Thoughtful Thursday

Some time ago, the wonderful smarty Stacy over at The Best Life Ever ran a post about a book she was reading, "The Power of Coincidence - How Life Shows Us What We Need to Know" by David Richo.

Now I'm all about the coincidence - or should I say I'm all about how there really are no coincidences.

(Like - is it a coincidence that Stacy and I are both Canadian and we both blog? I think not.) (Huh? Huh? Are you diggin' what I'm laying down, people?)

Any-y-y-yways...

When I went to find the book at our sad excuse of a bookstore, they didn't have it.

(A quick aside - Is there any wonder that these asshat big-boxers fail? I can get pretty well anything other than the Gutenberg Bible from Amazon in about 3 days)(fyi-The Good News tome takes 5 days, and the shipping is ridiculous-I'd wait for the movie if I were you)

So I picked up another one of his books instead. With an equally intriguing title - "The Five Things We Cannot Change and the Happiness We Find by Embracing Them".

This guy? At first glance, I'm finding him highly interesting. If nothing else, his book titles are all intriguing and call out their siren song to me. I'm sure what he's parsing is purely common sense, but you all know that whilst I am common, I have no sense. I need to read this.

Mr. Richo starts out talking about the "givens" of life, and asks us to consider how these apply to us.

To those skeptics of all things metaphysical and airy-fairy, I urge you to dial down the cynic-o-meter for a few moments , and just take the time to digest some haute-cuisine food for thought:

. Everything changes and passes from one form to another.

. Matter, like spirit, is not created nor destroyed, but evolves in transformational seasons of beginning, growing, cresting, harvesting, dying, and renewing.

. The universe, like the human soul, is both finite and infinite.

. There is no single reliable configuration of how things are or how they are supposed to be or how they will turn out. Instead, there is infinite and unending possibility, just what animates our own souls.

. Events do not always line up in accord with the human version of order.

. Nothing and no one is truly separate; all is intricately and necessarily interconnected.

. Everything is zealously engaged in becoming what it is. Everything is becoming what is meant to become no matter what the interferences or the odds.

. Nothing is ever complete or finished. Everything is a work in progress, especially ourself.

. All beings in nature are subject to time by reason of birth and death.

. We are all continually evolving - taking on the new and letting go of the old - to fit the changing conditions of the environment. We evolve because of birth and death.

. The past of things and people strongly influences their present condition, yet it does not have to determine their future.

. Love, wisdom, and healing endure as driving forces both in our human stories and in the story of the universe. Simultaneously, nature is driven by destructive forces that are necessary for the survival of us all.

. When we intuit a truth of the universe, we feel a bodily resonance: It feels "right". We are clicking into the archetypal code of our humanity, and it matches the evolutionary code of the universe.

. The center of both the universe and the psyche is a single movable feast, and the circumference is nowhere to be found.

We'll Raise A Cup of Chai, My Dear...

Did I tell you how much I loved the movie "Slumdog Millionaire"?

I cannot say enough about how brilliant it was at showing a way of life that is completely foreign (no pun intended) to us Westerners.

And while I was blown away from the magnificence of this movie and its lovely acting?

Talk about your shameless jumping on the bandwagon.

I, for one, would be a little embarrassed to go to this extreme. But...

Hot on the tails of last night's Screen Actor's Guild award being presented to the ensemble cast of "Slumdog Millionaire", India has decreed today "India Republic Day".

At least that's the way I read it in the paper.

I could be wrong.

I'd only had 2 cups of coffee.

Nevertheless, here are some little-known facts about India (and before you even ask - no, I have not checked these - I am assuming that someone far superior to me in the newsroom did this)(fact-checking - what am I? A writer or something?):

1. Chess was invented in India (this is starting to make sense - some of those rooks actually look like the top of the Taj Mahal. Or is it the other way around?)

2. The 'place value system' and the decimal system were developed in India in 100 BC. (What? Where does Dewey fit into all of this? I'm confused - time to find a librarian)

3. The game of Snakes and Ladders was created by the 13th century poet Gyandev. (Again - think about it & it all starts to make sense - if a cobra slithered into your home, what's the first thing you would do? Of course. Climb the ladder in the middle of the room)(Forget about the fact that snakes can climb too)(This part was cleverly left out of the game)(As were the venomous stings and subsequent death)(kids aren't too crazy for this)

4. The largest employer in the world is the Indian Railways, employing more than a million people. (May he who ever again complains about North American government bureaucracy be forever condemned to try and find out when the next train to Goa is)

5. The world's first university was established in Takshila in 700 BC. More than 10,500 students from all over the world studied more than 60 subjects. The University of Nalanda, built in the 4th century, was one of the greatest achievements of ancient India in the field of education. (Now when they say 'from all over the world' - do they mean 'world' or 'Pangea'? Because then it's not such a big deal. No oceans to cross. Just a little walk, that's all)(Did I mention that I suck at geography?)

6. Ayurveda is the earliest school of medicine known to mankind. The father of medicine, Charaka, consolidated Ayurveda 2500 years ago. (Bet Charaka didn't have no stinkin' HMO)

7. The value of pi was first calculated by the Indian mathematician Budhayana, and he explained the concept of what is known as the Pythagoreum theorem. He discovered this in the 6th century, long before European mathematicians. (The Baroness also knows the value of pi. And it has nothing to do with math, but with blueberries and sugar. Mmmmmm.)(I will concede that I wasn't around until the 7th century)(at least my knees feel like this today)

8. India exports software to 90 countries. (And has call centers in Iowa to support them)

9. The oldest European church and synagogue in India are in the city of Cochin. They were built in 1503 and 1568 respectively. (500 + years old, and still no one shows up unless it's Easter or the High Holidays)

10. Martial Arts were first created in India and later spread to Asia by Buddist missionaries. (Another little known fact? Bruce Lee's first film was actually 'Enter the Pachaderm'. True story!)

Oops - I Didn't See You There, Miss Barbeau...

One of my friends had a father-in-law who used to look out the window on winter days like this and say in his best BBC golf/British Open voice (you know the one when Tiger Woods is putting for eleventy-five gajillion dollars?) :

"My God, Carol!
The FOG!".

OK, you kind of had to be there.

Well no.

I think you really needed to be there.

Now that I think of it, I'm certain that there is some sort of amusing anecdote that went along with this story, but I forgot it and I'm not going to make one up (even though you wouldn't know).

Because I have principals, that's why.

So, anyway. I wanted to share this with you, and thought that I could possibly cobble a story around the theme of fog.

I was going to make it like one of those wicked clickety click weather films we used to see in Grade 8 Science, and tell you that fog begins to form when water vapor (a colorless gas) condenses into tiny liquid water droplets in the air. Conversely, water vapor is formed by the evaporation of liquid water or by the sublimation of ice.

Sublimation.

Hey, there.

Now that's a hoity-toity word...

But no. Without an AV nerd to help me with the projector, I am... dare I say it?

...In a fog.

(oh yes I did. Oh ho ho. I am such a hoot).

And then I thought, instead I'll ask you, all Bill Nye the Science Guy-like - did you know that the thickness of fog is largely determined by the altitude of the inversion boundary, which in coastal or oceanic locales is also the top of the marine layer, above which the airmass is warmer and drier?

Huh? Did ya?

Do you even care?

I don't even think I do. And I'm supposed to be Bill Nye The Science Guy.

Really - this edu-mackatin' of y'all isn't for me.

There will be no lessons from Baroness, especially on a Friday.

Not when all you're thinking about is where to go for dinner or "should I paint the ceiling beige?".

Sadly, the only other thing I could think of on short notice was the craptacular John Carpenter movie of the 80's (one of the Baron's favorite, thanks to Ms. Barbeau's persuasive, er, co-stars...).

This was my city at 7:30 am Wednesday morning, taken from one of our local mountains (not by me - hello, 7:30?)

(AM?)

(Are you kidding?):

We are in Day 4 of the Neverending Fog (or thereabouts; I've broken my makeshift pencil that I was "x"ing off the days with on the walls of the laundry room).

I have to say, I'm a little conflicted about it all.

While the ceaseless misty gloom is seriously messing with my SAD, my skin has never looked more glow-y.

Thoughtful Thursday

If you talked to my father (*which would be an unusual accomplishment and the envy of seance-providers far and wide), he would tell you that my mother's family tree was full of gnarls and wasp nests, and had more than its share of horse thieves and cattle rustlers.

If you talked to my mother (see above* . . . and aren't you somethin'?), she would say that my father's family tree was full of religious zealots and hoity-toities.

Let me tell you - this was some arboretum to grow up in.

Dad was very fond of reminding everyone in earshot that he was descended from French royalty, and one of his relatives was writer (hoity) and nobelman (toity) Francois Duc de la Rochefoucauld.

I call bullsh*t.

Because The Baroness can't possibly be in the same gene pool as this Duc guy, described by Wikipedia thusly:

"In uniting the four qualities of brevity, clarity, fullness of meaning and point, La Rochefoucauld has no rival. His Maximes are never mere epigrams; they are never platitudes; they are never dark sayings. He has packed them so full of meaning that it would be impossible to pack them closer, yet there is no undue compression; he has sharpened their point to the utmost, yet there is no loss of substance."

Meh. They lost me at "brevity".

However, I did randomly run across a quote of his recently:

"L'absence diminue les mediocres passions et augmente les grandes,
comme le vent eteint les bougies et allume le feu"

(Absence diminishes little passions and increases great ones,

as the wind extinguishes candles and fans a fire)

which makes me think that I may be getting a message from beyond.

Other than "put a light on when you're reading - do you want to go blind?".

Wordsmith Wednesday

Ah, the hard knock life of a poet. Elizabeth Alexander - laureate or loser?

Reading over the summaries of yesterday's events, I could not find many favorable reviews regarding Ms. Alexander's poem.

Me? Well, I must be an alto in the Plebian Chorus of Idiots, because I loved it. LOVED IT.

While not even I will argue that The Man is a tough act to follow, I did find the poem's imagery a logical continuation of President Obama's, and altogether timeless & enchanting.

And her delivery? Deliberate and passionate.

Just in case you missed it:

"Praise Song for the Day: A Poem for Barack Obama's Presidential Inauguration"

Praise song for the day.

Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others' eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.

A farmer considers the changing sky; A teacher says, "Take out your pencils. Begin."

We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed; words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and then others who said, "I need to see what's on the other side; I know there's something better down the road."

We need to find a place where we are safe; We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign; The figuring it out at kitchen tables.

Some live by "Love thy neighbor as thy self."

Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.

What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking forward in that light.

Birds Do It, Squirrels Do It. . .

Snatched directly from the USA Today headlines:

"Squirrels scrounge for scarce acorns across USA"

Is that what you kids are calling it these days?

"Scrounging"?

Edgy.

Pick Me, Cha Cha Gah

In usual Baroness over-zealous manner, when I saw that the lovely Asthma Girl over at "Is My Cape Fluttering?" was selecting readers to be interviewed, I immediately did the "Ooooh! Ooooh! Pick Me, PICK ME" dance. (not to be confused with the Pee Dance, which has very similar steps, reminiscent of a cha cha/bossa nova...).

So entranced was she by my fancy dance moves, she did pick me. Huh. I have ze mad skillz, non?

And while I got my glib "favorite color" and "best Lifesaver flavour" answers ready, she kind of blindsided me.

With questions that I had to think about. I mean, really, really think about.

Sheesh.

So, again in usual Baroness fashion, I had to mull.

I've been mulling for 3 days.

I've mulled while I lay awake in the morning before I get up.

I've mulled whilst I have spent the last two days getting decor-o-rama doodads ready for my friend's 50th birthday party.

I mulled today when swimming.

But that doesn't really count, because I'm always mulling over things when I'm swimming.

I think I've got it together. If I don't, it wasn't from lack of trying. "A" for effort for moi.

Here goes:

1. What is the toughest life lesson you've learned?
This one tripped me up big-time, as I've had what feels like a lifetime of lessons learned the last few years.

I guess tough begets tough. So I would have to say that it is this - ultimately, no one is responsible for your health, your happiness, or your care but you.

I came to this realization during an overnight stay at the hospital during my first session of chemotherapy, where 24 hours felt like 24 years.

I'd had a pretty severe reaction to the chemicals, and the only bed they could find for me was in a 4-person room that was the "holding area" for Palliative Care. I didn't go into this particular stay feeling very sunny, and my three roomies didn't do much to cheer things up. Each of them was an illustration of the ways that life goes south - Walter, across from me, had dementia; the lady diagonal to me was in the final stages of kidney disease; and the fellow next to me had a condition which rendered every muscle in his body completely rigid.

After visiting hours, after the lights were out, after we were finally left alone with ourselves and each other, I realized that this was how it could be.

How it could be if I didn't take the reins over my health. How it could be if I didn't try to cultivate and nurture my relationships.

Just how it could be.

The phrase that kept running through my head, as I lay there like a panicked bunny - body perfectly still, mind totally freaking out - was that "we are born alone, and we die alone". This hospital room was living proof of this.

And it was this night that made me realize that I had so much more to do, to be, to act on before my time was up.

It was a tough lesson, taught with zeal by a shrewish, sadistic teacher.

I won't ever forget.

2. As a resident of Canada, how do you feel about their healthcare system?
I have never known any different, but as I get older and have a wider circle of friends, I can really begin to appreciate how lucky we are here.

How a population can put up with, and has put up with a system where money = care and no insurance = too frickin' bad for you, I cannot fathom. Let's all hope that public US Health Care is one of those "Change" promises that come true.

When I read about how families collapse from the burden of debt should they have a chronic health issue, it breaks my heart. No one should have to live this way.

When our socialist health care machine runs smoothly, there is nothing to compare to the quality care one can receive.

On the flip side, when people don't really have to consider what financial impact it might have if they visit the hospital emergency room for a cold or the flu, then the process begins to grind to a halt.

And people who really need the system start to complain about long wait times and inaccessibility. Rightfully so. Because these are probably the same people who truly need the system.

Anecdotally, I have taxed this system quite stressfully in the last few years, and it has never disappointed me. I have had the occasion to visit specialists, surgeons, and have never found them sub-par or unprofessional.

Being a doctor in Canada is not as lucrative as it would be in the US. Does that mean that our doctors are more committed to medicine and not money?

I'm not sure. I think there are subtle ways that doctors can enhance their salaries that we don't really know about, but ultimately might have some impact on us.

3. What's the attraction with the Oompa music?
Growing up, I lived in a multi-cultural surburban neighborhood where everyone knew everyone. All the kids, regardless of age, played together, and all the parents would sit together and visit on front porches after dinner in the summer.

Our Dutch next-door-neighbors and our Italian neighbors across the street were both proud owners of accordians. So, on balmy summer evenings, with a good dinner in the belly and a beer chaser, out would come the Oompa machines.

Polka music - I can't explain it. It's happy, it's upbeat, it completely goes off the right side of the kitsch meter, and it really makes my cynical heart sing and tap its little aortic toes.

It's a reminder of such a wonderful, Rockwell-esque time for me. I can't help myself.

4. What led to your decision to blog?
I am a ginormous windbag.

All through elementary school, it wouldn't be my report card without a comment from my teacher that said "Baroness spends too much time socializing during class".

When I got older, people kept telling me how they would share the letters that I wrote to them with their family. Hilarity would ensue. "You should write a book", they would say.

"You are delusional", I would say.

Then came e-mail, and people would force other unsuspecting souls to read my e-mails to them. "You should right a book", they would say.

"You might be on to something", I would say.

And then?

I would do nothing.

Then came blogging.

Dare I say it?

No. I dare not credit "She Who Must Not Be Named".

Instead, I'll call it my "Oh Ho!" moment.

I could tippy-type to my heart's content. People could read. Or not. Didn't matter.

I kind of look at blogging as sort of a "Schwab's Drugstore" - one day I'll be discovered. Or not.

OK, let's just go back to the beginning here.

I blog because I'm a ginormous windbag.

5. You have so many inspirations (the quadrant!)... Who would the most inspiring person for you break bread with and why?
I think you're referring to these four quadrant posts.

This was another toughie, because you're asking in definitives.

I have many people who inspire me. But the MOST inspiring? That's kind of like asking who my favorite child is (I'll e-mail you this answer privately later...).

I could mull this one for quite a long time, so I'll just jump in and pick one.

I suppose I'm most inspired by writers that are prolific without sacrificing their quality. So I guess I would go with Alexander McCall Smith.

He's a Scottish writer who currently writes 3 series that I love. Each are unique, and each has a series of characters who are charming and enigmatic.

The first series is "The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency". Set in Botswana, it is a gentle series that revolves around Precious Ramotswe and her adventures. She isn't perfect, but she knows it, and I love the slow pace and the descriptions of her corner of Africa.

The second series is "44 Scotland Street". This is a compilation of a newspaper series he did.

The final series of his is the "Sunday Philosopher's Series" with its lead character Isabel Dalhousie. This series weaves together a mystery, some philosophical conundrums, and a love of Scotland I find entrancing.

I would be curious to know how he keeps all of this going, and what inspires him.

Blahdee, blahdee, blah.

OK.

The real reason I would ask him to dinner?

Merely to serve shortbread cookies for dessert.

They're my favorite, and it's kind of theme-y.

****************************
If you've managed to make you way down to here, 100000 fabulous points to you!

If you'd like to be interviewed by me - leave me your request in the comment section.

Thoughtful Thursday

Many among us make difficult decisions; sometimes daily, sometimes only once.

But how many of us must make a decision that will potentially forever effect the life we have known for all of our years on the planet? And not only our life, but the lives of those who love us dearly, of those whose lives have only ever known our love?

This past Tuesday, Lisa Kelly did just that.

After a series of critical setbacks, Lisa, who openly and bravely writes the blog Clusterfook, decided that she would finally stop her latest series of chemotherapy treatment. It was killing her faster than the ovarian cancer she has been dealing with.

The ovarian cancer she has faced down two times before.

Lisa has made a decision that I cannot begin to fathom. She has recognized that her time to leave this plane is drawing near, and she has weighed the options of continuing a course of medication that pummels her into submission versus gracefully readying for what is to come. She has said in the past "It is what it is"; she now has acknowledged that it is indeed so. It is her time.

Her time to leave her husband, who she refers to as Dude, and her two beautiful young daughters, Cam and Teenie.

I began reading Lisa's posts when she began her latest go-round. While I could gush at length of her many, many attributes, let me instead give up the highest of praise and gratitude for her willingness to take us on this leg of her journey, and her unwavering openness in exposing the sheer ugliness of this disease.

I urge everyone to walk back through Lisa's steps for an eye-opening experience of what really happens. This is vitality and struggle and pain at its most organic level; this is a woman's life - and a journey she chose to share with us.

It is research into this insidious cancer that we must raise money for. Let that damned pink machine run on it's own steam for awhile. It's time to feel the teal.

And heal the teal.

The comment section of Lisa' "Hospice" post is overflowing with soothing words and wishes for days free of pain and filled with love.

One commenter shared a Robert Frost poem which seems appropriate when honoring a woman whose bravery shines like a glowing aura around her, and spreads her precious warmth far and wide through her vast readership:

Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
so dawn does down to day
Nothing gold can stay.

"It is what it is"
~Lisa Kelly~

A BvonB FYI, on the QT

Ah, the acronym.

Who, in their right mind, does not love this little language tool?

While some find them really irksome, you must give a nod to the genius of it all - it is the perfect test for separating the wheat from the chaff. The cool from the mere tepid.

In the urban world, it can code a section of town - SOMA [South of Market(SF) or South of Main(Vancouver)], SOHO [South of Houston] or Tribeca [Triangle Below Canal Street].

In the restaurant world, there's the memorable TIP (To Insure Prompt service).

In the blogosphere, there is the popular mandate, NaBloPoMo, which stands for a movement that encourages National participants to write a Blog Post daily for an entire month.

This is intriguing, yet a little daunting for me. I like the inclusiveness (Na) consistency, but am a little put-off by the bossiness of it all, and slightly rashy at the time commitment (Mo).

A Mo is a whole lotta time to BloPo daily.

So, I decided to scale things back slightly in vonBloggenschtern world.

I was going to go with BvonBFuHuThriWe, but found this to also be a little daunting, and more than a little performance anxiety- inducing.

Instead, I've settled on something acheivable: PePuWaDa.

Personal Pug Walk Daily.

I think I can make this magic happen.

WW (Fill in the Blank) Do?

When I find myself in times of trouble, no one who is either a mother or named Mary comes to me.

Probably because I have no words of wisdom.

Let me be.

Instead, when placed knee-deep in the ickiness of great duress, I ask myself. . .

. . . What Would Patty Do?

Because Patty is da bomb.

She is the woman who is the yin to my yang in all difficult situations. Within the body of a birdlady beats the heart of a lion.

While I tortoise, she is direct. While I am fighting the urge to slowly curl into a fetal position and hum, she is the one with all the right questions and all the right actions.

Yet, for some strange reason, this cartoon somehow struck a chord with me:

from "Pardon My Planet"

Just don't tell Patty.

Please.

She kind of scares me.

Thoughtful Thursday

The daughter of a friend of ours has recently embarked on an extended tour of India.

The few times I've seen her over the years, I've always been left with the impression that there is a lot going on under the glamorous exterior; this is one savvy chicky. I cannot say that I know her well, but I'm finding her personal blog to be quite a gem to read; it is revelatory and brings new insight not only into her unique, open-eyed world view but also to the spiritual being she is.
(It's kind of like reading a real-life version of "Eat, Pray, Love")

One of the few things about her I do know is that she's a successful dancer, and the quote she left at the bottom of her departure e-mail speaks volumes about her wanderlust and her sheer delight at the anticipation of travelling:

"....and that the patterns you weave upon the night
have such swift passion, such essential heat,
that all the painter sees, the painter can write,
are but pale shadows of your dancing feet..."

Humbert Wolfe

May all of our daily explorations be as passionate and as intentional.

Wordsmith Wednesday

"Lord help the mister who comes between me and my sister,
and Lord help the sister who comes between me and my man"
"Sisters", Irving Berlin

Truth be told, the whole sibling things has always been a point of jealousy for me. We always seem to wish for that which we don't have, and as an lonely only, I always begged and pleaded for at least one other person to share things with. (Well, maybe not share)(More like admire from an approved distance).

So when I get the opportunity to read about a batch of siblings - sisters, brothers, sisters and brothers - I jump at it. I always find that it gives me a fresh perspective on things, and it really is an eye-opener for me to get a glimpse into what it must be like to live one's history alongside another being.

I remember being quite excited at the beginning of this book - there were 4 sisters, plus a middle brother to boot. I was ready to be dazzled by the ever-changing dynamic. And I was.

At the beginning.

When we first meet the sisters (and brother) - Bette Davis, Loretta Young, Cary Grant, Rita Hayworth and Sophia Loren Galbadon - we are given wee parcels of information of their personalities and quirks. Intermeshed with this introduction is the deathbed promise of their caregiver Fermina, that each will be bestowed with a "gift" that will give them soulful, magical powers to carry them through their days.

I must admit, I was quite charmed by the sisters initially. Some were kind, some were dour, some were a canvas just beginning to be cautiously fleshed out.

But then, with the progress of the book, I began to become a little confused.

This is at least 2 or 3 stories that are jam-packed into one. There is a lot going on.

There is the story of the family's dynamic.

There is the story of their elderly caregiver, and the slow reveal of her personal history, through socialogical reports and records (where these came from we don't really find out until near the end - I became pretty impatient for this tie-in)

There is the story of the times (and they are a'changin', babe).

There is the story of each of the sister's evolution.

There is the mystery of how the caregiver came to become part of the Galbadon mix.

If I were to read a story of any one of elements in and of itself, I would truly enjoy it, and no doubt be immersed.

What I found kind of irksome, a third of the way through, was my perceived lack of interconnectedness between all the stories.

Plus, I always felt as it there was always a grain of something missing. Something that I wanted to know, but was perhaps not deemed necessary. Each chapter seemed to leave a little bit out.

I find that if I'm reading a novel that really really grabs me , I usually am so immersed that I don't have to constantly backtrack because I feel like I missed something.

With this, I did feel the need to constantly backtrack.

And backtracking to me is a waste of my time.

I used to be awestruck by big families - my curiosity as to how they could possibly all live (at least semi-harmoniously) under one roof was always keen and usually never sated. I always believed, looking at things from my only-child POV, that things must be so-o-o-o chaotic and confusing.

Now, I'm thinking I might be right.

I would LOVE to give away 4 copies of this book, so that you can read it and tell me what I just didn't get.

If you're interested in the challenge, e-mail me at :

baronessvonb@gmail.com

and tell me just what it is that makes your sister (or reasonable facsimile) gifted.

First 4 to enter get a copy.

Contest ends Sunday, January 11th. Entries must include mailing address (Canada or US only, no post office boxes, please).

Heidi Would Never Have Done This

Not that long ago, I was watching one of my newer addictions -HGTV; a virtual smörgåsbord of reno shows, ohgreatsecondraterealtorhelpusfindourfirsthome shows, the I'm a Euro showoff and two homes for the price of one shows. You know, that kind of thing.

One of the phrases that tickled me was "man cave", a phrase here which refers to a section of the house where the male spouse can kick back, play darts or pool, surf for porn wife gifts, shamelessly scratch himself, fart with abandon (ignition optional), and generally get in touch with the primate side from whence he came.

It then dawned on me that as a young girl, I had something vaguely similar - the "Child Cave".

This little feat of engineering was constructed by my father, shortly after I had watched a Sunday rerun of Shirley Temple in "Heidi", and was bemoaning the fact that we did not live in a wee, cramped, one-room, outdoor-plumbing style Swiss Chalet. Instead, we were stuck like fools inside a sprawling rancher.

Yeah, I could be nostalgic like that even then - all about the old-y days when peeing on a rock out back + no heat inside = good times.

My "Child Cave" had no modern amenties - my father kept the Alpen/Heidi design true to form - instead, we were left to our own devices. Such a mistake.

And while my mother would choose to buy into the fantasy that we were having tea parties, and playing Barbies - the harsh reality was far more nefarious.

Because the Baroness, back in the day, was a devil-child.

In her devil "Child Cave".

It was here that I gave my Chatty Cathy doll her first (and last) mane trim, which transformed her into Chemo Cathy (oh, the irony) - Age 6

It was here that we smoked pack after pack of stolen cigarettes until the air inside the cave rivalled Monday night at the Bingo Hall - Age 8

And it was here, in the Swiss Chalet/Secret Lair that I began my brilliant writing career. I should mention here that, in a similar vein to Benjamin Button, I started out my life with a freakish intellect and have become increasingly more immature as time has elapsed.

But I digress.

The acme of my writing career, my signature piece, all started after watching another rousing episode of "Get Smart" with my next-door-neighbor, Ronnie.

He and I decided, after having our heads filled with CHAOS agents, Cold War and all things spy-ish, that there could be evil lurking in our very own burg. It was up to us to send a message (such as it was) to let the perpetrators know that we were on to them.

And it ultimately was up to me, the well-read, hyper-informed, psychotically-wired Baroness, to create said missive.

You know, just to give them a heads up that we were onto them, and that they better skedaddle before a more severe brand of our wrath fell upon them.

Who were these targets of our vigilante-ism? I can't remember them all, but I do recall that a few of them were associates with whom there had been schoolyard fallings-out.

The one I do remember was poor Alan Thorpe.

The only crime that Alan ever executed was sliding out of his mother's birth canal approximately 2 years after his sister Sharon. Sharon was, for a time, one of the Baroness' BFFN, and Alan was an ever-present piece of irksomeness that totally put a cramp in our style.

We had, once, tried to get rid of him for a few hours by daring him to shove cherry pits, one after another after another, up his nose.

This was effective - for a time - but the trip to the emergency room and the subsequent wait was short-lived, and unfortunately had no lingering effect on our nemesis.

I took matters into my own hands and decided that, for the sake of Sharon and BvonB playtime, a more dramatic stance was required. Cherry pits? What were we thinking? Total amateur hour.

I would now send a message.

A hand-written, totally traceable (I may have even signed it) message.

Ronnie and I came up with the following - the note of all notes that would make the recipient's blood run cold and impel them to simultaneously go running for a suitcase to split for destination unknown.

Ya ready? Because it was so cruel, so bilious, so utterly creepy:

Diaper Pants Pinky, GO HOME!

Brilliant, or what?

I had started with "Pinko", a phrase I'd heard often in the news and read of in all of the advanced literature I had at my disposal. But Ronnie, plebeian 7 year old that he was, had never heard of this, and was stupidly unaware of its scathing implications (Somedays, I swear, it was so taxing to have co-conspirators).

I don't really need to tell you that it was he who changed "Pinko" to "Pinky". And then threw in the "Diaper Pants" for good measure. (He had recently been visited by a baby brother, and I guess that to his small mind, this was a pretty good smack-down).

Why I acquiesced troubles me to this day. But I did, and I sadly cannot change history.

The "Go Home", in retrospect, was kind of lame. I'm recalling that at the time, I thought this was the ultimate slam - a "Go back to where you came from" country-of-origin thing. Very edgy, highly xenophobic.

But again in retrospect, I made the first mistake of writing - I didn't consider my audience - they were not going to be getting this thinly-veiled threat.

"Go Home"?
Huh?
I'm already home.
What does this even mean?
Well, this is just stupid.

Needless to say, the whole exercise was a wash, and the resulting phone calls from irate parents to my sainted mother left her none too amused. Even less amusing was the forced apologizing by me to each and every one of my victims. Me no likee the taste of humble pie. Ronnie, like the good second fiddle he was, went deep undercover and escaped unscathed (maybe not so dim after all...)

As for the Secret Lair? Our cover had been blown. Under heavy interrogation involving a kitchen chair and a bare overhead lightbulb and a wooden spoon waving in the air, my mother extracted from me all that she needed to know, as to where all this illicit activity had taken place to begin with.

And, well - I caved. Like a child.

Of Bleach and Chainsaws

Well, it's the first Monday after the holiday season.

For a lucky few, this will be their first day back at work.

Productivity will no doubt plummet today, as people loiter around each other's cubicles and coffee makers, regaling each other with tales of family fesitivities and debaucherous New Year's Eve parties.

But the hottest ticket in the Western World for front row seats around the water cooler HAS to be at the Butterball Turkey Customer Helpline call center. The stories that abound at this little hell-on-earth make me almost want to work there.

Note that I said almost. (Although the free turkey thing is mighty enticing...)

Examples of actual questions called in* [and Baroness' reponse in ptomaine pink italics]:

."I don't want touch the giblets. Can I fish them out with a coat hanger?" [Yes]

."Can you thaw a frozen turkey using an electric blow dryer? Or by wrapping it in an electric blanket? In the aquarium with my tropical fish? In the tub while the kids are having a bath?"
[No, no, no and hell no]

."The family Chihuahua is inside the turkey and can't get out" [Enlarge the opening manually & extract the dog. Serve with a nice Cabernet and green beans. Buy St. Bernard]

."I need to drive 2 hours with my frozen turkey before I cook it. Will it stay frozen if I tie it to the luggage rack on the roof of my car?" [No if you live in Florida, Hawaii, or Arizona]

."I scrubbed my raw turkey with a toothbrush dipped in bleach for three hours. Is that enough to kill all the harmful bacteria?" [The heat of the oven is what kills the bacteria; bleach will make it inedible, yet with that mouth-watering hospital aroma. Ditch it, you CSI wanna-be freakazoid. Turkey hot dogs, anyone?]

."I didn't want to cook the whole turkey, so I cut it in half with a chainsaw. How do I get the chainsaw oil out of the turkey?" [Again, while we admire your pioneering spirit and your brave foray into mixed media, deep six the art instillation and eat out - I think 7-11 has some burritos that have only been under the heat lamp for 8 hours or so]

Wow.

Who says there are no stupid questions?

Butterball Call Center, I salute you. You stay at that watercooler as long as you damn well want to.

*courtesy of "The Best of the Best of Uncle John's Bathroom Reader".

It's All Over But the Scouring

I'm so bossy - even my signs tell people what to do...

It's official.

January of 2009 has arrived, and the Season of the Oil is now over.

Proof?

The vonB Bird Hannukiah, ready to be stashed away in the attic

After a month of potato peeling, onion mincing, weeping over onion mincing, and frying up latke after latke, it's done, people.

I'm a tad conflicted about this fact. Why? We'll get to this in a minute.

Let's first go over the obvious question that's going through your collective beautiful minds - Baroness, what the hell is this "latke" of which you speak?

This depends on who you talk to.

To some it is a golden crispy potato pancake, fried and warm; oh-so-slightly oily and salty and, when served with chilled sour cream and/or nectar-licious apple sauce, is a delicacy just this side of Nirvana (the place, not the group - I do not believe that grunge would be all that tasty, based on the name alone).

To others, a latke is a deep-fried gut buster, guaranteed to keep your clothes reeking of canola vapour for a very long time, and your bowels regular for at least a month after ingesting. It renders you immobile and grasping for that industrial Costco-sized bucket o'Pepcid. It is the stuff of notorious legend, where an entire 3rd world country - after eating just one - is miraculously cured of its chronic and long-term constipation.

For the record, my concoctions fall into the first group.

I think.

Every year, our extended family hosts two holiday events. My sister-in-law and her husband kindly and graciously host the phenomenal Christmas feast. The Baroness and the rest of the vonBloggenschterns in turn host the annual "Latke-palooza".

This involves the babysitting of a beef brisket for two days straight, the depleting of jelly donut stocks in every bakery within a 5 mile radius, and the creation of about 100 (at least) latkes. These are usually fried up my yours truly.

Here's where the confliction comes in.

Usually, by about the 3rd go-round of making these grease bombs of love, I'm really hating the process. I'm hating the asshat who ever had the thought to ever dig the first potato from the ground. I'm starting to get angry.

[And I'm truly one of those weird people who thinks that if you cook angry, you're going to cook some of your nasty chi into the food. Case in point, I had a bagel the other day made by some furious short order cook - the bad bagel chi ruined my whole afternoon. Really.]

I digress.

This year, I didn't want the process to ever end. Why? Because I was cooking latkes for not only my family, but for Duke 1 (home from university for the winter break). And...

And I had the most amazing crew this year - The Baron, Duke 1 and 2, and my glorious nieces, The Good Countesses Schmee and Schmoo. Everybody chipped in and made what is usually a monumental task the easiest meal prep EVER.

I had food runners, potato peelers, table setters, flower arrangers, latke flippers, sour cream mixers, jelly donut displayers, veggie blanchers. They did almost everything. I did virtually nothing but supervise , change the music periodically and provide comic relief with my Beyonce dancing impersonation.

Plus, I had a fantastic break part-way through the first day of preparation.

I not only got to meet up with one of my favorite bloggy friends, the gorgeous AsthmaGirl of Is My Cape Fluttering?, but also her lovely husband (who appears to be neither old nor goat-ish; I must be missing something...). They graciously carved out a little time on their way home for a cuppa; we caught up on their Northern excursion and all the other things we could cram into a short amount of time.

Then to come home to a group of willing workers?

Ahh. It was golden, I tells ya.

Golden.

Not unlike my perfect latkes.