The Annual Letter

Dear Family and Friends:

Greetings for Christmas, Hanukkah, Festivus (Mary Lou, I'm sorry I can't remember the name of that fringe cult that sucked you in) or whatever turns your crank for celebrating the end of December. I love getting your letters and family news. You are all so engaged and blessed.

Now it's my turn. It's been a hectic year, of course, but ultimately successful. If you have already heard the highlights please accept my tardy apologies for phoning you at 4 a.m. in hysterics.

Any rumour you heard about my daughter being pregnant is simply false. Her professor did pass her thesis and the faculty is dealing with sexual harassment issues. Sophie continues to head the students' Vegan Rights committee, having proudly organized fourteen demonstrations this year. You may have seen her petition circulating on the internet. Please sign and stop wearing fur.

You are probably wondering about that accident my son was in. It was not his fault; lord knows we spent enough on driver's lessons. It's just that no one knew about the cannabis in the carrot cake. Most of the time Bobby is very conscientious about over-eating but the bullies messed up the progress he was making in cognitive behavioral therapy. His probation officer is a lovely person.

For those who need an update, my husband the media consultant was outraged at being sued for slander. The ignorant and the unwashed in this country are a real threat to free speech, never forget that. He is developing a counter-suit that will blow the lid off some phony politicians. Journalism is still the front line and best defence of freedom.

More good news. My sister Gretchen was released from the detox program. Her husband is thrilled because he doesn't know how to cook and broke their microwave. We are not supposed to tell her how much he paid for electricians after he screwed up the timers and fried all the kitchen wiring. Gretchen is planning to become a professional animal trainer ever since she saw that commercial with the dancing kangaroo.

As for me, dear friends, let me set to rest any undercurrents you may have heard about the incident last week. That woman left her shopping cart right in the middle of the disabled parking spot. It's not like I meant to pulverize her groceries but my car had a mind of its own and she had a nasty mouth on her. The police sorted it out, not before she broke my glasses and lobbed my handbag into a dumpster. Any videos you saw are fake news.

So you see, all is well and under control. Good to know: Tequila works much better than Prozac (the support group here is a real downer: sad, depressed people). Life could not be better, let's keep the cheerful news coming.

Your BFF

The Christmas Letter

Be it on record: I am not ready for this thing called Christmas. I have not been ready for it since about 1985. That might have been the year the festive suckling pig was four inches too long for my oven. Mercifully I forget how we made the adjustment but a bit of trimming was involved and artful placement of windfall crabapples. We used to get the succulent wienies from Mr. McDowell, the inarticulate but terrifically competent farmer on the Escarpment above Campbellville. Times past.

We had traditions. Dinner was the customary noisy scenario with assorted family ― the good china clattering around, crackers and dumb paper hats, assorted wines flowing, fights over never-enough stuffing, in-laws with their uninvited dog, outlaws with dietary problems, teenage drama, always a small child bawling. We could count on Mr. Host, well-marinated in Beaujolais, crowning the event by face-planting into his dessert, raising his head at moments to mumble non-sequiturs.

One time in the festive season a grown child delivered caustic remarks to a full house about the current (admittedly rather unwise) choice of my ... man-in-residence ... and in the heated escalation I had to threaten both with eviction, Christmas or not. Strained relations? Oh yes.

Another time my children ran away from home. Together. Maybe not exactly at Christmas. It was a protest against The House Rules. My shite cousin thought it was hilarious and enjoyed elaborating on it to his own ends every time we saw him thereafter (much less often than he expected). Naturally, none of that was reported in the carefully composed Christmas Letter.

Remember them? When we used to exchange those cheery photocopied letters tarted up with poinsettia stickers and family photos? We had to assume the distant relatives and friends ― the ones we never saw from one year to the next ― had a consuming interest in what our kids did at school or how many parties we had or whether husband's boss gave him a bonus. Hello moi: just as guilty as the rest of the '80s parents.

The Christmas Letter is what I used to call it before I humbugged Christmas. Now I call it The Annual Letter, in which I shamefully, unnecessarily apologize all over myself for forgetting not even doing it every year. At least the subject matter applies to the misbegotten title of my blog here. In a way.

Because my household, my family, now consists of moi seule ― no more adorable children starring in glorified accomplishments, bad behaviour completely omitted (be thankful, all quarters). No more lists of sparkling family activities, ignoring Murphy's Law normally prevailing at each.

Trust me, it's much more difficult to spread the exaggerated cheer from a solo life perspective. A solo senior life. Plus, potential recipients dwindle down to the luddite few who haven't been terminally bored at seeing one's pathetic life daily exposed on Facebook. Oh sorry, Google+ ~~ you too.

So. Serious concerns. Aside from appalling apathy at the prospect and a yawning black hole of inspiration, can I once again pull together a year or two's worth of embroidered incidents? Can I rekindle past bonding by relating the root canal that made me miss choir practice and forget about the concert? ... or how many times I forgot anything anyway without a semi- valid invented excuse? Can I elicit the old heartwarming kindred spirit with my latest strategies for thrift store shopping? ... or by describing my paranoid neighbour forever in pyjamas who shouts daily prayers to the Samhain goddess ... or a drug bust waiting to happen two blocks away? Never mind my letters to the editors of obscure but inflammatory e-zines that never get published. Who cares to hear the pain of learning Windows 10 ... or pondering which is the better choice ― a digital barcode tombstone (listen to me: you thought you got rid of me) and cremating oneself into diamonds (wear me: you'll never get rid of me).

Or should I just send a collage of Maxine cartoons?

Nope. It's for me alone to wage war on internet grammar atrocities, to worry about my nephews' addiction to bacon ice cream, to master selfies (and/or photobombing) at important historical civic moments. The good news ― not exactly good but you know what I mean ― is that possibly I have outlived all the potential recipients of such tripe.

Ahhhh ... The Christmas Letter. Is there a point anymore? Do people still do that? Is blogging the answer? Do people still do that too?

You guessed right. This could be It.

                 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  

100

We interrupt this program momentarily to bring you a news flash. Herewith the 100th post on this blog. I see some of you yawning. Me too. Coffee spots on my shirt, cracker crumbs on my desk, I labour day and night to explore and express the answers to eternal secrets of the universe. Always striving to deliver.

Why so few posts here about the eponymous famdamily? I ask myself the same question. Indications are that assorted relatives, no matter how diligently I pry, rarely render the requisite foibles to illustrate cosmic truths. The neighbourdamhood and FEC are clearly more fertile ground for my parables, allegories, morality plays, and what have you — stop rolling your eyes, serious authors. You're thinking she's mental, shame on you.

Over two years, about 70 books, and a dozen camels later, a self-sustaining force took over. Some days the words fly out and post themselves. It's all I can do to pretend a bit of control. A lesser-known universal truth I've discovered is that a whole whack of writers do it so much better. Especially the black humour bits. The excellent memory for details. Raising trivia to stellar heights. The self-deprecation.

Inspiring, every one of 'em. Bravo, I say. Give me your lunch money or you die.

Baraq* has joined the office as Junior Camel Correspondent^®. His goal is to master the blogging format after he sorts out the two-toed typing. He's pretty bright; it may not be long before he heads for self-fulfilling greener dryer pastures. I don't want to lose the guy. But possibly contentious issues loom if he gets wind of the anti-slavery act or the human rights ombudsman.

⃰ Watch for his first report; he's being encouraged to explain himself. 

I'm OK, What's Your Problem?

For sure you must be as anxious excited as I am, waiting years for this month's update to the DSM-IV.[1] It's been a generation. The long delay is due to controversy among leading authorities. There will always be controversy. No matter, we're promised a stunning reference work, a veritable smorgasbord of new disorders, diseases, and syndromes for the shrinks to play with. The sheer bounty makes one salivate.

Just be aware the DSM-V may weigh twenty-five pounds and sport a $200 price tag. They really don't want amateurs carting it home to read furtively and tick off the checklists. Nevertheless, I feel the trickle-down will enable you and I to prognosticate—or revise, as the case may be—every behavioural deviation we run into. Don't miss out, there's a label for everyone.

For example. With the old manual I felt I'd almost nailed the psychiatric profile—a passing interest at one time—for a Close Relative of mine. An interest that faded, tucked away in the Live and Learn drawer of yesterday's filing cabinet. DSM-V will undoubtedly necessitate a revisit. The narcissist with borderline personality disorder, exhibiting dissociative episodes and a touch of psychosis verging on schizophrenia pretty well covered it, I thought ... rather proud that my experience wasn't going to waste.

Life has presented me with famdamily occasions to visit an impressive number of fine psych wards across the country. Unfortunately the CR has not been in any of them. Avoiding the guys with the butterfly nets takes a lot of acumen and creativity especially when hiding in a sordid world of lies. Regular disappearances apparently account for fuelling up with more fantasies.

Now, the diagnosis of CR's abhorrent condition—which consciously, slyly, obscures close scrutiny—probably needs refining. I'm working on mix and match with attenuated psychosis syndrome and perceptual disaffective disorder, characterized by sinister Jekyll and Hyde charm. How does that sound? Fairly clinical? Thank you.

Blind famdamily loyalty can often conceal the reality of chronic dysfunction. All that matters is loving and rehabilitating the near and dear victims of abuse—psychological, as well as beatings, broken bones, and death threats. Since paranoia is contagious, installing a deadbolt lock on my door seemed worth the risk of my landing squarely in the new Chapter 3.

This ain't the only (semi-) parody of the DSM-V that you are likely to see, not by a long shot. And whatever you do, don't pick your scabs (excoriation disorder).

[1] Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 4th Ed. (Washington, DC: American Psychiatric Association, 1994).

Lucky To Be Alive

St Benedict, his day too; Wikimedia Commons

Get ready. March 23rd is Near Miss Day. 
Upon which I will ignore asteroidal implications and hagiography. 

The wacky list of days to celebrate expands at horrific pace. National Tooth Fairy Day? Hug a Vegetarian Day? Multiple Personality Day? I'm still getting over Feral Cat Day. In the face of arbitrary lunacy, why not personalize it? Lucky to Be Alive Day.

Why do our memories select certain events to stand out? Not necessarily the biggies like births, weddings, divorces, funerals. Not like when you and your sister were there at the same time and place and completely disagree about what happened. Or famous, like—where you were when Princess Diana died, or “9/11.”

What I mean are unique personal moments, yours alone to celebrate or mourn as the case may be. Memories that deserve anniversaries. Some return to haunt us, triggered by the sneaky unconscious. Some of my clearest memories are my near-death experiences. I must remember because because no-one else does. Or if they did, would tell it differently.

One of my earliest was when that little bully Georgie Barton* pushed me into water over my head in the lake; held my head under! We were about ten years old. The creep thought it was funny to see how long I could disappear. He probably tortured cats too. To this day I attribute to him and his heirs forever the fear of putting my head underwater. So as time went on it was ordained I would never persevere past the first few scary scuba lessons. Some satisfaction was mine much later: as an adult he reached an unimpressive 5'7” down at whom I could peer coolly from my superior height.

Then there was an unforgettable date with this guy I was briefly pinned to. Pinned? Oh, maybe it's a Manitoba thing.** Anyway, the highlight was a chinese food dinner which for those days and times was très exotique. How to impress a girl. I totally impressed him when he learned the next day I'd been rushed to hospital unconscious later that night (fortunately my university roommate obeyed my semi-coherent plea for 911 before I went into a coma). Seafood allergy. Never gonna happen again! It pays to cross-examine the waiter before ordering. Took a week to normalize after the surreptitious shrimp bits did me in. Guy and I became unpinned. The way I tell it, it wasn't my swollen face that ended it ... it was meeting his impossible, pretentious mother.

Racing crew at Mosport. The time the fatally heavy top of the race car trailer slipped its inexpert moorings and crashed down, missing me by a hair. Sparing me decapitation. Team 22 Formula B has a lot to answer for. A couple of people did notice and casually tossed me a few lame attempts at macho humour while I sagged gasping for air. Hyperventilating for an hour, actually. My dramatic brush with death was sadly out-rivalled by Jackie Stewart's captivating performance in the Formula 1 Grand Prix.

The time we went to Newfoundland doesn't really count cuz the entire famdamily was involved, but a Near Miss in its own way. The long ferry rides from Nova Scotia are scary enough for anyone with hydrophobia or overnight claustrophobia, whew. But I'll never forget hearing that our ferry, the William Carson, sank a year or two later from hitting pack ice. All passengers and crew were rescued after a long, cold ordeal.

Most notorious of all was the earthshaking New Motorcycle Incident. And here we have collusion, the way I see it. Without doubt it led straight from the muddy pileup on a local dirt road to divorce. I'm told I didn't lean the right way in this practice run. OK, so it wasn't my collarbone that got broken. It was tough giving up those beautiful matching leathers but what would I do with them, being reduced to running a boarding house 24/7 (that is not a question).

Memories of a sort, morosely indelible as they may be. BUT my life is not merely a series of escaping untimely ends. I also celebrate moments of privilege and sheer joy. Another time. It's worth remembering the Near Misses that make living all the sweeter.

* Do I have to say? Name changed to protect the guilty.

** Manitoba also has Sadie Hawkins Day too, or used to, a practice perhaps long superseded these days.

My Ants

That’s ants. Not aunts ... but pronounced the same way by me and of which I had a few before they took the cemetery rest. Ants in my kitchen. Pharaoh ants throughout the entire building complex around me. Googling was a mistake because I didn’t want to know this city is infested with pharaoh ants and it doesn’t stop there by a long shot. North America is totally blighted with them unless I’ve succumbed to a hoax on tiny little feet.

Not precisely as pictured

Now back when I took the New Testament course in fourth year at St John’s, I’m pretty sure I passed it although I couldn’t give you a quote from the Book of Revelations to save my life. It only comes to mind for some cloudy, sinister images of pestilences to be visited upon us signalling imminence of The End. Speaking of Mayan calculations, did anyone get that right yet? Are they working on a new calendar? I’m telling you, the ants have their own agenda and they are marching.


Along with rats, cockroaches are a given in a big city. At least the sneaky buggers have the wily brains to stay out of sight in daylight. If not, a swiftly well-aimed boot can result in a deeply satisfying crunch. We’ve had them so long, can we really include them as harbingers of End Times?

By my own calculations, ants are the finale in a parade of plagues. Successive waves of  insect control freaks. 

There were the clothing moths. The ones that nested secretly, snugly, under carpets and in your prized sheepskin boots. Treatment: Months of moth balls and wafting camphor fumes as you slink about the outside world on your daily rounds. 

 Fruit flies that multiply like ... well, like fruit flies. Treatment: Months of creatively baiting the little suckers and renouncing bananas for the duration.

 

Bed bugs, driving helpless people to insanity. Treatment: Intense heat. Set fire to everything you own, optionally to yourself.

Now pharaoh ants. Treatment (experimental stages): Read the ingredients on the ant traps. Do not unwittingly supplement with careless bagel crumbs or smears of peanut butter. On the other hand, co-existence may be permanent so think cooperation: new pets? They’re not entirely mindless automatons, y’know. Get a dialogue going. Their leaders might be into sharing space. You will never be alone again. 

Apocalypse ... or attitude adjustment? Are the trumpets of doom blaring? Or sounding a brave strange new world? Whatever. They are coming to get you. Life as we know it is on its way out, folks.

      

Policy Statement

I’ll get to that in a minute.

So why did I call it The FAMDAMILY anyway? You don’t see me whinging on about errant children, obtuse in-laws, and the latest cute trick the baby learned (no baby photos, please!). That includes the extended siblings, cousins, and anyone’s babbling, drooling offspring. While I am safely removed from much of it in geographical context, thanks to the convenience of social media I can very well extrapolate what they are all Up To.

That’s right. The FAMDAMILY is always with you no matter what. Like lint and age spots freckles, they cling without any encouragement whatsoever and when you least expect it. Consuming every known method of communication media and endless annoying amounts of time that could be more productive spray painting graffiti across from Loblaws (or something) unless you develop a metaphorical lint roller and/or learn to live in the full glare of the sun. Similar to the challenge of contests for creating the longest sentence and counting how many times a celebrated author wrote “off of” instead of “off,” I enjoy mixing metaphors. 

It must be time to reflect on the mission of this blog, its raison d’être, the nobility of purpose fer gawd's sake. Other than the writer’s unremitting and sometimes mindless need to write. What more perfect fodder than family foibles and follies? Bien sûr, all events and identities to be cautiously altered.

Be it known that:
I reserve the right to employ hyperbole, chicanery, exaggeration, embroidery, and the entire gamut of literary licence. That includes the right to make fun, fictionalize, satirize, demonize, and fantasize. The (actually) dearly beloved may not even realize what they’re Up To until I tell them.

There. All comments graciously received. If you think family is sacred, or scared as I first typed it (occupational hazard with two fingers), you may be half-right and I’ll listen to you anyway.  
   
Nonetheless, nothing will change with the continuance of boring good things I read, stupid things I do, and urban warfare life in The NEIGHBOURDAMHOOD. The latter is a lot easier than trying to delicately  diplomatically disguise family stories. Oh crap, you can see must be in word trouble already. It just seems I’ve been slacking on a potentially bountiful midden.    

Stayin' Alive

You know those people who live to be 100 and then they get asked to what do they attribute their longevity? Well, I want to be ready if the unthinkable should happen.

There is absolutely no consistency among those wizened people when interviewed about lifelong eating habits. Pretty much a free-for-all food nightmare.

It’s a serious responsibility to be a healthy adult, particularly if you live single and cook for one. If you cook for one, raise your hand. No, raise your hand if you cook. That’s what I thought ... it’s the cooking part we don’t do much of. Too easy to find prepared foods and take-away. This is not to ignore the odd occasion of compulsive binge cooking like cookies or chili that you have to eat every day for a week or give it away. 

A lot of us will end up living single as time advances so it’s good to critique your current habits and embrace your inner dietician. Once you review the basics, eating healthy can be creative, fun, and better than sudoku for working your brain. If you know you’ll be sent to a seniors’ warehouse where three uninspired meals a day arrive on a tray, skip this post. 

Those good ole government guidelines for good eating still fill the bill even in this day and age. You know: the ones where you eat so many units of food groups per day. So much protein, so much dairy, and all that. Let’s admit they do go way overboard on the veggies and fruits. Nonetheless, those rules seem like an anchor in today’s stormy sea of media battering. Nutrition Land sends us a dizzying torrent of food reports, advisories, and scary warnings.

One time we weren’t supposed to eat eggs. Or butter. Now all kinds of formerly bad things are in. Processed foods are out. Eco-unfriendly packaging is out. We have to be on the alert for the latest e-coli cucumbers, or contaminated orange juice. Was that chicken humanely killed or not? Do you know where that bottled water really comes from?

It becomes even more complicated (they just don’t leave us alone). We not only have to read the tiny labels for ingredients, we have to remember which one is the bad cholesterol. Having missed high school chemistry in favour of art, I’m out of luck. Then there are organic factions, and political factions. If I buy shiny apples instead of the sad imperfect ones I am ingesting tons of noxious chemicals. If I buy pickles with product of India on the label, I am reinforcing unemployment in Canada.

It takes informed judgment and a bit of expedient substitution to personalize your nutritious meals with a certain balance to make you feel righteous. The comforting, tried and true guidelines seem to revolve around three meals a day. First adjustment: necessary for the thousands of us have no brain or stomach function upon waking unless three to four cups of coffee get the neurons flowing. That takes a bit of time—nice time while you check the email, and Facebook, maybe twit a bit. Latest bulletin: lots of coffee prevents cancer.

If your normal course in the morning, first thing, is to wolf down some oatmeal or other high fibre product with a fruit unit like grapefruit, and then proceed to aerobic exercises, you too can skip the rest of this. 

Speaking for the sorry thousands, this is only for you. Obviously the first meal of the day happens well after standard breakfast time, missing the fibre opportunity. Which must come later. The next meal would be around English tea-time. A bit disruptive if you are in the 9 to 5 work force, although television commercials strongly suggest a chocolate bar will do it. Remember, though: advertisers are not our best friend. The third meal, if you feel you really need another, would be while watching your favourite evening TV show. If you have one. If you watch TV at all. Or, you know ... glued to your computer. Substitute your own entertainment.  

Second adjustment: matching the important food group units with nutritious things that rarely require cooking (warming up and defrosting are not cooking). Since this post now extends beyond the expected reasonable attention span for anyone younger than me—part of my target audience, although I believe there are people older than me who have the same deficit—I will delay my recommendations for actual meal planning to a Part Two.

Due to the slight postponement, my blog stats may spike madly from impatient, anxious, trembling viewers—the ones who recognize the kiltered daily routine above. Therefore I want to leave you with an interim warm thought: What is my answer to the 100th-birthday quiz? It starts with Cheese and ends with Whiz. The most versatile miracle food ever invented. It must be magic---unless you consume it immediately, a lovely, salty, tastefully-coloured, cheesy spread turns into into plastic before your eyes.

If it weren’t for Cheese Whiz I would probably be a mere shadow of myself. Stayin' Alive!