.I want our school systems to find more engaging ways to educate our kids
8.I want to bring back the crank call without call display
9.I want “Lost” and the “Sopranos” back on air
10.I want people to stop saying, “ It’s not personal, its business”
11.I always want access to good coffee, wine, chocolate and cheese
12.I want my work life to be fulfilling
13.I want good hair with no prep time
14.I want the grass to be green on both sides
15.I want my kid to be insanely happy for the rest of his life


On a recent solo shopping trip, I browsed through the men’s section of shoes. I believe you can tell a lot about a man or woman by their choice of shoes. My eyes rested on a pair of white loafers and without hesitation I said to myself,
“ My husband doesn’t wear white shoes.”

My Ray

Yesterday I put my 17 year old poodle down, one of the most devastating experiences to date. As dog owners know, they aren’t just pets, they are our family, our confidantes, our biggest fans who never ever judge or talk behind our backs.

Ray or “ The Ray” as I used to call him, (a nod to Ivana Trump when she would refer to “ The Donald”) was born in Oshawa Ontario. When I convinced my future husband that I couldn’t live another moment without a poodle named Ray, I made the trek to Oshawa with a car full of girlfriends and picked him up.

He was one of 3 copper red poodles and I gravitated to him because he was quiet and shy. In fact for the first day or two he didn’t make a peep. I was concerned that he didn’t have any vocal cords-- until the third day when he barked and he didn’t stop barking for the next 17 years. He barked if someone dropped a pin 6 miles away, he barked at every real and imaginary person walking past the house, he went ballistic if someone came to the door and would only let up after a 10 minute greeting of jumping and licking.

And the jumping, oh my the jumping. Every one who knew Ray was astounded at how high and long he could jump. He could jump and tap me on the shoulder if he wanted my attention. In later years, or up to a week ago, he would jump and push me in the ass when he wanted a snack. He was legendary for his relentless Baryshnikov jumps.

I should have known something was up when we tried the crate training. I was told that they loved to be in their crates and would never pee or poo in the crate that they loved so dearly. The first day in the crate, he managed to bounce it across the room, rip the blanket inside into shreds and shit all over his new safe home.
This was repeated daily until I caved and realized this was one dog who was not going to surrender to the crate.

The first time I let him off leash in a dog park, he became overwhelmed by a Newfoundland dog and bolted out of the park, running along a busy Toronto street. Six dogs chased after him and seven adults after that.

It was like an episode of Keystone Cops. I was panicking because he was still a puppy and would have no idea where to go. I didn’t think I would ever see him again.As I ran towards our house, I stopped in my tracks and burst out laughing as I saw 7 dogs all squeezed onto my postage stamp front yard with Ray perched at the doorstep.

Ray, or Prince Matchibelli as he also answered to, was a resistant dog. More human in nature really. If you threw a ball, he would look at you like you were insane. If he did decide to go get it, he wouldn’t give it back, putting an end to the game once and for all.

He stalked food like a professional detective. It wasn’t just that he stole food when you weren’t looking. He strategized. He knew where food was in relation to humans at all times. I can’t tell you how many times I have entertained guests where we have left hor d’eourves unattended for mere moments to come back and find Ray horking back a pound of aged cheddar in less than a minute.

He behaved as though he was being starved to death. Christmas was an especially momentous time for Ray. He ate two Advent calendars one year and routinely opened presents under the tree late at night to search for chocolate, tossing useless items like slippers or clothes across the room. I’ve caught him literally opening the fridge with his paw to help himself.

I used to take him to work with me and I remember hearing uproarious laughter coming from a meeting in the room across the hall as Ray sauntered out of the meeting room with a bagel in his mouth.

If you said “ Ray come here” he would look at you with his perfected deadpan and turn and go in the opposite direction.My friend coined it best when she said, “ He looks at you like he’s saying,” Jesus!”

His sense of drama kicked into high-gear when left unattended in a car for more than 10 seconds. I once ran into a grocery store to pick up 3 items leaving Ray and our other less complicated poodle Gus in the car with the window open enough for air but not enough for him to jump out and follow me into the store.

I had been in the store no more than 5 minutes when an announcement came over the loud speaker asking the owner of a green Hyundai with my license plate to report to the front of the store immediately. I was met by a store employee and an angry mob who were threatening to call the Humane Society as there was a traumatized dog in my car who was behaving like he had been abandoned for weeks without food or water.

Of course no explanation could pacify them and they didn’t seem to notice that there was a second dog sitting peacefully in the seat beside Dr. Hysteria. I had to leave my shopping basket and exit with my head hung low as a man shouted, “ How could you be so cruel?”

When I was a couple weeks away from giving birth, I would put Ray in the cradle in my room for practice. When I went to sleep, he would curl into the small of my back.

Ray was there when we brought our new baby Jack home from the hospital. I put the baby on my lap as Ray paced in front finally jumping on the couch to smell him. He shook and cried and they weren’t tears of joy. I’m not sure he ever forgave me for bringing Jack home.

Though if anyone came to visit the baby he would run to the top of the stairs and stand guard in front of the his room. He would also sit patiently when Jack would pull on the hair on his lip or pet him by banging a spoon over his head.

Ray was there when my marriage ended and he was there when I lost both of my parents to cancer. My father used to make him hamburgers when we would visit and they had a standing ceremony when we left of doing shake a paw over and over while my Dad would say, “ Nice to see you Ray.” Shake a paw was his one trick and he would repeat it for hours if you let him.

If I cried, Ray would get upset. If I was happy, Ray was happy and if I was indifferent, Ray did that pretty well too. When we added Gus to the family ( a poodle rescued from a puppy mill) they quickly became inseparable. Gus was the Jack Klugman to Ray’s Tony Randall. I honestly thought I caught Ray giving me a “ You’ve got to be kidding me” look when Gus would do something particularly uncouth.

My friend and I created a high pitched voice to go with Ray’s personality and would entertain ourselves by reciting a litany of Ray’s complaints and observations.

A few weeks ago, Ray started to slow down. He had slowed down considerably in the past year due to his age but now he was tentative in his steps. That turned into occasional falls and sensitivity to light. He didn’t enjoy walks anymore.Back in the day, I would hold the leash over my head and let him run in circles as we walked down the street. Now he was always dragging behind.

This week, Ray was buckling under his legs and by yesterday he couldn’t stand at all. I called my vet who came to the house to take a look. In typical Ray fashion, when the vet arrived, he miraculously started strolling around the living room even managing a quick jump and push on my leg. I was astounded. This was the same dog that I had to hold up to go pee in the yard a few hours ago.

We had a bit of a laugh over his sudden recovery but it was short lived. Within minutes of the examination he started to fall over and the vet confirmed that there were neurological problems, his eyesight wasn’t working and he had some very serious issues that were beyond repair. I couldn’t bear to watch him struggle through another night and knew that the day I had been dreading, the day all pet owners dread, was here and now.

My vet gave me time to take let my son say good-bye to him and for me to gather the strength to go through with it. I held him in my arms as the vet gave him his injection and told him what a great dog he was and how much we love him as he slipped away. It was just me and him, just how it began 17 years ago.

The world feels empty today. Gus is pacing the house aimlessly looking for his pal. I am weepy and deflated. I can still smell him in the house. The hardest part was cleaning his dog bowl and putting it away.Jack told me he believed that his Grandpa greeted Ray with a big juicy hamburger on the other side and Ray was nimble and jumping just like the old days.

I know this is the price we pay for the pleasure of having our pets but I wouldn’t trade a minute of my time with Ray. Well maybe a few involving the digestive aftermaths of a few of his cheese and chocolate raids but that’s it.

I love you Ray, I always will. You truly have been a gal’s best friend.

A Fleeting Moment

Maybe it’s the time of year but lately, I’ve been commiserating with a lot of friends and colleagues on the state of their happiness. Relationship woes, financial hardships, identity crisis, emotional meltdowns, bad – hair days, you name it- there is a significant lack of the big happy out there.

There is a new catch phrase floating around that you may have heard. “ I need to get my happy back.” This is an all-encompassing cry for help for 90 percent of the population who generally can’t get through a week without dodging a variety of curve balls. Okay, so I heard it on the “Real Housewives of Atlanta”, sue me but if that group, of over-indulged southern belles has to work to find “happy” then I think it’s safe to say the rest of us are screwed.

In fact, I happened upon a friend and his family a couple weeks ago that were deliciously happy. His career has never been more interesting- he and his partner have recently married after many happy years together and are raising their 3 children in perfect harmony. They positively glow with good fortune. As I watched them from across the room, waiting for them to slip up- I couldn’t help but think, “ What the fuck is that all about?”

Sure I was a bit jealous but more than that, it just seemed so foreign to me. Every time I see them, they exude flat out happiness. Good for them but its not the norm.
You see, if I had been at the table when the letters were being arranged to describe objects and emotions, I would have ruled out the word “Happy”.

The shape of it, the sound of it, the in your face giddiness of it. It’s too much for anyone to aspire to. Imagine a world of people wandering aimlessly with the insipid grin of happiness plastered on their faces 365 days a year. It’s ridiculous.
What I suggest is exchanging the word happy for – get ready for it—“ fleeting”
Fleeting is a fairly underused word that can easily be covered by occasionally. Occasionally can double-duty on that one without upsetting the apple cart.

“Fleeting”. Now doesn’t that more amply suggest how often that feeling formerly known as happiness lands at our doorstep?
We still have content --which is perfectly suitable and accurately describes what the average so-called happy person is really experiencing at the best of times.
So try it on for size. “ How are you these days, are you fleeting?”
“ No, though I am content because I just got a promotion. I was fleeting last month for about a week while I was on vacation in the Poconos.”

See, not so hard. And for those of you who still need a word to cover off the charts happy, there is always, “Miracle” or “Ecstatic”, two words that are so rarely called to duty that they live in constant fear of being ejected for being under-worked and over-paid.
Think of all the redundant therapy bills.
• I’m not happy
• When will I be happy?
• Why is she happy and not I?
• If I could only be happy, life would be perfect
• He is always so un-happy, that is why we never invite him to our barbeques.
• You know what would really make me happy?

All of that wasted expectation gone in a big cloud of smoke. Happy has sold us a big fat bill of goods, its time to call it back to the table for re-assessment.
Imagine this:
“ My doctor say’s I have high-blood pressure and Jimmy is out of work again”
“ Oh, so things sound like they are moving along quite normally for you, I’m glad to hear it.”
“ Yeah, no biggy, just the same old. No complaints”
Followed by congratulatory slaps on the back for having survived another day without a visit from “Misery”.

So I guess that means we now have to deal with the phrase, “ Unhappy”
We of course have, “ Miserable”. Poor miserable, so over-worked its busting at the seams for a break. Still, we need a bridge word that covers that space between content and miserable. Something to cover things like:
• Irritated
• Sad
• Cranky
• Pissed off
• Frustrated
• Defeated
• Depressed
• Monday morning

My vote goes to woeful. Woeful has been living off the fat of the land for far too long.
It’s time to put woeful to work. Besides, it suggests a sophistication that unhappy could never live up to, once again due to the ridiculous balloon shaped letters that invalidate any suggestion of un-ease. Woeful, looks the part, walks the walk.

I am content to report that this week, I have managed to side-step miserable though a few late night visits from woeful were unavoidable. I look forward to a few days off with the potential for moments of fleeting- that is if I don’t run into hysterical along the way.

Great Big World

I was mesmerized by the miniature Victorian furniture that sat in the living room behind the velvet rope that kept the crowd from touching anything. The midgets stood rigidly, looking embarrassed yet resigned. It was the 60’s and we still called them midgets.

I was eight years old when the Winnebago arrived in the Zellers parking lot up the street. Just old enough to leave the house by myself with the fifty-cent entrance fee that allowed me to climb up into the exhibit that housed the miniature couple.
I caught the eye of the female midget and realized we were exactly the same size though she was clearly a woman, not a little girl like me.

I walked through the exhibit/home taking in every detail. The miniature kitchen table and chairs, the small sized cupboards and windows. It was perfectly clean and neat and I wondered how they kept up with it all, the constant parade of paying guests.
I exited the display into the bright sunlight as an idea started to gain steam.

I raced home and tripped over my words as I told my Mother where I had been. I headed straight for my Easy Bake Oven and whipped up a batch of cardboard brownies, impatiently waiting for the internal light bulb of the oven to finish its job.

I imagined we would become great friends. I would drop by after school and share details of my day- maybe entertain them with imitations of my teachers. I would soon gain entrance to the roped off living room area, that’s how tight we would become.

I packed up the plate of perfect miniature brownies and headed back to the Winnebago. I presented them to the miniature couple as I beamed with pride.
There was an awkward silence as the woman accepted my gift. Finally she said, “ Thank-you, this is very nice but we can eat real sized food.” I was confused by this. I was desperate to make them happy and now I felt I had somehow let them down.

I returned the next day with a plate of full-sized cookies but they had moved on to the next town.

Love is Over There

As a young girl, I would stare in the mirror and wonder if my face would change when I fell in love. How would I know that I was in love? Would an internal firecracker explode? Or maybe I would trip down the stairs and land at the feet of my love. I had the same questions for the terms nervous breakdown and heart attack but clearly love was the more pressing concern.

I watched Sandra Dee flail her way through the corridors of love in such classics as “Tammy and the Doctor” and “Tammy Tell me True”. I watched these movies whenever I could and as far as I could tell- when the arrow hit, Tammy froze in mid-sentence and fell into a trance with eyes glistening as love invaded her . A transfusion of sorts.

I knew I loved Paul Newman and Paul McCartney- that was easy. I practiced my marital signatures endlessly with hearts circling them. I imagined telling the maid to make up the extra rooms as the Beatles were all staying the night as I rolled my eyes in mock exasperation. Here we go again- another night of “ Love, Love me Do!”

For a brief week in grade six, I loved Michael Vos. I told my friends that I loved him and instructed them to get him for me. My people spoke to his people and on a stairway full of witnesses, Michael yelled up to me, “ I like you”. I replied that I liked him too and ran up the stairs before my head exploded in public. We barely spoke after our proclamation until he asked me if I wanted to French kiss. I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about but I sensed it was out of my league so I quickly recruited my best-friend Louise who hailed from Quebec and sent her in to handle the assignment. That was the end of our love.

Fast – forward a few years. I was working at my father’s stamp and coin store for the summer in the Minolta Tower in the heart of Niagara Falls Ontario. I had recently left the National Ballet School and was preparing to attend a real high-school for the first time in my life. Joe Salvatore the maintenance guy also attended the same high-school so I kept my eye on him hoping for some kind of direction on how to interact with boys who didn’t wear tights. We exchanged furtive glances as he lingered over a light-bulb change. This was the summer I developed my affliction for men wearing construction boots. Tentatively, we began teasing each other. This of course escalated into passing notes back and forth. We would linger by the snack bar after our shifts had ended -the roar of the mighty Niagara a constant presence. If you can’t fall in love standing beside Niagara Falls , your doomed.

By September, we were officially dating. I felt secure, entering a new school with a boyfriend already in place. We nodded at each other in the hallways, went to movies on Saturday nights and necked in the car afterwards. Now that we were in love, Joe stopped teasing and frankly, I missed it. Things were going swimmingly until one of my girlfriends said she thought Joe’s teeth looked yellow. The rest of my posse reinforced her assessment and I found myself examining his teeth every time he spoke to me. The disheveled guy in construction boots and overalls was replaced with a man-boy who used styling products and aftershave. As I listened to the squeaking of his leather coat during an evening screening of Billy Jack, the roar of the Falls was too many miles away. I could feel the love draining from my pours . I began taking alternate routes to avoid running into him in the halls. As I stood with my girlfriends in the parking lot, Joe pulled up in his car and begged me to get in and take a drive with him but it was too late. Love was gone.

I fell in love with a fellow dancer when I lived in Winnipeg. My first reaction to him was closer to repulsion, a definite tip off that something was in the air. We started spending a lot of time together until one evening he suggested we become lovers. From that moment on- I ached for him. The problem being when you surrender to love, it tips the scales. The mere act of surrender has rendered you useless. I longed for him throughout our 2 year tryst. We would meet in different cities for brief , intense periods of time. For me, the visits became fueled by anxiety as I felt my power slip away. I knew I never really had him. Towards the end, I literally threw up before getting on a plane to meet him. Now that -my friends -had to be love.
We are friends to this day and while I still hold a soft spot for him, it is crystal clear that it never would have worked out.

The alcoholic British actor- 11 years my senior that ran me ragged in my twenties. He loved me-he didn’t love me. He showed up-he didn’t show up or he showed up at 4am raging and twisted. I couldn’t stay ahead of it no matter how hard I tried and I was putty in his hands. Finally, after he had exhausted all avenues of my patience, the fog cleared. I wanted a love that could work the day shift and this wasn’t it. In hindsight, the whole thing was absurd but love had me convinced it was passion not alcohol that was behind his erratic ardor.

The day I got married, I walked my dog and asked myself, “ Do you really love him?“ Sure you have a one- year old son and own a house together but do you really love him? I didn’t have the answer. It wasn’t wedding jitters-- our ceremony was held in a private room in a restaurant with 2 witnesses and our son in attendance. As I said my vows, I was distracted by the tune of “ Lady in Red” gently wafting through the speakers. I stifled a giggle and got through the task at hand. I was never the girl who dreamed about the big wedding but this was bordering on vaudevillian. If I can’t focus on my vows, how am I going to manage till death do us part?

We crashed and burned through seven years of marriage, not all bad but certainly not all good. What used to feel like a united cause turned into a fraudulent routine. I would study other couples that we socialized with and look for cracks in the foundation. How can they still be in love? Day in-day out, what on earth can be so interesting that it makes them want to stay? Our relationship became toxic-- as far away from love as you could get. The only thing more complicated than falling in love is disassembling love. Facing the end of it is brutally painful, terrifying and un-nerving to say the least. It is no wonder many people choose to stay. Though I know it was the right decision, six years later, I still have moments of guilt, feeling like I chickened out.

Flying solo after being part of a couple is akin to learning how to walk again. I felt unsteady yet giddy with the possibilities. That is until I had to mow the lawn, shovel the driveway, hang outdoor Christmas lights and check the oil in my car.
Still, I roamed the streets without an internal curfew, stopped monitoring what I said and how I said it, watched a flurry of mindless television shows without judgement and basically gave my personality its own key to the house again.

It’s been over six years since I’ve been in love. Sure I love my family and friends and dogs but that’s easy. And by the way why is that so much easier??

We are conditioned to believe we are incomplete without a mate. I have been functioning incompletely fairly well though I do miss the imprint of love. I try to imagine someone sitting on the other end of my couch or sharing complaints at the end of the day and I don’t know how that would work anymore. I look at other couples and wonder “ Why do you get to be in love? “

It’s been so long that I sometimes forget my status. I’ll be out at a social gathering with a bunch of other couples, yammering away when it suddenly hits me. You’re incomplete, what the hell do you think your doing here?? Your incompleteness is making everyone extremely uncomfortable. Go home!

I recently asked a friend of mine who is recently single what she would have done if I had told her 20 years ago that we would still be talking about boys and how to find love at our age. She answered, “ I would have gently taken you by the arm and waded into the water.”
I’m not there yet. I miss love , I don’t know if I will ever find it again or figure out how its supposed to feel -but for now I have to keep believing that love is simply over there.

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

I lost my father 5 years ago on December 18th. We buried him on December 22nd and gathered for a family Christmas that was unusual to say the least. For those of us who lose someone during the holiday season, it brings a poignancy that will forever impact the season. Not to diminish the effect of losing a family member at any other time of year but there is something about the holiday season that really puts a clink in the armour when the Carols starting hitting the airwaves.

My mother passed away six months later, so by the second Christmas the reality of change was cemented. Gone were the traditions that I had come to love and loathe. The Fagan family Christmas sat somewhere between the Lawrence Welk show and an episode of All in the Family.

We gathered on Christmas Eve for my mother’s traditional dinner of bacon and eggs. Yup, you heard that right. I was than hustled off by my father to wrap all the gifts he had bought my mother- a task I disliked. Being the only daughter, he assumed I was genetically programmed to wrap presents . I wasn’t and to prove a point one year, I signed all her gifts as coming from me, expensive jewelry included.

I would linger over the tree ornaments. No matter how many years I saw them- they seemed like old friends who had been away - an assortment of multi-colored antique balls, plastic choir boys, angels and my mother’s crocheted elves. There was the familiar site of an old ornament of my grandmothers that used to give me nightmares. It was a baby’s head swathed in a hot pink foil skull- cap that surrounded the whole head. The clincher being it was missing an eye. Christmas wasn’t complete until I had located the one –eyed Christmas baby.

I then moved on to the display of Christmas cards taped to both sides of the glass panes of the front hall door. There was something about a door full of cards that was a testament of the good will they had spread throughout the year. I took a whiff of the plastic Christmas tree in the front window and sent a nod of recognition to the wooden snowman who waved to passerbys while wired to the tree on the front lawn.
After dinner we would get all gussied up and wait for the arrival of our neighbors the Sopers. My mother would serve an assortment of cheese balls ,pepperoni and homemade cookies that were actually made by Mrs. Soper.

After a couple hours of this, we would bundle into our winter gear and walk next door to the Soper’s house where Mrs. Soper would serve the exact same hor d’oeuvres. Why didn’t we just stay put you ask? Who knows, but we repeated this every year.
I tended to be freakishly shy around adults even if I had known them for 15 odd years, so this little ritual always threw me into a tailspin of anxiety. I would burn a hole through my Dad’s forehead silently chanting, “ Can we go yet? Can we go yet? For all that is sacred in this world can we please go now!!!!?”
When I became of legal age to drink, I found my tolerance for this tradition manageable.

On Christmas morning my father would be the first to rise - yelling up the stairs as if we were in the midst of a four alarm fire. His excitement rivaled any 3 year old and he wouldn’t stop until everyone was up and ready to open the gifts. We grabbed our coffee and sticky sweet coffee cake and took our positions for the mother lode.
This wasn’t a scene where we each took our turn to open a present and fawn appropriately over the Avon Men’s cologne that would sit in the upstairs bathroom until it congealed into glue.

This was an onslaught- every man for himself as we ripped into our gifts. If we didn’t like the gift, we told each other right then and there. You’d hear a disappointed, “ Well, that is going back tomorrow!” from yours truly or a “ Since when did I start wearing turtleneck sweaters?” from my Mother. A flat out “ Jesus, that’s not what I asked for” from my father as he tossed the gift back under the tree and pouted.

By the time the mountain of gifts had been opened and we had filled ourselves with caffeine and sugar, we retreated to pour over our stash and climb into one of our new Christmas outfits- itchy and crisp with the store smell still on it.
Then we waited for my other brothers and their families to arrive, or we would climb in the Chrysler Fifth Avenue to make the trip to one of their houses for the feast. Either way, within a few hours, my new clothes were driving me crazy and I just wanted to go back to bed.

We would snap open the Christmas crackers, put the ridiculous paper hats on our heads and dig in. I remember a year where I had a Courtney Love meltdown after one of my brother's many smart ass comments and the uncomfortable moments that followed as we all sat feeling foolish in our paper crowns .I would stare at my father during the after dessert lingering and chant silently, “ Can we go now? Can we go now? For all that is sacred in this world, can we please go now!!!? “

But make no mistake-I took great comfort in these traditions. I loved wandering the aisles of No Frills as my Dad loaded the cart with enough food to feed the whole street if they happened to drop by. I embraced the lukewarm vegetables and the 2 hours of dish washing that followed the meal. The feeling of being so full and tired that you didn’t know whether to pass out or puke. I loved hearing my father start to snore in his lazyboy chair in a room still full of people -like a kid that had just wore himself out. I took comfort in the sound of the wind rattling the window as I fell asleep in my childhood bedroom. I felt safe , warm and loved.

The third year after my parents were gone was particularly rough. I was still grieving the loss of tradition and as my family spread apart, I sat with my son, my ex-husband and my brother and wondered how it had all disappeared. It felt unbearably sad and wrong. How do you redefine traditions that are part of your DNA?

You don’t, but you keep showing up and with enough time it evolves. I love Christmas unabashedly and that has been the most difficult thing to accept. I refuse to give up on it. My new tradition for now seems to include Christmas with the ex, my son and one of my brothers. My kitchen is stocked with enough food to entertain a family of six if they happen to drop by. I make bacon and eggs on Christmas Eve but let people sleep in past 7:02 am. We rip open the presents but try not to lay blame before noon. The dress code for dinner is casual, you can wear pyjamas all day though I do insist on neutral colors.

I silently toast my parents as we crack open the paper hats. We whip through the dishes no problem, read, lounge, watch marathon reality tv shows and as the light fades on another Christmas day, I gaze adoringly at the one eyed baby with the hot pink foil skull-cap placed front and center on my fake Christmas tree.