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[worddroppings]

Because it’s the right thing to do

Recent events remind me of something that happened to my dad years ago. He had built a cottage in Haliburton with his buddies. His older step brother put his own name on the deed because my dad wasn’t old enough. My dad considered himself the rightful owner and used the cabin for many years. When my dad’s mother passed away, the step brother had nowhere to live, so he went to the cabin and lived out the rest of his life there. My cousin helped him when he was too old to manage himself by bringing him groceries and helping with maintenance.

When the step brother died, he willed the cottage to my cousin. My dad was heartbroken because, although it was his step brother’s legal right, it was a harsh and spiteful thing to do.

After much debate and, in some cases heated conversation, my cousin sold the property and gave half of the money to my dad.

He always felt that my cousin was being selfish, since everyone knew the cottage was his. He never forgave her or spoke to her again.

Recently, my mother passed and did something similar. She removed me from her will and left everything to my sister. Although my sister did give me some money, she felt entitled to it all and gave me what she thought was fair.

My mother and father worked and lived their lives, building their worth and understanding that what they had amalgamated would one day go to their two children. My father willed everything to my mother with the expressed promised to take care of herself and their two children.

My mother took care of herself.

I know my dad would say, that irregardless of the words on a will, the right thing to do would be to pass their estate down to BOTH children. My mother, taking this act, hurt me immensely. Just like the step brother had done many years ago to my dad.

My sister, like my cousin, became greedy and felt it her privilege to hand over a piece of what she thought was only hers.

This was the NOT the right thing to do. My dad would be looking down and crying if he knew how my sister paid more heed to the words on a will than the proper passing down of a parent’s inheritance to their children.

I will likely not speak to my sister again.

I had my sister specifically cut from my will. The horrible circle continues… because of greed and self-righteousness. I feel my dads pain now.

[worddroppings]

How to ruin a wedding. [dream]

My sister is getting married to her best friend, Glenn. the event of the century, at a local high-end hotel. Cathy has organized every detail and covered every contingency — except one — her sister.

Lori’s dress, shoes and accessories have been carefully chosen and everyone is happy. She is her sister’s Maid of Honor and Cathy knows Lori can sometimes get things confused, so this time, there will be no room for error.

The day has arrived. I pick up the bag that Cathy has left at the concierge for me. It contains everything I’ll need for the event. But before going to the hotel room, I go up to the 3rd floor where I’ll be attending a class. I make my way to a desk and pull my laptop from its case. The class lasts for 45 minutes and everyone piles out of the room afterward.

The next step will be to find the room Cathy has reserved where I can dress and get ready for the wedding. The room number is 7. I travel through the halls looking at each door in search of 7. I see 5, 6, 7A, 9, 12B, but no 7. This is quite confusing. Why wouldn’t a hotel have their door numbers sequential. A bit of panic sets in, but I stay calm. I’ll just ask of course. Traveling through the halls, I spot two cleaning girls discussing something over a trolly of supplies and ask them if they know where room 7 is. “Of course, glad to help”, replies the girl with red hair and pale skin. Looking over their room map, they search for number 7, but can’t seem to find it. This is very odd, remarks the red-headed girl. They both appear confused. I look at the map and see a small number 7 at the front corner of the building. We head to that area.

From the lobby, we are looking in the direction of the room. It seems to be a hidden room that the girls weren’t aware of. We scan the area and see one lone door off to the side, a young black girl with corn rows goes to check. She opens the unknown door and we see hundreds of people in a banquet hall. They are wedding guests milling around and having a drink before the wedding. She laughs loudly and jumps back realizing she has just centered herself out to the room. She is supposed to be invisible in her job and Glenn has given instructions that we are not to be loud and disruptive. I cringe as the girl continues to carry on. Stupid girl!

An older gentlemen, about five-foot-two and resembling Tim Conway hears the ruckus and comes to investigate. He is aware of room 7 and will be able to guide me to the room. We head off to the left and reach a small, oddly shaped corridor. The hallway is about 7 feet long, but narrows to a point at the end. At the end of the point, on the right side is a very small door, about 4 feet high. The concierge guides me to the end and hands me the key. Since he is in front, I’m unable to maneuver to put the key in the door and then move around him to enter. He takes the key from me and inserts the card &em; but then there is not enough room for me to squeeze by him to enter the room. I’m starting to feel a claustrophobic &em; keep it together, Lori. He suggests I back out of the hallway. He will insert the card and then leave the hallway, passing by me. Seems like a good plan. I finally reach the tiny door and push it open to enter the room. More panic sets in as I wonder if I will fit through this wee door. I do fit and release a sigh.

So far, this day has been challenging, but I’m in my room now and can relax. Yay, I'm in!

The room is very large with a sunken living area and two couches. There are doors off to the side that I assume are bedrooms and bathroom and a bar on the far side. One wall is glass with long beige curtains.

But I am not alone. Apparently the best man is also using this room with me. I have not met him before and he is from Quebec. He introduces himself as Michel, a long-time friend of Glenn’s. He is tall, very serious, handsome, with glasses and a strong French accent. I shake his hand and introduce myself.

There is a knock on the door and a gentleman from the hotel enters to see if I have settled ok. He sees Michel and is surprised, afraid he has disturbed us. Feeling awkward, I make a joke indicating that Michel was my entertainment that came with the room. Michel doesn’t laugh. He is insulted. Oh, crap, I’ve pissed him off now too. I’m working with a tough crowd here.

Soon after, friends of Cathy and Glenn’s start entering the room, laughing and drinking. I think they may be the rest of the wedding party, but I’m not sure. I look around for a place to go and get myself ready and also scan the room for my dress bag and other toiletries. Then it hits me, OMG! Where is the bag with my dress. Crap! Not only is my dress in there, but also Cathy’s shoes and Glenn’s shirt. I had better find that quick.

I search the room to no avail. Panic starts to set in. I leave the room through the tiny door and head down the triangle hall to the hotel lobby. I’m running around in panic, asking everyone I see if they have spotted the bag anywhere. People are joining me to look and everyone is running around the hotel in a panic. The staff joins in to help and we discuss every movement I made since picking up the package. Cathy and Glenn have heard the commotion and come to see what has happened. Oh, crap! They join in the hunt.

The scene is chaos until one very stern, very tall, very dark middle-aged colored man saunters into the lobby and takes charge. He is definitely a leader and likely a manager at the hotel.

He directs groups to each location I have been to that day, and soon after, the bag is found at one of the locations I stopped to chat and get supplies. Not wanting to be responsible any more, I give Cathy her shoes and Glenn his perfectly folded shirt like they are hot potatoes. At least that responsibility is out of my hands.

When I look inside, my dress is there. Great, it’s a beautiful sea-green plain silk dress with a see-through white flowing cape-like cover that is straight, not flouncy. Very chic! Happy to see my beautiful dress again, I head back to my room to change and get ready. The wedding party girls are there as well getting ready. I still feel quite anxious but happy to be getting ready now.

After joking around for a while, we look in my bag. My dress isn’t there. Instead, there are about five other dresses, all in beige tones but different styles; each is packaged individually. I pull the dresses out of packages with abandon. What is this? What happened? Time is running out. I can’t go searching for my dress again, but nothing here will likely fit me. Oh, crap!. I keep pulling out dresses and find a beautiful simple straight beige dress with full lace covering. It’s lovely. I try it on — it fits perfect! What are the odds. One of the girls does the back up for me and they look upon me with approval. I sure hope this works out ok. It’s not the sea-green dress, but it’s better than nothing.

At the bottom of the pile, i notice another beautiful light flowered handkerchief dress. No time. This fits.

These must be bridesmaid dresses for someone else’s wedding. They are going to be pissed and running around looking for them, just like I was, but with only minutes to spare, I have to worry about this wedding first. If we finish quickly, I’ll put the dresses back like I found them and give them to the concierge. I’m curious about the girl who wears this dress. Does she look like me? Is she having a messed up day like me? We should have a drink later and compare stories.

I then realize that I’m missing shoes. Glenn’s mom comes into room as I look around wondering what to do. I’m panicked and hope she doesn’t want to chat. I quickly explain the situation and she is quick to react and advise, showing me a back glass door that I can exit in search of shoes. She’ll wait there to make sure I have a quick entrance back in and don’t have to maneuver through the triangle hall and tiny doorway.

Off I run, looking for girls whose shoes might fit, that I can steal off their feet. The heals on all of their shoes are so high. That’s never going to work for me. I’ll waddle like a duck and fall on my beak. I can’t find anything, but I do see a hotel girl walking through the foyer. Help! She jumps to attention and heads my way. After listening to a short version of my chaotic tale, she looks around and notices garment bags hung outside the hotel restaurant. Maybe they are for a show? We race over to the hanging bags go through them. The shoes are very ugly and very high. The duck image crosses my mind again. Cathy will kill me if I fall flat on the back of her wedding dress, or worse, on her, knocking her down with me, like a couple of dominoes. But luckily there is one pair that is lower with pastel colors. It will have to do.

When I get back to the room, Glenn’s mom is there waiting at the glass door for me to dive back in. While I was gone, the other girls have found shoes that go with beige dresses. Great, now they show up! Another few years off my life could have been avoided. I know the time is ticking fast and there isn’t much time. I try on a pair of plain beige shoes and they fit good enough.

Cathy comes by. She Looks at my dress and she’s not thrilled, but will live with it. She has too much else to worry about. By this time, she has washed her hands of me and just hopes she can get through this day.

There’s only ten minutes until the ceremony. I’m not ready. My hair and makeup aren’t done and I can’t find my bag with my makeup. Was it ever really here? I run around, pleading with girls to use a bit of their makeup, but no one volunteers. I go into bathroom and a notice a couple of girls applying finishing touches. I just need a little eyeliner and mascara. Please. One kind sole takes pity and I quickly apply a simple line on my lid, a touch of mascara, and some reddish-brown eyeshadow. It’s very bold, but, hey, it looks pretty good. Then I quickly do my hair.

When I walk out of the bathroom, I have a pile of dark auburn curls and a bold makeup job. I look very exotic. Totally different than myself and I feel really hot! — and not in a perspiring way. I confidently stroll down the hallway to faces that are stunned by the transformation.

But no time to flirt with the boys, the ceremony has started and I’m not there. I run to start point. The girls have already gone and everyone is waiting for me. I slam to halt and try and do the the slow step-together movements. It’s tough. My heart is beating into overdrive and my shoes don’t want to stay on my feet.

The boys are all behind me. They suck at slow walking and are soon bumping into me. How much have they been drinking? They’re waddling like a bunch of penguins and are almost surrounding me. I try to whisper instructions, but they aren’t getting it. I have an idea to lighten this embarrassment. I look back and say to loud enough for the guests to hear, “ok now boys, back on up and give me some space. You’ll all get a dance later.”

I finally reach the front where Cathy is standing with her brides maids beside her. Now what? Where am I supposed to go? To the back of the line? I think I’m supposed to be beside Cathy, but there’s no room. There’s another girl standing in my spot, a pretty, smiling blond. Out of the way, girly. I elbow her aside and take my rightful spot. Cathy looks at me. I think she’s really mad now. Not sure how I’m going to get out of this mess. I’ll just have to pay attention and make sure there are no more blunders.

The ceremony is beautiful and I stand quiet like a mouse trying not to scratch my itchy nose or scratch one uncomfortable foot with the other. And… off we go, mixing with the crowd of people that have come up to congratulate the couple. Everyone is happy. Cathy is happy.

There is a plan to go to a specific pre-decorated room for pictures. I stand to the side to fix my uncomfortable shoes, and when I look up, I’ve lost track of the wedding party. Oh, oh! Luckily, I see a bunch of people dressed alike on their way somewhere, so I jump in formation with them.

We arrive in a room that has stark lighting, with bright white fluorescent lights. The room is mostly white except for some chrome objects which I suddenly realize are appliances. OMG, I’ve followed the wait staff to the hotel kitchen. They are standing in formation in their burgundy vests and staring at me. How could I have mistaken them for the wedding party?

Now I’m running out of the kitchen, up and down the halls, through the foyer. Where are they?

Finally I come to a glass door that is frosted on the bottom half. I see a photographer’s lens through the glass and realize I’ve finally found them. Cathy and the rest of the party are leaving now. She’s furious. Oh, boy! I’ve done it again.

I enter the room and it is empty other than a bunch of photo lights and a few props. The photographer is sympathetic and says she’ll shoot me, but there won’t be any with the group or Cathy. Ugh!

On one side of the room, there is a piano set up with flowers around it. This was to be my special prop and it is still available to use. I sit down on the bench. There is a camera fastened to the piano just above the keys for a closeup. There is also a drone camera and one on a large mechanical moving robot arm.

I pretend to play the piano and offer up my best, sweetest smile. At least I don’t have to look as terrified and anxious as I am. The pics turn out well and the photographer is pleased.

Afterward, I find Cathy relaxing in the foyer having a drink, I’m so sad. I ruined everything. But she is enjoying the moment and I don’t want to interrupt.

Glenn’s mom comes up to me and offers a kind smile. She asks me what I can possibly do now to fix things?

Well, I still have the dinner speech. I think I’m going to say that it was all a well planned prank. Surprise!! Maybe it will go through and save my butt, maybe it won’t. I’ll just make sure Cathy has drinks flowing all evening to her. It’ll be fine…

[worddroppings]

When the world is much smaller than you are prepared for

I’m always amazed at people who think lies and cheating is the best step forward. Sure, when you get away with it, there’s a big windfall. But one time you won’t, and it may negate all prior wins. Because the world is a funny place where one person connects to the other, eventually connecting back to you.

As my venture into online dating continued, the extreme odds of making a real match became clear. Even with hundreds of choices, the ones that aren’t cons or catfish are likely liars or cheats; and the few left over are what you are left with. This is the muck at the bottom of the pond, and the odds of one rising up to meet you at your level are equivalent to winning the lottery.

Case in point... I met a sweet man on POF. Let’s call him Ben. Ben was a country boy who bred horses, farmed sheep and grew corn. He was a simple man with a big heart and we hit it off right away. As with most men, chemistry is at the top of their list and we openly discussed our personal preferences. We seemed to match up perfectly, so we discussed meeting to see if our chemistry translated to reality. I was ready immediately, but he stalled a bit, perhaps life was very busy on his farm. That was ok. Phone and text were working well.

One night, while talking to a good friend, I mentioned Ben and offered some basic information. My friend paused. Then with hesitancy, said he knew a farmer from that small town with that name. We paused together wondering what the odds were — they were very small.

As it turns out, he had met Ben at an Easter dinner celebration — with his girlfriend, Anne. My friend’s sister had a son, Evan. Evan had a girlfriend, Lisa. Lisa’s mom was Anne, the live-in girlfriend to Ben. My friend decided to do further investigation and speak to his nephew who was a frequent visitor to the farm. Low and behold, it was the same person who was building a “thing” with me, and he and Anne were still living together, planning a future.

And that is how a liar gets caught and ends up with no one.

[worddroppings]

Why words have so much more power than they should

I grew up chubby! Certainly not something new for young people. It was a mixture of genetics, dense bones and a family who enjoyed food.

Diet was a regular word around my house. My mother and grandmother spent their days discovering and implementing every theory and concoction that came around. It was a devistating life for them, because no matter what they tried, they always ended up back where they started. Later in life, the phrase, “The thing about banging your head on a brick wall, is that it feels so good when you finally stop”, occurred to me. But can we ever stop?

As a child, I was energetic and happy. Then kids would randomly call me “fat” and I didn’t understand why. I was healthy, active, smart and friendly. The more it happened, the more I started to believe there was something wrong with me. As I grew older, I immersed myself in sports and more activities. Even in public school I could jump high enough for “earsies”. (The height of the elastic band chain you would jump over in a game called “jumpsies”). That was an amazing accomplishment for a short, chubby girl. People didn’t call me fat often because people generally liked me and “fat” was a word meant to hurt. But it doesn’t take a lot of repetition for something perceived as negative to wedge into your psyche. It dug into my head and kept reminding me, I’m weak! I’m flawed! I can’t be loved!

At about 12, I saw a boy who I wished would like me, but noticed all the girls around him were skinny. This was now something I couldn’t achieve and I had to rectify. So I ate like a bird for a couple of weeks and the weight started to fall off. This was exciting. So, leading up to highschool, I continued to lose weight and entered highschool with confidence. It only took a few mean girls to call me “fat” again to send me spiralling into self doubt. I handled this self doubt with anger at myself, jamming handfuls of cookies in my mouth — and then running 10kms.

In all seriousness, I was not fat. I was solid as a rock, but genetics had set my body up to be perceived as fat to those who thought models were normal. But I could run for hours, played volleyball, basketball, was a pretty good gymnast (very flexible), could do 100 full sit-ups in minutes like a machine. I even won the “award of excellence”, an Ontario program that measured the overall fitness of students, and the highschool award for top marks in phys-ed each year. This isn’t bragging, it just shows how a few well-placed, mean words can cut through a person like a knife and leave an everlasting effect.

My feelings of being fat continued to haunt me through university and then college. As versatile and, dare I say, popular as I was in a sea of intellectual nerds, the word fat sat in the back of my mind, affecting relationships and keeping me arm’s-length from boys who could have been very good for me if I had the confidence to give them a chance.

I had begun a new self-destructive way of dealing with hurt and pain I didn’t want to show on the outside. When someone hurt me with words, I would hide away and eat — anger-eat! Sometimes guilt would have me work off most of the calories, but not always. I became obsessed with the gym, working out for hours each day, and binge eating when someone looked at me wrong or mentioned my size.

Fast-forward to me in my more senior years. I never became a diet addict like my mother and grandmother, but my issues with weight and size throughout my life were formidable. I can’t run 10kms anymore, or play volleyball or do endless cartwheels, or even spend hours at the gym doing weights and multiple aerobics classes. I walk and swim now, and try to keep active in other ways. The habits learned from childhood remain. When I feel judged or put down, I keep a happy face and then bury myself in tears and chocolate. When someone is talking down to me or attacking my self worth, I rip at my skin, a form of self-mutilation that diverts the pain. For some reason, people think it’s ok to give their honest, negative opinion and often use this in place of a positive, uplifting opinion.

My message to the world: If you honestly can only see someone through their weaknesses and faults, be aware of what could be happening out of sight as they process your “honesty”.

Is it really that difficult to use words in a positive way? Doesn’t it make you feel good to cause someone else happiness? Try it, you might like it!

[worddroppings]

Catching catfish

Now into the second year of Covid-19, people have locked themselves away, afraid to touch anything or anyone. We have become a civilization of Chicken Littles, certain the sky will fall at any minute. I have immersed myself in the rediculous pastime of online personals.

My first meeting was David, a romantic, quirky guy who’s life was anything but ordinary. I took an instant liking to him. For the next few weeks, I was his obsession, texting, FaceTime. He eluded to our destiny with talk of family and being together all the time. His sexual discussions became fodder for my night time dreams and fantasies. I was smitten.

Then one day, it stopped — actually, he stopped. I kept right on going. Apparently my insistence for us to meet in person scared him away and that was that. We still talk. I can’t seem to just let him go because I have a weird feeling he needs me to be his friend.

The next couple of months were a whirlwind of notes back and forth on Plenty of Fish. What started out as an amusing pastime, turned into a battle of wits between the catfish and myself. In the end I won, but it was a steep and reckless learning curve.

- Marco d’Unetti - Italian, gorgeous, smart, successful — just the type of guy I expected to fall for me, right? We texted for a few weeks. He lived in Colbourne, worked as a condominium developer. I was on my humour game with him and he was smitten, or so I thought.

I had been putting the catfish pieces together and noticing how many men were not who they said they were. So I asked Marco for proof of identity. First I asked for a selfie of him holding up three fingers. He said a video chat would be better. Why, yes, I agreed. He set very specific parameters for this video meeting and we made a successful Skype connection.

Marco was sitting at a desk, the sun shining brightly behind him and the sound of children playing in the background. He started to talk, but the sound cut off. I heard the words, “bad connection”, his mouth moved more, and then the feed ended.

I was satisfied until I started thinking about it. This was February and it was cloudy all over southern Ontario, very gray. Children playing outside during Covid was odd; and bad receptions like this occurs on analog signals, not digital from Skype. The pieces didn’t fit and Marco had excuses for all of my questions, sun lamps on the desk, noise from TV, etc.

After some online research, I discovered the real Marco had a different name and was a public speaker from Moscow, Russia. Surprise!!

He still tried to convince me otherwise, saying the Russian site was doing the catfishing and he’d have to look into having that stopped. I gave him the ultimatum to meet me, now, or stop the game. He seemed to consider it for a while, but then had to admit that he couldn’t. Bye Marco!

Now I was ready to go out and catch me some catfish to fry over the coals!

[worddroppings]

Becoming Greek

I come from a typical Canadian background — English and Irish. We eat meat and potatoes and still recognize Royalty as a valid ruling system. As I grew up, I wasn‘t aware that I was slowly becoming Greek. The full extent of that transition hit me almost 50 years later. I was part of a big Greek family!

It started when I was 7 years old and had moved to a new town. Across the street was — what I would later find out — a traditional Greek family with two boys and a girl my age. The girl’s mother nudged her to go meet the new girl across the street. That started a friendship and a sisterhood that would last a lifetime.

Through the years we were inseparable — basketball in the driveway, listening to records in the basement, playing street games and running back and forth across the street between our pools. My pool was warmer, but hers was bigger with a diving board. We did water handstands for hours and then laid down on the hot driveway on top of our towels to dry off.

We went to high school together and later the same college. We were never far apart and shared secrets about dreams and the boys we liked. Her parents were kind and welcoming to me and her older brothers treated us both as bratty little sisters. The family engulfed me into their big Greek family, their cousins became my cousins, their extended family became my extended family.

As we got older, our lives began to change although we could still play cribbage for hours. There were many many card and game nights at her (our) brother's homes: canasta, Pictionary; and of course dressing up in funny costumes and dancing around, annoying the boys playing poker. Every New Years, every special event, I was part of their celebrations..

My friend later moved far away after gettimg married. We didnt see each other often, but our connection never faltered. We were connected like only family can be.

My dear friend recently lost her mother, a woman who raised her into a beautiful person and shaped my understanding of cultures and family.

I was invited to her funeral, a small family group of special invitees. Not only was I humbled and honored to be singled out as family and an honorary Greek, but after years apart, I knew the entire family and my presence was natural. I chatted with brothers, sisters, cousins as if no time had passed, The memories of times with each came back to me like a warm blanket.

My friend’s pain was heartbreaking and when a little squeek, “mommy” came from her at her mom's casket, I was suddenly back to our years living across the street from each other. She was the same as always and I was her true Greek sister.

[worddroppings]

Visiting my 102 yo grandfather during Covid

Dream

I was driving by White Oaks Senior's home in Courtice and thought I'd drop in to see how my grandfather was doing and if I could wave to him from afar. The visitor lot was empty and the area was quiet. I knew the odds of seeing him were low, but I had time on my hands and it was worth a try.

I waited outside until a nurse came out. She likely saw me lurking :-). I explained why I was there and asked her if there was any way I could wave to my grandfather to let him know I was thinking about him. As I expected, she informed me that they were in lock-down and there was no way to see him.

I politely thanked her and went back to my car. I got into the drivers seat and all of a sudden, I heard the back door open on the oposite side and my grandfather was there. I yelled out in alarm, asking him what he though he was doing. He took an angry tone, roughly tossed his walker in the back seat — which was now in pieces — and told me to stop my foolishness, we were going out for pizza. He was hungry and we hadn't been out for a while and he was going out. He was tired of the boredom.

I didn't know what to do and was extremely concerned that a breach of Covid rules had been broken. How was I going to bring him back after he had contaminated himself outside?

I pulled out my iPhone with shaky hands and looked for the number for White Oaks. I needed their advice. Fast! I used the contact Search bar, but nothing was coming up. I tryed scrolling through the list, but White Oaks wasn't there. So I went to Google and searched for White Oaks. Again, the information didn't appear. It was if the place didn't even exist. I looked around, hoping to see someone who could help me retrieve the number. A middle-aged, ordinary looking man was coming toward my car and I opened my window to catch his attention. I told him I was in a predicament and asked him if he had the phone number to White Oaks. He didn't have it on him, but said he could get it from his apartment which was just across the parking lot.

The man said something that made me think he had been heading to the residence and I asked him if he worked there. As luck would have it, he did. So I told him about my situation and asked if he could help. I got the feeling that his job was maintenance, and not a health care person, but I was glad to have anyone to help.

With gramps safely in the back seat and ready to go off for Pizza, I started the car and drove around the parking lot. He seemed to enjoy the ride and when I headed to the entrance, he guided me on how to get him home. This was a good sign. He was ready to go back in and wouldn't argue with me again. I stopped in front of the door and the gentleman met me there, opening the back door and assisting gramps out of the car. He walked him through the doors and the two disappeared into what I hoped was safety.

A nurse came out to talk to me and I was worried about what she would say. At the same time, my mother showed up and she didn't look pleased. I assumed she was thinking that I had again screwed something big up. She was holding her calm, but I knew I would hear about it later. With no time to expain to my mom, I turned to the nurse and told her what happened. She understood and said that gramps may have seen me because he was downstairs for dinner-time. He must have slipped by and headed out with his walker. I remembered his walker then and went to the back passenger side of the car to retrieve it. It was in many many peices and I pulled each one out, searching for the metal poles. It took a number of searches to find all of the pieces, including the seat, and some of the plastic joining pieces were broken. I handed all of the pieces to the nurse and she said she would get one of the staff to fix it.

Mom seemed to be calmer now and went to the front desk to explain details and see if there was anything that she needed to do. Then mom and I got into the car and headed out.

[worddroppings]

Dear teacher friends :-)

You are a rambunctious and passionate group of speakers, but please stop telling me how to vote. Your voting choice is obvious, but it is the best choice for you. Business people, entrepreneurs and service individuals have other lifestyles and needs. We often sit quietly in the background as you carry on about your social dilemmas, plights and difficulties; struggling to see why you have it so bad.

We love your passion, and welcome friendly debate, but enough already with hitting over the head with your political views. Sit back for a moment and consider how fortunate you are to make much much more than the general public, have benefits, pensions, and holiday time all summer. We all deal with overtime, deadlines, difficult customers, downsizing. We all have times when we feel under-appreciated or taken advantage of. Work is hard. That’s why it’s called work. But few get the same benefits for hard work as our well-spoken, persuasive teachers. Keep fighting for the good cause, but have patience for those who have different struggles and who don’t work tirelessly to improve your life difficulties.

[worddroppings]

Sewers in the city

Just over a year ago, my basement was flooded with sewage due to a fault in the drainage pipe 24feet from the house. The pipe had opened to allow root growth to block the path and the result was a very messy basement and insurance claim. The pipe was been rechecked for roots at that spot in October with minimal growth showing. Over the last couple of days, I have experienced the same symptoms that preceded the last sewage flood. A couple of days ago, I noticed, in the evening that water was seeping from the base of the downstairs toilet. My contractor came over in the morning. We flushed a number of times, but there was no leek. Later in the day I went downstairs and noticed water again seeping from the base of the toilet even though it haven’t been used in hours. In the evening, after flushing, the water came out from the base again. Since this is a repeat of the last incident, it indicates a block in the sewage line which is cleared overnight and builds over the day as water is used, forcing its way out of the toilet base in the evening when it is jammed up. The insurance company has clearly stated that they won’t cover another claim for the same thing within three years, so I would like the city to come and check the drains to find out what is blocking this time and to possibly set a time in the spring to repair the pipe to avoid future problems.

[worddroppings]

Apple has fallen far from the tree

Over the years, I have influenced hundreds of people in my role as College Instructor and Business Person. I have justified the higher price with superior product and service, believing Apple was above petty gouging and stale policies. Now, when I needed proof of this for myself, Apple has let me down. A faulty graphics chip was manufactured into the mid-2010 15" MacBook Pro. It was a latent fault which sat dormant, waiting to fail and showing itself slowly with each upgrade of the OS. Apple realized this in late 2012 when the computer was nearly 3 years old and offered a recall, but told no one. The recall quietly expired 6 months later. The chip started failing with Mountain Lion with occasional GPU panics. For the next year or so, I ran tests and checked for software problems. I tested the hard drive and ran other diagnostics. After Maverick was installed, the chip failed completely with repeated GPU panics. The Apple community exploded with owners of these machines trying to determine the problem. No one really knew. I finally found a post that discussed the VST test at Apple and the latent failure that had warranted the recall. But now that the failure was obvious, Apple was not going to stand by the product past the three year age. To summarize, Apple sold me a faulty product that would not make itself evident until what turned out to be four years, but they put a three year limit on the recall. They knew after 2.5 years that it was destined to fail, but did not inform me, or likely anyone else, so it could get fixed under warranty. It may be time to look for alternatives if I’m not getting quality for the big price or a lifespan longer than a cheap PC.

[worddroppings]

Because nobody listens

A while ago, a friend told me that a fellow we had worked with committed suicide. I didn’t know him well, but I remembered bits about him. He was young; in his late thirties or early forties; he had a family, a good job and good health. He was very smart and personable. Everyone was trying to figure out how he could possibly do this. “He had so much going for him.” I didn’t think this or ask this question because I knew the answer. It’s because nobody listens. Thoughts of suicide do not happen. The fester over years, sometimes decades. Throughout these years the person drops hints that they are breaking down. At first, they are subtle. Nobody pays attention. You mention that things are really tough and there seems to be no solution in sight. Then you put on a happy face and try to pretend all is well. Sometimes things get better and you feel good. Those are the moments of hope where you think, maybe things will turn around. Then it gets worse again and you kick yourself for even thinking things could change. You are foolish. And then the whole cycle starts over again. As time goes on, you become more brazen with you hints. “I really could have easily stayed in the car in the garage with the motor running”. “I give up, hopefully I’ll have that predispositioned heart attack soon”. And then one day, when you realize no one is listening, you just give in.

[worddroppings]

Count Basie lives

My second dog is a wee schnoodle named Count Basie. He is a gentle soul and a great companion. Although, he does suffer from separation anxiety, which can sometimes be difficult. Basie and I spend a lot of time together in great part because I have no work. Work has been slow in the past, but now it is non-existent. I wonder how long I can last with no money coming in. Could I lose my beautiful house? I had a talk with a friend who informed me that the reason kids are so fearless and free is because they live solely in the “now”. They forget the past immediately and have no expectations for the future. They just require instant gratification in the “now”. Perhaps, until the solution comes along, a could focus more on that philosophy? At least it won’t ruin what always tends to be… A very short summer.

[worddroppings]

The ice-age cometh

Slip, slide, fall, cry. Ho hum, another day in the ice-age and frigid tundra we call Canada. We are all held hostage by the snow and ice. Crackling snow was crisp and fresh at one time. Now it’s just a reminder that warm weather may never come again. Cruch, crunch, mock… crunch, crunch, mock. Some say this is the worst winter in 20 years. Ice storms and minus 30 degree weather; human beings just weren’t meant to live like this.

[worddroppings]

The day I win the lottery

Every day is like every other day. One step closer to the end, one step farther from the good days. Walking through the mall, I come across an info booth with a line of people waiting for the attendant to trade them a ticket of chance for a few bucks. Some people are buying scratch tickets hoping for a $10 win or maybe a $100 win. Expectations seem to be low for these types of tickets, and the excitement more in the scratch game itself. Super7 has huge odds but a $40Million payout for some lucky sap. It would likely be some middle class schmuck close to retirement, or an office pool. If history was to repeat itself, I would be lucky to match even one number. But the crazy thing happens and the numbers come up. So now I sit with the news fresh on my mind, thinking so hard it hurts. Wondering what to do next, who to tell, who not to tell.

[worddroppings]

Ongoing letter to the boss

Dear Mr. Lovisa, I'm writing to you representing the night-time faculty at Durham College. I imagine you rarely or never hear from this level of your organization and our existence may slip through the cracks, but I thought it important for you hear from this voice directly. I have been an instructor at the college for 18 years. I teach mostly at night, but have filled in on occasion when requested by the day-program. First, I must say... I LOVE this job! I was meant to do this. So, thank you! I hope you will understand my comments as concerns and not ultimatums. Over 18 years, many things have changed with my job, but my salary has not been one of them. Some are small things taken and some are significant. I would like to list these things. I am willing to sacrifice for a job I enjoy... to a point. 1 At one time I was paid $50 for creating course outlines. No longer. 2 I monitor all of my time (for business) and calculate approximately 80 to 100 hours per semester per course of unpaid prep and marking time. This is not new, but combined with the time that I am also spending assisting with certificate content recommendations and course outlines, it has my pay work out to approximately $8 per hour. 3 At one time, I received educational copies of current software that I was teaching. Now I must purchase this very expensive software in excess of what I require for my own personal work. 4. We used to receive little gifts at the beginning of each semester. A small thing, but another little touch of appreciation that was eliminated. 5. It seems like the night-school program is stretched so thin that it is losing students at an alarming rate. Instructors are advising about programs that desperately need to be updated and ideas that can increase enrolment, but there are not enough resources to make things happen. We are listening to the students and their issues. We are watching programs become obsolete. We are speaking out, but we are not heard. We are doing this as well free of charge because we want the programs to succeed. But instead of improvements, all we hear of are cuts. 6. Night school teachers give so much to the school without pay, without benefits, without recognition. I find that the final straw may now be asking us to pay for parking. First $2, then $3, then $4, then... This is really adding insult to injury. If treatment was as it once was, this would be no problem at all. But it is one more way again to squeeze from a well that is already nearly dry. I encourage you to reconsider having night school teachers pay for parking. Sincerely, Lori Martin

[worddroppings]

Goodbye my Baby Boo :-(

I stare at the iPad keyboard for a few minutes. If I start writing, what will come out? The tears have started again. Have they ever ended? I don't think so. Years ago, this page would be soaked with tears, ink blotched and running to the edges. But now it is just a shiny screen that shows no indication of my absolute sorrow. Just before Christmas, Banjo had some problems with balance and energy. The vet wasn’t sure. It would go away and then return. I watched her closely because I thought she may have had a stroke. She was finally diagnosed just after Christmas as having severe kidney failure. My heart broke and I went into protective mother mode stopping my life and focusing only on her. On the Thursday I received the results and by the next day I knew I couldn’t force her to live. She wasn’t eating now and was throwing up water. I set an appointment for Monday January 7 at 11am and started to plan her final weekend. Banjo was very weak. I had to feed her water through a syringe as well as baby liquid Gravol. I tried to force bits of food into her but even icecream wasn’t going to turn her head. We visited all of her favorite parks with her wrapped up in her stylish winter jacket. She walked as much as she could but I had to carry her much if the time through the snow. We went down to the lake and sat on a bench watching the water as we had done so many times before. We visited friends and went to the Port Perry lake park. Banjo was a trooper and stayed as alert as she could, but I knew it was taking all of her energy. Many people came to visit her and say goodbye. It was all about her for her last days. I slept downstairs with her Thursdays, Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights feeding her Gravol, water and bits of food. I cried and cried with her and tried to make her feel as loved and comfortable as possible. I have never experienced such intense heartache. Monday at 10am Cathy showed up to take us to the vet. I was taking my baby to the gallows. I was ending the life of my best friend and love of my life. I thought about this being her last car ride as she sat on my lap in the front seat of Cathy’s truck. I questioned whether I was doing the right thing. I questioned everything in my life. The vet injected my baby with liquid and as her eyes closed and her body relaxed in my arms for the last time I sang the song I had sung to her thousands of times over our 12 years together. “I love you, a bushel nada peck. A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck…” My baby was gone forever. My pain so intense that I can’t imagine how life can ever be worth anything real again. Now I go through the motions of life. I have experienced something that I can’t live with. I made the choice and watched my Banjo die. Nothing will ever be the same. I still cry every day. My heart is broken beyond repair. I have now released her story, at least in part to the world. I must continue to release her story so that the wonderful, gentle soul who was Banjo never disappears. I think the hardest part is starting. I’ve done that now, so maybe it will get a bit easier. Or maybe it will never get any easier and I'll never write again. I don't know. Thank you for reading this. You have contributed in a tiny way to keeping Banjo’s important little existence on this planet alive. I so wish I believed in something. If I thought I could one day be with Banjo again, I’d be hopping on that train, lickety-split without looking back. She was my one true love in my entire life. She never waivered nor disappointed. She was pure love.

[worddroppings]

ooch, ouch, eek

Ah, they got me again. Darn, just got slammed. Ugg, damn those minions. What am I talking about? ... going through Tim Hortons drive-through, getting a tea and finding out it's coffee when you get home. ... going through Tim Horton's drive-through, getting home and finding a 3/4-full cup of sludge that tastes remotely like steeped tea, but much more like soap or some other chemical. ... getting a donut at Tim Horton's and almost breaking your teeth on the stale edge. ... McDonald's drive-through tea (bag out) means hot water with a hint of brown. They are far too busy to leave the bag in for the required amount of time to create a decent cup of tea. ... McDonalds drive-through request of no mayonnaise or sauce always ends up with the sauce mysteriously appearing. When you take your first bite on the 401, you spit it out and end up with food and mayonnaise all over the windshield. ... Wendy's drive-through for a salad is easy until I get home and realize I have no dressing. I've just spent $10 on a bowl of lettuce. How much money do we give to these companies in complete waste and rip-off to ourselves? How often do we get "nothing for something"? How many people go back, stand in line and try and make their case only to be given attitude by the minion behind the counter? I think this is why I rarely partake in the drive-through phenomena any more. There's only about a 20% chance you'll not completely waste your money. Business should not get away with this. They do because we let them!