A Child's Lullaby

These two songs are dedicated to the children of Fort McMurray:


Lump Dump

Lump dump
Lump dump
Bitumen mine.
Big truck, little truck
Everything's fine.


The Bear Went Over the Slurry Pile

The bear went over the slurry pile
The bear went over the slurry pile
The bear went over the slurry pile
To see what he could see.

And all that he could see
And all that he could see
Was a bleak and desolate wasteland,
A bleak and desolate wasteland,
A bleak and desolate wasteland
Was all that he could see.

Low in Cholestoral, High in Protein

Cuey before (top photo); Cuey after (bottom).

The Disconcerting Correlation Between Dirty Old Men & Trains, Planes, and Automobiles

Some guy named Shakespeare penned the following words (and I quote): "Hath not a dirty old man hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? If you prick a dirty old man, does he not bleed? If you tickle him, does he not laugh? If you wrong him, shall he not revenge?"

Shakespeare may have been saying that dirty old men have some human qualities. What he really should have mentioned, however, is that if you provide public transportation, dirty old men will use it. Yes, even in Peru.

I have countless dirty old men stories--and a few stories about dirty young men (though I have always maintained my virtue, Mother, in case you're reading this). A seedy African man asked me, when I was an innocent of fifteen years, to marry him. (Incidentally, I did say yes; my bride price--40,000 head of cattle--simply proved to be too high a price to pay for a scrawny white girl with a bad perm.) A street person asked me, when I was but nineteen, to meet him for a date in the men's washroom at Princess Island Park in Calgary. And in Romania, I was unwittingly foisted upon a young man by his overeager mother (though he had an uncanny resemblance to the Fonz in Happy Days, forcing me to decline the offer of marriage).

Going to Peru, I believed that the ring on my finger would magically clear all traces of dirty old men from the world. But even my rose-tinted sunglasses could not save me.

In order to experience something entirely new and different, Rod and I took a first-class train from Cusco to Puno. The agent who sold us the trip keep insisting that we wanted the less expensive train "for backpackers." However, since we hoped to secure a few hours' sleep and the safety of our luggage, we persisted.

We were, indeed, out of place. We boarded to discover old men and women, and a few eccentrics (like the Asian lady who carried an umbrella everywhere to prevent a single ray of sun from kissing her porcelain skin). At this point I had no concerns about dirty old men: the train was so luxurious that in addition to the quaint dining car, an indoor parlour encouraged mingling and an open end car gave tourists fresh air and a view.

The servers served meals in unison, first standing in a long line and then simultaneously placing plates in front of guests. When our tablecloth had a slight crease, the staff went to every effort to amend the imperfection so as not to spoil our appetites.

My gut clenched: how great was the divide between rich and poor. My anxiety increased when Rod returned from a stroll with news that an elderly woman had been startled by a Peruvian local who gave her the finger as the train passed. We engaged in a lengthy discussion on disparity--the sheer injustice that most Peruvians could not afford to ride this train through their own country!

Then the entertainment began. Three models--two beautiful Peruvian girls and a thoroughly uncomfortable young man clutching a plastic llama--did the catwalk. They paraded up and down the cars, the women in tight, seductive clothing, and the man clearly wishing he could jump onto the tracks.

What I saw next made my skin crawl. Countless dirty old men emerged from the ashes of what had been classy gentlemen. Disregarding their wives completely, the old men gawked at the Peruvian girls, their eyes crawling up and down the tight, black jumpsuits. Their reaction was an instinctive appreciation of female sexuality, perhaps, but what made the scene so loathsome was their condescending approval. Here, Peruvian beauty was on display to tourists. Young women served no other purpose but to fuel the fantasies of vile men with flabby bellies and a thick bulge of cash in their pockets.

I was ashamed to be a tourist, ashamed to be exploiting a beautiful country because I am one of the privileged. My sole consolation? --that I have never been, nor will I ever be, a dirty old man. My one regret? --not taking photographs of the dirty old men who have earned an entire entry in this blog.

How many roads must a man walk . . .

When I was young (e.g. two months ago), I believed that the Lares trek would turn me into a real woman. I've never wrestled with gender identity, but I have aspired to be a woman of substance, a woman of fortitude, a woman who scales mountains without whining about blisters. At the very least, I hoped the obstacles faced on the trek would entitle me to assume a knowing air amongst those less traveled.

How foolish are the aspirations of a city girl!

A good deal of the Lares trek was uphill, certainly. We were forced to contend with the challenges of altitude. Most harsh of all, I wasn't allowed to pet the dogs (or sneak them scraps of food) because of the threat of rabies. [I wasn't even supposed to pet a cat, even if its name was Tina and it didn't froth at the mouth and it lived in an idyllic home with guinea pigs in the kitchen and sheep in the backyard.]

But the truth of the matter is, we were pampered. At the beginning of our journey, for instance, our cook (seen in the photo with our guide and porter) served us each a steaming bowl of soup. "Good," we thought. "What a nice bowl of soup. Now we will walk." Little did we know that the soup was the first dish in an elaborate four-course meal!

It gets worse. Each morning we received a wake-up call that consisted of a steaming cup of coca tea served through the flap of the tent. Outside, a basin of warm water and a towel awaited each person. After breakfast (steaming porridge, pancakes, sausages, omelets, etc.), the cook and porter took down the breakfast tent and our tents as we began the day's hike.

Within an hour or so, the cook, porter, horses, and llamas passed us on the trail (the llamas spewing obscenities, of course). By the time our bag 'lunches' had been consumed, we arrived at a tent set up in the middle of nowhere for our enjoyment. A hot lunch was served: we sat at a table with lawn chairs and used nearby a washroom tent when the need arose.

Then the cook and porter would clean our dishes, pack the tents, herd the angry llamas (who would hurl abuse, of course), pass us on the trail, and proceed to set up camp for the night. Frankly, it was unbelievable.

What was perhaps most surprising was, when we said our good byes, the cook thanked us. He was relieved, he said, that we had finished the trek--that he didn't have to carry us. He spoke, sadly, from experience.

So, although I didn't whine about blisters even though my hiking boots were new, I have many a road to walk before I'm truly a woman.

One of Life's Sweeter Moments

To many, a flat tire on the road of life is an annoyance--an obstacle. To me, the flat tires--and everyone else's resulting irritation--is a source of free entertainment. Which brings me to the flat tire incident . . .

Part of the Lares trek involves a steep climb up a winding road, the sort of drive that wreaks havoc on one's stomach, not to mention inducing a state of vertigo. In the middle of this stomach-churning ascent, we had the good fortune to have a flat tire--an interesting predicament, to say the least.

The scenario did my heart good. A few years back, you see, I attempted to change a flat tire on a slight incline. Upon removing the tire, I noted that the entire car was beginning to shift at an impressive rate onto my leg. In a moment of common sense (so rare to me), I removed my leg from the proximity of the vehicle and caught the sliding vehicle instead with the spare tire. There the car sat for the next few hours, the jack pointing to two o'clock and the spare bearing the weight of the vehicle, until my friend Ed showed up to rescue me. "You shouldn't change a tire on a gravelly incline," he said gravely.

I'm not sure what Ed would have advised in our current predicament, for there was ample gravel, a steep incline, and a precipice over which the van could have rolled, had it chosen to. Fortunately, I was not in charge of changing the tire, and I was eager to see how our Peruvian driver would fare. Rod, Linden, and I, and our porters and guide, each jumped out of the car. Within moments, the flat tire was replaced, as if by magic.

My heart was as flat as that first tire, now stowed safely in the compartment beneath the back seat. Here life had thrown us a wondrous challenge, stacking the odds against us, and our driver had prevailed. In fact, he had not even broken a sweat!

Fortunately, Fate had a pleasant surprise in store. As we piled back into that hot, cramped vehicle, my dear husband, the last to return to his seat, realized that he had a mound of fresh dog feces sealed into the treads of his boot. It was the perfect consistency, like an alarming shade of icing, and it was smeared across the floor of the van.

I laughed . . . perhaps harder than I ought.

For a few delightful moments, chaos prevailed. The Peruvians, normally so composed, flew into action. The porters jumped from the van to collect handfuls of grass and leaves to serve as rags. The guide, gagging at the smell, pulled out a strawberry air freshener and ripped off its plastic wrapping like a warrior pulling a sword from its sheath. Rod, muttering apologies, tried in vain to remove the traces of excrement from his boot treads with a rock.

I learned an important lesson that day: When the flat tires on the road of life fail to create enough havoc, don't despair. There just might be a pile of fresh doggie doo around the bend.

Faces of Peru

Thanks for the Underwear!

My favourite part of the Lares trek was handing bread, pencils, bouncy balls, and stickers to the children.

As we trekked through remote villages scattered across the barren landscape, children would run to meet us. Sometimes we could see tiny specks of colour running full tilt up steep inclines in the distance. These would inevitably disappear until we came around a bend to find a group of children patiently seated on the side of the path.

We would then make conversation and give them each a piece of bread. [Note: We did have reservations about creating a relationship of dependency on tourists. However, we quickly discovered that the children were as fascinated by us as we were by them and that the bread provided an easy means to a friendly interaction.]

Occasionally, an astute child would hide the bread in the folds of his clothing and rejoin the huddle, hand outstretched. One clever boy, bread in hand, actually sprinted ahead to wait for us among the next group of children. He received our knowing smiles in return for his efforts.

Rod always shouted a merry "Ola!" as we approached and the children always shouted back. One giggly group even sang for us and posed for a picture. As we prepared to continue our trek, Rod attempted to say, in Spanish, "Thanks for the photograph!"

Giggles followed, the children covering their mouths in a clumsy attempt to hide their glee. Our guide then explained that Rod had actually said, "Thanks for the underwear!"

It was then that I realized that children are children, no matter where they live. And underwear is underwear--it will always inevitably provide a source of great amusement.

You Expect Me to Carry What?!

Some of the most fascinating people of Peru are the llamas. I know full well that llamas are not people. However, I cannot help but think of these expressive creatures in human terms.

At the beginning of the Lares trek, I met the llamas who would carry our camping supplies on their backs. If they could talk, they would have bluntly stated that we were despicable, odious creatures who should darn well take our own supplies and shove them . . . well, you get the idea.

The looks they gave us! They didn't even try to conceal their disgust--or how put out they were by the fact that they had to hike instead of lying in front of a television set watching old episodes of Alf.

Now, a more paranoid person might start to think these sinister animals were talking . . . like elderly church ladies, they hovered together in a tight circle of gossip, casting disproving glances our way.

At first glance, you may observe (photo 1) a happy couple with some harmless llamas in the background. In reality, only a rope separated Rod and I from death by trampling. We were not calm and collected when this photograph was snapped: rather, we feared for our lives. Only moments later, the white llama realize that he could step over the rope, and he led a revolt.

Now, not all llamas are rabblerousers. In fact, at the top of Machu Picchu, I met one individual who appeared to be more than happy to pose with me (photo 2). A naive glance may lead to the conclusion that we were two kindred spirits appreciating the wondrous achievements of the Incas. However, this kind sir was merely tolerating my existence, recognizing the effort it would take to blot my kind from existence.

They're out there. And it's only a matter of time before they get off their lazy haunches and take over the world . . .

Peruvian Children

Tourists are a Fascinating Lot

I will soon write about the amazing Lares trek--our four-day journey to Machu Picchu that took us over mountain passes with a posse of llamas (indignant rabblerousers), horses, a guide, a porter, a cook, and a fellow trekker from the Australian army. I will soon write about the brilliant moment when, after watching our driver change a tire on a steep slope in the middle of nowhere, my dear husband stepped directly into an impressive pile of dog excrement and then into the van. I will soon write about the amazing children we encountered: descendants of the Incas who live quiet, peaceful lives on the mountain slopes, untainted by city life or tourists.

However, I cannot help but first write about tourists--some of the bizarre individuals we have encountered who are sometimes more foreign to us than the locals themselves.

I will begin with a middle-aged woman from Uruguay who was a member of our group touring the islands of Lake Titicaca. Whereas the majority of hikers wear khaki pants, hiking boots, bandanas, sunglasses, and hats to block out the sun, this woman wore riding pants, nylons, knee-high black boots, a suit jacket, and a most fashionable scarf. Her hair was perfectly arranged, and she had taken great care to apply her purple eyeshadow. (Keep in mind that I did not even bring deodorant on our overnight stay!)

Now, what is the most appropriate thing to do before an uphill hike at an altitude of 4,000-and-some metres? Normally I would suggest applying sunblock and drinking bottled water. This woman, however, believed that a cigarette would open up her airways; hence, neither Rod nor I were at all surprised when she had to be taken up the slope on a horse.

What made her even more fascinating (and I will admit that I took a liking to this peculiar woman) was her constant habit of touching the locals. She requested that women selling blankets and trinkets braid her hair. She reached out and stroked the cheeks of children even after being told that these were a shy, reserved people. She hugged and kissed and jumped upon every living being within her reach.

I was struck, too, by the differing attitudes of tourists. We spent one afternoon on a boat talking with Henrik and Marie, Norwegians with a passion for the poor. Henrik, a 23-year-old with plans to become a missionary upon procuring a wife, spoke of watching children search for scraps of food in a garbage dump. His face crumpled and he was almost silenced by his passionate anger against the injustice he had seen. His sister spoke of working in an orphanage in Bolivia, and observed how thrilled the children were when her family took them for dinner at a fast food restaurant.

Conversely, another group of tourists complained about some of the "bastards" they had encountered in their journey across South America. One girl, who was to spend a night with a family with a five-year-old boy, flatly stated that she did not like children but that the little boy was tolerable because he was quiet. "I was amazed by how thrilled he was when I gave him some pencils and paper," she had added, as if to redeem herself.

Different Standards

Last night was a tad discouraging: we took a 10-hour train ride and arrived at our hotel, longing for a quiet night. We quickly discovered that we were starring in a migrane headache commercial. Directly outside of our window a band was playing its heart out, trumpets and all--completely, hopelessly out of tune. Crowds cheered as fireworks exploded above our hotel. What made the scenario particularly dispiriting was the fact that the chaos would die down for a few minutes, enough time to give us hope that the madness was soon to end. Then the trumpets would begin their cacaphonous torrent of noise once again.

How I longed for the wail of dogs, the early rising rooster, or the screams of a crying baby--anything to erase those cursed trumpets!

Visiting Uncle Machu

At the moment, I am sitting in a hotel in Cusco, Peru, with a line of people who might (or might not) be waiting to use this computer. Who knows? My Spanish is appalling! I haven´t a clue what´s going on half of the time.

For those who find themselves in a similar predicament, I would recommend the Lonely Planet guide to speaking Spanish: it provides phrases applicable to every conceivable situation. For example, terms are provided to use should you choose to engage a member of the local population in carnal relations (e.g. getting to really "know" another culture, in the biblical sense). You can even coach your Peruvian lover and evaluate his/her performance.

Of course, that page of the guide did not pertain to me. More applicable was the page on getting rid of Peruvians who wish to engage foreigners in carnal relations. I was at a restaurant with my husband and a Russian girl when a repugnant young man made eyes at me--incessantly. Rod´s back was to him, and I was forced to stare at the table. Every time I forgot, we made eye contact, and his eyes were passionate, sensual--full of longing and male bravado. Sigh.

Another highlight of the trip thus far was eating a Guinea Pig! The waiter serves the entire pig to prove that it´s not a cat; thus, the animal comes almost intact--eyes, gaping mouth, upper and lower teeth, tongue, feet replete with tiny claws, and a tough outer skin covered in a few remnants of hair. Delicious! It tastes like salty chicken.

Well, I must be off . . . to give my stomach ample time to digest the chunks of rodent weighing it down.

Why One Should Not Pee In One's Bathwater, and Other Life Lessons

Our house is like the movie Signs: like little Bo Hess, I leave half-consumed glasses of water everywhere. Upon discovering my peculiar quirk, my better (and thirstier) half made it a house rule that only "safe" drinks could be left, unfinished, around the house. He then began finishing what I had started. Marital harmony prevailed.

I also have a habit of leaving the bathtub half full. Now, one cannot leave numerous bathtubs lying around the house, nor is my husband willing to bathe in lukewarm, used water, especially after I've shaved my legs. One day, after staring at a half-filled bathtub and longing to fill it yet again, I realized how environmentally catastrophic my great pleasure was.

I thus vowed to leave no bathtub half full, nor to allow this precious resource to go down the drain. The household plants were the first recipients of the recycled bathwater. The parched lawn was to be the next.

Unfortunately, I have a third habit worth mentioning: I tend to get distracted in the middle of a task. So it was that three bottles of recycled bathwater were left on the floor of our computer room. And that's where my husband's love of bottled water comes in . . .

Inside Rod's digestive system is my bathwater. Rod's kidneys know me in a personal and intimate way. That said, my life partner was less than happy when I declared (while laughing) that he had inadvertently found a way to become even 'closer' as husband and wife.

The Woman Who Bore Me

If I were more organized, I would have written the following words this Mother's Day:

How to describe my mother? The first thing that stands out is her peculiar name: Jutta. I recall being hopelessly confused in grade three when our Social Studies class discussed "Utah."

"But that's my mother!" I protested. Even now, the ripple of laughter among my classmates still echoes in my mind.

I gradually learned that it is healthier to mock one's mother than to defend her, and I have since called the Pregnancy Care Centre where she works asking for "Jud-uh" or "Joo-ta." There's always a pregnant pause (no pun intended), and then the tired voice on the other line says, "You must mean Jutta."

My mother is a whirling dervish of sorts--though she's neither Muslim nor a proponent of dancing. In my early years her energy was directed into domestic projects (e.g. constructing gingerbread houses or icing the names of my classmates onto Valentine's cookies). Later, she became obsessed with aerobics. Now her passions include diagnosing people with borderline personality disorder, placing stacks of books on every surface of the house, and behaving like a stalker at Starbucks in her endless quest for on-sale merchandise.

Though half-crazy like every other Wittmeier (we're an eccentric lot), my mother has some amazing attributes. She is opinionated (a maddening quality when you're her 15-year-old daughter, mind you!), a humanitarian, and exceedingly generous. She is there whenever I have the itch to convince someone to sponsor a World Vision child (she has over seven). Best of all, she despises those dull social gatherings where people are forced to endure idle chatter--showers and teas and the like. What grief I have been spared!

Like all good mothers, mine can be trained. My brother Brent and I, both Pavlovians, grew weary of her peculiar habit of breathing loudly through her nose to express irritation. So, naturally, we perfected our own nasal exhalations to accompany hers. She couldn't help but laugh--and be forever cured.

We always enjoyed shopping with her as well. As young children we would set "traps" in department stores by placing articles of clothing on the edge of the clothes racks. Jutta (or some hapless stranger) would walk absentmindedly amongst the racks--and blammo!--hangers and clothing were strewn all over the floor. Equally entertaining was our practice of sneaking up behind to nudge poor mother repeatedly with a grocery cart.

I owe a lot of happy memories to my mother. I'm still amused when I think of how she apologized to the fire hydrant she rudely walked into. I get nostalgic when I think of her donning "Santa boppers"--blinking headgear she would wear when distributing Christmas gifts. And even now, I get just a little choked up and homesick when I see a Starbuck's mug on sale.

Happy belated Mother's Day.

You Know You're Old When . . .

. . . your Little Sister, who once wanted to be just like you, is now horrified by what you've become.

Let me explain. On Michelle's 15th birthday, Rod and I took her to see Spiderman at the Imax. Now, when the word "Spiderman" is mentioned, endorphins are released into my husband's brain, and he starts kicking and punching unseen villains. The release of the third instalment was no small event: Rod's brain was drenched in chemicals and the air surrounding him was reeling from the impact of his blows.

After the movie (when Rod had finally stopped twitching), Michelle lapsed into a dreary adolescent silence. Naturally, Rod and I started discussing the movie's plot.

At last Michelle spoke up from the backseat. "Do you guys always do all of this . . . this . . . analyzing?" she asked, allowing the most corrosive word conceivable to drip from her tongue. "Do people really become this boring when they get old?"

Worried that the preposterous nature of this moment might be lost on us, Michelle said, "We do this sort of thing in English class. We talk about theme. We talk about setting. We talk about verisimilitude. Have you guys lost your minds? I feel like I'm in English class."

She began writhing in the backseat. Our analysis had clearly unleashed a torrent of bad chemicals in her brain.

Rod immediately launched into a discussion about make-up and hair, while I pondered Michelle's words.

I remember viewing the elderly first with awe, and then with scorn. At the tender age of seven, I had thought the nine-year-old Orphan Annie was it--sophisticated beyond her years, the pinnacle of womanhood. At age ten I was astounded that I would be THIRTEEN when the Olympics came to town. By age 20, my friend Kathy and I had begun a tradition of lamenting our mortality on our birthdays. I thought that life would be over by my early thirties.

Now, at 32--THIRTY-TWO!--I realized that aging isn't as bad as a brand new 15-year-old might think. Yes, Rod and I analyze everything to death, but we're fine with that. We're in this "aging thing" together, after all. Furthermore, I now get paid to analyze--and to be in English class. And the things that once struck me as unspeakably dull--conversing with adults, staying home for the evening, and cooking a meal--are now satisfying.

Perhaps I've aged, but things could be much worse. I could be Michelle's age.

Our Son Holden

Now, Rod would reject the label "son" -- in reference to a pet rabbit -- but he's simply a distant father. Or perhaps Rod is still grappling with the issues surrounding adoption -- the fact that his son is not genetically his (though friends swear they'd never know the difference!).

We don't know much about Holden's early months: unwanted, he was abandoned in Olds at the onset of winter. I don't know what to tell him when he's old enough to ask questions; the best we can do now is to assure him that we're his "forever family" (provided Rod's allergies don't act up).

I happened to be visiting the Calgary Humane Society with Julie and her sons Benton and Joe. Our hearts went out to "Kermit" -- a busy, unsuspecting ball of chinchilla fur with ears that trailed on the floor like Dumbo's. (I think "dork" was the word Julie used.) Kermit's charms were evident: he climbed all over us in the handling room, even though Ben (only 8), was making the sort of spastic motions that ordinarily make animals scatter.

While Benton dissolved into tears (upon suddenly recognizing how many cats didn't have parents), I went to the front desk to casually "inquire" about Kermit. (You see, Rod and I had only "talked" about adoption in passing.)

The adoption counselor/social worker, upon discovering that I lived in Fort McMurray and would need to bring the rabbit home a.s.a.p., went to the back. The vet came out minutes later. She mournfully explained that although Kermit had, in fact, noticed some peculiar changes in his body (i.e. the growth of fur in private places), neutering was done for that day. I had arrived too late; my face fell and I could only hope for a miracle.

Before I knew it, the vet disappeared and reappeared with the statement, "Okay, he's in surgery."

"In surgery?" I exclaimed.

"At this very moment."

My heart went out to Kermit, whose testicles had obviously descended and was now facing the horrors of emasculation. If he was man enough to get neutered on the spot, I realized, I had to be man enough to adopt him on the spot. So I did.

According to his documents, Kermit almost "fully grown." "He won't grow much more," his teary caregivers said as they bid him farewell for the last time. "He's done growing."

As it turns out, Holden (as he's now called) had no intentions of stopping. His head was its adult size, certainly, but his body has since expanded like a balloon, as has his appetite. His dominion is our entire basement, where he manages a multi-layered apartment complex made of cardboard boxes. When hungry, he makes his needs known by flinging his metal dish across the cement floor.

He's a remarkable rabbit. He uses the litterbox, accepts his degrading pink leash without complaint (thanks Desiree!), and comes when called, his floppy ears forever flapping. Kermit . . . Holden . . . welcome home.

Lisa Needs a Man (or, a Belated Birthday Wish)

This, my friends, is Lisa--Lisa Wind.* Lisa's birthday was on Saturday, and like a dutiful friend, I completely forgot. Perhaps a public apology will repair the damage done.

Just to be sure, though, I would like to find Lisa a very special birthday gift: a man. As unbelievable as it might sound, Lisa is currently single.

I know of at least one man who would find the news staggering (readers: this is your cue to gather around, as I am about to tell a story).

Once upon a time, when we were in Romania working in an orphanage, Lisa was the cat's meow amongst the humanoid population. While I was attracting little stray kittens (which should technically make me the cat's meow), Lisa was attracting psychotic stray men.

"Ion" (a.k.a. "cool cat") made his moves in an Internet cafe. He liked Lisa's hair, and he would not take "no" for an answer. In fact, after being shot down (in Lisa's kindly way), he ended up peering over her shoulder to get a glimpse of her email address (and other potential delights).

Imagine Lisa's pleasure when Ion began emailing her! As luck would have it, I have a copy of the email on hand:

"please," he writes, "if i make you mad with my e-mails write me back and i will stop . . . i'm boring right now so i was thinking to write you an e-mail with my description and some pics to make you know me better and let you evaluate if it's worthed to lose time with me."

Ion's unintentionally self-deprecating approach did not win Lisa's heart, I'm sorry to say (from a purely selfish perspective, it would have been fascinating to watch such an unlikely couple in action). In fact, upon her return to the Internet cafe where Ion lurked, Lisa was forced to pretend that she was dating my brother. (What lengths a person will go to to avoid a stalker!)

Ion did not follow Lisa back to Canada. So here she is, stalkerless and single.** Can you help?

Your birthday gift will soon be on its way, Lisa!


*Please note: I once had a friend named Lisa Weathers, a most peculiar coincidence.
**Candidates must pass the Wittmeier screening (i.e. an afternoon with me and my brothers). Potential dates must be single, Christian, athletic, and eager to help produce multiple children once the ring is upon the finger. Blonde, tall, stocky (not stalky) candidates will receive special consideration.

Product Placement Ruins Perfectly Good Dream

I was not only playing Castle Master (see my very first blog), but was in the Castle itself. In my dream I had one final key to collect. All I could see was a white porcelain sink, and I nearly sunk into despair. "I want to win," I said between clenched teeth.

I then noticed that the drain plug was actually rooted into place like a plant, so naturally I started pulling it. Twenty feet of root came out--at the end of which was my coveted key!

Noticing that the root was starting to twine around my arm, I grabbed a nearby stick of dynamite (conveniently placed, of course), and eased the roots around it, quickly standing back. The blast destroyed the root, and I knew then that I had won the game.

My moment of glory came when a warrior riding an ostrich (from Joust, of course!) bent down to offer me a warm handshake. I can still feel the ostrich's soft feathers beneath my hand.

When I walked away, warm with the pride of my accomplishment, I noticed a can of Pepsi. Its logo was almost glowing in my dream. I walked by in disgust, but the can reappeared, perfectly placed as if before a camera and glowing, ever glowing.

"Can you imagine: a product placement in a dream?" I asked the nearest person. "I wonder how much they paid to do that?"

King of the Library

I was in the Fort McMurray library today picking up travel guides for our upcoming trip to Peru when a peculiar incident took place. From what I could tell, a librarian had committed a small crime: opening a door and in the process, undoubtedly rattling her keys.

A street person took issue. "Lady, do you see what you did?" he said, visibly upset. "You woke me up from my nap!"

The poor librarian, a mere slip of a girl in her early 20s, replied with a measure of incredulity, "I'm just doing my job."

"And a damn good job you're doing of it!" he spat back, still incensed that his nap had been interrupted.

Perhaps this elderly gentleman was in the middle of a delicious dream. Perhaps he was intent on lapsing into a diabetic coma. Perhaps his wrath against a mere peon working at the library was justified.

Nevertheless, his indignation did make me wonder about the so-called harsh realities of life on the streets. Perhaps--and I about to suggest something scandalous in its political incorrectness--life on the streets does have its perks.

Portrait of a Gray Person

Birds are people, and here is proof: this bird is eating her cereal out of a bowl as any civilized person would.

My People

When slotting people into convenient categories, my husband and I refer to his people (i.e. engineers who like spreadsheets) and my people (i.e. eccentrics with a passion for dark poetry). Rule-oriented and logical, Rod's people work with the system. My people focus on the important things--words, ideas, and art--and have difficulty navigating through the more mundane tasks of life (i.e. I will often make coffee and then promptly forget to drink it; our house is littered with half-filled cups).

Different people groups don't always understand each other--or even recognize each other as "people."* Marriage thus involves a good deal of dialogue and open-minded participation in what is essentially a foreign culture. For example, I recently attended an engineering party in which participants played a sexualized version of Tetris, imitated other engineers, and discussed titillating details regarding slurry piles and lump dumps.

Tonight was Rod's turn to experience culture shock. Along with Rod's colleague, we attended the Full Moon Cafe, a get-together of artists/musicians/writers.

Upon our arrival, the drumming began. We were invited to sit in a small circle and select an instrument. The session felt ominous at first: as the drums beat, we wondered if we would ever get our five dollars back. We stared at other participants and noted that some were grinning sheepishly and providing only a half-hearted accompaniment. It was awkward at best.


Then a miracle happened. Rod selected the egg--a marvelous egg-shaped shaker--and oh, how he did play! The group grew larger and everyone relaxed and started having fun. A series of performances followed--a belly dance and numerous musical pieces--and Rod even hummed along to the music.

Tonight my respect for this man grew. Somewhere in Rod's heart, an egg-shaped creative void was waiting to be filled. And by embracing differences, he drew me nearer. Now if I could only learn to love spreadsheets . . .

*In our household, there also exists Holden's people (good rabbits who know how to use the litter box) and the gray people (a largely misunderstood and persecuted group of feathered folk). I, of course, am a passionate defender of gray rights.

A Child's Take on Depression

I'm posting a wonderful paragraph from She Got Up Off the Couch and other Heroic Acts from Mooreland, Indiana. For those of you who aren't familiar with the charming Haven Kimmel (author of A Girl Named Zippy), her personal memoirs are unconventional, to say the least. The naive, quirky, and wilful Zippy--Haven's childhood self--is irresistable.

The following is a clever description of depression from a young and egocentric girl's perspective. Here, Zippy ponders her "new" driven and independent mother as Delonda shops for a dress:

"Where was ye olde Delonda, I was beginning to wonder, the one who wore Mom Mary's hand-me-downs year after year and never left the house, the person who was somehow too good for a place like Wilhelmina's [a dress shop]. I sat down under a tree, fanned myself, kicked at some dust to make a point. Never mind the lights being turned off, the lack of plumbing, the cold, humid haze in which Mom slept away the days, year after year, a silent, unmoving, unmovable mountain under blankets and afghans. What need did she have for trivialities and costume jewelry? Rising up on Sunday mornings, making do with virtually nothing (and even that nothing had to be pinned together and was so frayed it barely held), she had not seemed embarrassed or concerned. My cheerful, obese, popcorn-eating, science-fiction reading holy Mother: her eye had been on God. I missed that woman fiercely, but I barely knew why. All I knew is that as long as she was trapped I knew exactly where to find her."

We Are the Knights Who Say "Nii"

I recently visited my brother Nii Ako in Boston (see photo). Please note that why my mother chose to give her son such an exotic name still baffles me and my other brothers, "Rob" and "Brent."

Nii has implored--read, nagged--me to visit for the last ten or twenty years and was understandably skeptical when I announced my plans to visit. Nevertheless, I was true to my word.

Massachusettians are a peculiar lot. They do not--or cannot--put fences around their yards, for one. They plant their universities in the middle of the forest (as I discovered when attending a children's literature conference in Amherst). They also choose, out of their own free will, to live in a state that's difficult to spell.

Nii Ako, my brother (see photo again), is married to a wonderful, hospitable woman "Atta." She is also called "Comfort," which can lead to no end of confusion when you answer the phone and encounter someone asking for "comfort." They have two exuberant sons, Sowah and Nii-Odoi. I trust that Nii, out of respect for our mother, will name any future sons something less exotic, like "Bert" or "Ned." However, he has no immediate plans to put any "buns in the oven," so to speak.

One of the highlights of my trip was the arrival of Kathryn Andrea Taxbock of Ottawa and her--get this!--fiancee Mark. "Kathy," as she is called, explained that she wants nothing more than to be like me, to emulate me in word and action. Naturally, since I recently married, she wants to acquire a husband as well. I will say here that as much as I enjoy being idolized, sometimes Kathy can be a little on the creepy side.

All in all, Boston was fascinating, though I regret not having time to visit Salem, where I understand they still burn witches. My gratitude goes out to my brother for showing me a good time--even though he started nagging me to visit again!

That is all for today. I will now field questions.

Precious Memories

Christmas is a special time, a time of food, sharing, and laughter as the generations mingle. We learn so much from each other, don't we?

One of my happiest memories from Christmas 2006 involves the delightful moment when youth passed on its wisdom to the wisest one of all. Indeed, I will never forget the moment my grandmother learned to flip the bird.

I Took Its Wretched Life (and Other Sordid Tales)

Today I committed murder. I was provoked. And yet, surely even the fire alarm deserves to live its life, or to at least have a trial to let it answer for its transgressions. Perhaps you, gentle reader, can decide my moral culpability.

I was in the kitchen, innocently frying chicken for dinner when the unthinkable happened: the fire alarm began blaring out a warning. "The chicken is not burning!" it screamed. "But I would tell you if it were!"

Having had run-ins with that fire alarm before, I deftly ran to the fan over the oven, turned it on, and then dashed, a pair of jeans in hand from the laundry, to try to mute the panicked object. I then leapt heroically from the chair on which I was standing, wrested open the nearest window, and, fearing that I would wake the neighbours in our fourplex who were on nightshift, I ran back to mute the alarm again.

It did not cease its screaming; perhaps it somehow sense that its destruction was imminent.

I scrambled about, trying to dislodge a wire, remove a battery--anything!--to silence its anguished screeches, for it sounded like a rabbit trapped on a wire fence. The situation was grim: there were no buttons or batteries, and the screaming was now almost beyond my endurance.

I stood there, my jeans wrapped around the accursed creature in my hands. I tried to reason with it, to explain that yes, I realized that the chicken was not burning and that I appreciated its attempts to bring this fact to my attention.

Then my arms grew weary . . .

I moved around and alas!--my ears were met with silence. I dared to move a pant leg from the body of the fire alarm, for by now my arms were aching. The alarm squeaked and sputtered, and I thought better of it. I stood there for several more minutes, feeling a cold draft gusting in from the open window. "Surely there's no smoke," I reasoned. "Surely I can gently let the fire alarm hang from its three wires" (which were now dangling from the ceiling). "Surely it can be reasoned with."

Gently, ever so gently, I let go of the fire alarm. Like a collicky baby awakened by the sound of a knob turning, the alarm awoke with a vengeance. By now, it was beyond consolation.

In moments such as these, when one is either led to commit a heroic act or a grievous crime, I lost all reason. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a knife (a wedding gift, incidentally). The first wire I cut was clearly an artery, and the fire alarm sputtered and gasped, now in a panic that nothing but death could free it from. The second wire severed silenced it. Forever.

Conjunctivitis of the Third Eye

I attended my first Yoga session the other evening and was filled with profound thoughts that I will now condescend to share with you (oh lesser spiritual beings).

The concept of the "Third Eye" was perhaps the most intriguing, though I am left with a couple of questions. First, why would the band "Third Eye Blind" imply, through its choice of name, that its members are musically incompetent and its lyrics shallow? At least the band has the decency to warn consumers. Second, what would happen if someone were to start scrambling around during a Yoga session complaining of the loss of a third contact lense? How would one put it in in the first place?

By the way, the Fort McMurray S.P.C.A. need no longer concern itself with finding homes for its feline charges. Let me explain: during yoga, we were asked to think of a "positive word." The word that instantly popped into my head was "cat." I like cats, you see; I have "positive" feelings towards them. Even better, ever since taking high school chemistry, I've always thought of the word "cat" as "positive: after all, aren't "cations" positively charged, whereas "anions" are a dark lot--the sort that bring you to tears like onions? At any rate, I filled my mind with the word "cat," believing that my thoughts would remain private. Imagine my shock, if you will, when we Yogites were asked to send our positive words "out into the community." Although I felt hopeful that more adoptions would take place in Fort McMurray, I was sorry to bombard my husband's third eye with the word cat, as he has terrible allergies.

All in all, Yoga was an enlightening experience, even though my energies kept coursing in the wrong directions (which felt akin to taking the wrong steps in a social dance class). I even learned that despite what my mother says, I do in fact have a halo around my head.

Julie Will Kill Me When She Reads this Blog Entry

. . . but I don't care. After all, we're separated by 7 1/2 hours of travel time. If, by chance, she comes to Fort McMurray to exact her revenge, I will be delighted to see her. I might even cook for her and provide clean linen (unsoiled by animal fur).

Julie is innovative, artistic, and unusually creative. What I admire most is her bold approach to life--her desire to try new and novel things and her remarkable ability to succeed at anything she attempts.

Now that I've said some nice things to appease her, I can share some stories to the amusement and betterment of my audience. Keep in mind that I share them only because of my own propensity to find myself in absurd situations and to be utterly oblivious at times. I like to think that my own foolishness--and Julie's--is actually rooted in genius.

Story 1: It never occurred to Julie, in her university days, what "checking the oil" really meant. She checked it again and again, certainly, but never progressed to the next stage--that is, adding oil or even changing the oil. Not surprisingly, she found herself stranded in a seedy Californian neighborhood and even then, she protested (on the phone with her parents) that she had checked the oil. Granted, I'm no better in that regard. The first time my dad sent me to the gas station to "fill up" the tires of the Delta '88, I did just that--fill them until they were nice and round and the car had risen an entire foot.

Story 2: One evening, Julie asked me what kind of car I drove. "A Mercedes Benz," I responded. "I know that," she said. "What I mean is, what company manufactured it?" "Uh, Mercedes Benz," I once again replied. "No!" she said, growing exasperated. "I mean, is it a Ford or a Toyota or what?"

Story 3: I appreciate a good prank. Sometimes they don't turn out as planned (i.e. when a friend's cousin is taking a nap due to PMS, and you don't even know this person, it's probably not a good idea to give her the 'measles' with a stick of bright red lipstick, especially on Christmas day). Julie is a gifted prankster, but she, too, has been known to go a little too far. For example, she once took the "tack-on-chair" prank one step further, this time using an exacto blade. Her victim not only sliced open his testicles but was profoundly humiliated.

Although hundreds (if not thousands) of stories remain to be told, I will have to pick on someone else to be fair to each of my friends. [Beware, dear Desire and Kathryn Andrea.]

A Woman's Wrath Unleashed

There are few things more maddening than losing at a game . . .

Rod had a dream . . .

I've had an eerie thought: what happens when someone is changing the colours on her blog and someone else logs on simultaneously? Does some sort of supernatural phenomenon occur? I will now back away from the keyboard--very slowly--to allow you to read this pointless blog entry without disturbance.

But first, another quick thought: My husband dreamt, the night before last, of a serial killer in a jail cell (on a ship much like my in-laws' living room that contained some of the foremost geotechnical mining experts in the world . . . but that's another matter entirely). This man, he discovered, was a rational being--that is, until he met a person shorter than himself. The moment he looked down on someone, he was driven to kill.

I know that dreams are often nonsensical, but if this dream does contain a warning of some sort, I'm glad that I'm roughly the same height as my husband.

A Diatribe against Needless Repetition

As of late, I have had an open mind (or at least a mind slightly more open) regarding contemporary Christian music. A few people have met my silence during the services in church with the concern that part of me is shut off to the worship experience, and I have thus tried to approach choruses with a different attitude.

This morning I awoke with the realization that embracing these choruses is akin to being served nothing but rice day in day out. Although your stomach is full, your soul breaks down from the lack of any real nourishment. When you protest, those around you--gaunt themselves--insist that you are receiving ample nutrition and that the hunger pangs that will not abate are simply the result of a spirit that is not in the 'right place.'

I cannot understand why this spirituality is so often selected in place of Christianity's rich heritage. But I am understanding, now, that for the sake of my soul, I cannot sit at a table where artistic integrity is not held in any regard.

Mr. Norrell

Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell was handed to me by a book club member who declared it unbearable, an assessment supported by another member--a martyr of sorts who read the novel to the end out of sheer loyalty to the club. Driven by curiousity, I opened its pages.

The book rambles on, certainly, but each page is a pleasure. My favourite character, of course, is Mr. Norrell, for he is the essence of an English academic. A magician notorious for hoarding books and for ensuring that other budding magicians are put out of practice (or kept under his watchful eye), Norrell is woefully oblivious to the existence of others, or their blatant disdain for him.

Mr. Norrell is so pleasing, in part, because I have met him on several occasions. While garage saling in Vancouver, for example, my brother and I encountered "CD Man," a fellow treasure-hunter with no regard for garage-saling etiquette. I am as guilty of 'hovering' as the next bibliophile, but CD Man brought the art of removing the competition to a whole new level. He would literally block our attempts to peruse, his entire body expanding when needed and always atremble with anticipation. Of course, Brent and I took the opportunity to tickle his Achille's tendon. At one garage sale, I remarked, loud enough to be overheard, "Oh Brent, if only we could find a garage sale like the one last week. Hundreds of CDs--new ones too--being sold at ten cents a piece."

Mr. Norrell also reminds me of a wonderful but quirky professor I once had. The man clearly despised his students: he taught us only because we were a necessary evil in a career that enabled him to divulge in his true passion--Victorian literature. The class was memorable, not only because I learned more than I have in almost any other, thanks to the professor's meticulous lesson plans, but because he was such a character. One day, despite forgetting his notes in his office, he continued to lecture--from the hallway as he ran to retrieve them! He was also known for giving lectures with a strange white substance--chalk dust, perhaps?--streaked across his face.

May the world learn to appreciate its Mr. Norrells--even if book clubs don't.

On Why I Hate Old People . . .

I've given this blog a provocative title in honour of my older brother, who bluntly informs my grandmother that he doesn't like old people (whenever she laments that he doesn't visit her at least seven times a week). In truth, I do like the elderly, and I love one in particular.

My last remaining grandparent is a character. She can be trying at times: she is obsessed with how much money I have in my bank account (my answer is now the standard "ten dollars"); she is obsessed with every bite I injest (my response now to her incessant, "Eat. Eat. Eat," is that I am so full that another bite will result in an illness of the violent sort, and wouldn't that be a waste of food?); she cannot waste food (she will pick up any scraps, be they on the table or floor, and even served the leftovers of a meal that left 13 guests incapacitated).

However, my grandmother's faults pale in comparison to her virtues. She is generous to a fault: she has recently acquired a vague (albeit incessant) compulsion to aid the "poor lepers" and will write a check to any charitable organization that mails a fundraising letter. Somehow, she is convinced that she has been singled out in a very personal way to support these worthy causes--for why else would organizations send a letter with her name specifically printed on the envelope? Her heart aches at the thought that the staff at the United Way will be disappointed should she fail to respond.

Despite the years that weigh her down physically, my grandmother has the energy of a toddler and the social appetite of a 16-year-old. While staying there one night, I awoke at 4:30 a.m., heart pounding, to a loud banging noise upstairs in the kitchen and my grandfather's angry shouts. Dearest Grandmother had decided to hammer some bones into a soup pot, and the dead of night was as good a time as any to complete this task.

She is much like a teenager in other matters, especially when engaged in the dramas unfolding around her: the elderly lady so fastidious that she empties the toilet water by hand when cleaning the bathroom; the things the "Speckdame" has said and done; the homosexual neighbour who is a 'good' man despite his sexual proclivities (he does like her strudel kucken, after all). She has even been known to follow prostitutes to better understand their mysterious business practices.

My grandmother has an endearing way of confusing English words. "Grand Marnier" is called "Grand Manure." The word "faculty" is pronounced much like a common swear word. And when a lawyer friend of hers introduced her to a "prosecutor," my grandmother could not understand how such a dignified lady could sell her body.

I like old people. Whenever I receive junkmail, I think of my grandmother. Whenever I am tempted to listen in on other patrons' conversations in a restaurant, I thank her for her genetic contribution. And whenever I see a leper, I refuse to turn a blind eye out of respect for this soft-hearted, compulsively generous lady who is old only in body.

Dismal Ponderings

While searching the Vancouver Sun for the obituary of a colleague recently departed, I came across a new article on Nina Coutepatte, the thirteen-year-old Edmonton teen whose unidentifiable remains were discovered on a golf course almost two years ago. The random victim of a group of young thugs seeking someone to kill, Nina was repeatedly raped before being torn to shreds with various weapons. She apparently begged to die by knife rather than wrench.

Unable to shrug her death off with a mere, "I'm glad it wasn't me," I was left with a disconcerting unease that has lingered all day. The audacity of five young people to select another human being to kill--a human being with every right to live the one life she was given, a human being who did not deserve to spend her last moments on earth with an all-too-clear understanding of human depravity. How five people could be so cold-blooded, agreeing to a plan to inflict suffering, and then, when the gruesome reality of their actions set in, participating rather than interceding, is beyond me. They lacked even the slightest inkling of creativity--an ability to emphathize with another's suffering for even a moment, or to the see the bigger picture. What is most disturbing, though, is the personal nature of the attack: the way one child was chosen from many, selected for whatever reason to be the recipient of torture and death, and briefed on what she would experience over the course of her final night.

There are times when I wish that I wasn't a member of this odious race . . .

A Reluctant Blogger is Born

Much has changed since my elementary school days in the mid-80s (not long after I understood--albeit in a hazy, confused way--the horror of birth and the lengths to which a husband and wife must go to create a baby). My classmates and I boarded a bus and were ferried to a computer lab. There, in tidy rows and under the watchful eye of our teacher, we spent hours commanding a turtle to move about on the computer screen. It did not resemble a real turtle--of that I was certain, being a budding biologist--but when you asked the turtle to go forward 1000, could it ever move! I was awash with a strange feeling of power over that ever-obedient turtle that would move however impossible or unreasonable my expectations. However, I had, too, the disconcerting sense that the tasks demanded of us students would grow even more complicated than rt 90 and fd 10.

Flash forward to the 1990s and to Castle Master, a game that kept my brother Brent occupied for hours. Brent was indeed 'Master' of that castle. Indeed, both of my brothers easily mastered Conan, Karateka, and Joust. The only game I dominated was DigDug, but only because my brothers considered it beneath them. However, I did develop an uncanny knack for squashing the little people I was meant to rescue in Choplifter, as my friend Caroline can attest to; even now I can feel the simultaneous guilt and pleasure in hearing them squeak for the last time.

The university computer class required for my undergraduate degree proved daunting indeed. The computer program that I created in the computer lab went so wrong that the baffled computer TA awarded me a 'pass' on the assignment due to his naive belief that no one could foul up something so simple. It was only through diligent study and effort that I earned my A.

Other mishaps or near-mishaps have occurred since then. It was sheer luck that my entire Master's thesis did not disappear until after my defence; such was my faith in my computer that it did not occur to me to save it on disk. And I still remember the disgust on my brother's face when he explained to me that assigning random names to files would make locating an individual file a gruelling endeavour.

But today will be different. Today, I will become a blogger. Today, I will arrive--without any ugly mishap that might forever prove me computer illiterate. Share with me now, computer saavy friends, this momentous occasion. A blogger is born . . .