reality tv "ozmosis"

Ok, I admit it. I love The Osbournes. I love watching Ozzy drink diet coke, while studying his recent performance on the Jay Leno show -- his bleeped-out four-letter words peppering his conversations with the wife and kids. I love having the opportunity to watch the Osbournes move into their family home, transforming it into a skull-and-crossbones metal mecca amidst the gaudy Californian ranches and stuccos (the freaky kids and pet menagerie filling the hallways). Damnit, I can't help myself. I love reality TV.

30 April 2002, 23:04

Sorted

Well it's done, and I can't express how pleased I am. This afternoon, Trevor and I booked our much-needed getaway online. So, on May 17, we're flying to Manchester, renting a car, and heading to England's Lake District for a week of hiking and rambling and scrambling and relaxing. And we'll be staying at the place where we spent part of our honeymoon in 1995. The Lancrigg Vegetarian Country House Hotel is a wonderful place, nestled into the hills just outside of Grasmere.The rooms are gorgeous, the staff are incredible, the (all-vegetarian) gourmet fare is unbelieveably scrummy, and the setting is exquisite. And with 1800 square miles of hiking trails, I will be able to sink wholly and completely into the embrace of nature, and work through a lot of what's going on in my head.

28 April 2002, 15:04

awaiting career number three

When I was in high school in the 80s, the guidance counsellors promised students that if they went to university, a career (not a job) would be waiting for them at the end -- like a big glowing light at the end of the educational tunnel. But something happened in the early 90s when I was at university, anticipating my shiny new career. Suddenly the tunnel had split off into a maze of underground caves and mine shafts; the once-linear pathway toward a fulfilling career became a labyrinthe of possibilities -- as well as dead ends. No longer could a person expect to graduate and work for the same company for 40-odd years. Now they could expect 5, 6, 7 or more "careers" in a lifetime. It was enough to make a young graduate feel ripped off.

My first real job at 18 was as a bank teller. I had no intention of staying with the bank -- it was simply a job to help pay for my English degree and living expenses that went along with not living at home. I finished school and stayed with the bank, waiting for my career to glow brightly in the distance. But it didn't happen.

However, the Internet happened to me in early 1996, and this helped to change my bank job into an Internet banking job. This helped me to segue into a pseudo dot.com job. And here I am: 32 and in the midst of Career Number Two, blinking in the maze of dark and dimly-lit tunnels, waiting for the Ghost of Careers Future to flit by and lead me stumbling toward Career Number Three.

And already I'm getting tired. I think about the day that I can retire. And I want to tell my high school guidance counsellor that I want my money back.

27 April 2002, 22:04

if you've got it, blog it

... and if you don't, direct your fine readers to someone who does. Here are six soul-soothing blogs that indeed have something to say :

• me and my big blog
• lisa whiteman
• blogging a dead horse
• naked blog
• wherever you are
• eeksy peeksy

25 April 2002, 22:04

ctrl<c> ctrl<v>

That's it. I'm changing my job title to Senior Cutter and Paster.

24 April 2002, 22:04

seasons in the sun

This afternoon I sat by the lake -- just me and a bowl of lentil vegetable soup. The air was cold. The wind was blowing my hair in all directions. And I just sat there watching ice-blue choppy waves, and the kid hosing off the Matthew Flinders. Feeling content.

I noticed a bunch of white styrofoam packing chips swirling around my ankles, three Tim Horton's cups abandoned on the steps by a disinterested party, a rubber glove, and some candy wrappers. Suddenly I was stuffing it all into my empty paper bag and dumping it into the trash. I wanted to be disgusted with the rubbish left behind by those self-centred bastards, but the warm sun on my face and the warm soup in my stomach just made me too happy to be there at that moment.

23 April 2002, 15:04

the madding crowd

As I get older, I find myself becoming more and more anxious around crowds. As a teenager, I did find myself getting a little panicked when immersed in a general admission show audience -- especially when the crowd started to press in and sway in collective motion. But that was about it. Shopping in crowded stores or line-ups were a pain in the ass, but they never made made my skin prickle.

While waiting in the line-up to get into the Paul McCartney show, and the crowds deepened around me, I started to panic. I kept checking for the easiest route out in the event of a stampede. I almost told Trevor to just go ahead, and that I would saunter in later at my own pace with the late-arrivals.

Today I was walking in the underground path from Union Station to First Canadian Place. It was lunch-time and people were everywhere, walking in groups, slowly, and in no kind of orderly fashion whatsoever. I couldn't get anywhere. And as I tried to weave around the hordes of people, I realized that my heart was pounding and my back was slicked with sweat and I was feeling like an animal that had suddenly realized it was in the middle of the 401. I wanted to run, not caring which suit or tourist I knocked over in the process.

After my appointment, I walked home above ground, in the cold and the snow, hurrying past the taxis, streetcars, trucks, and bike couriers. It wasn't until I was back within view of the lake and the island, that my pulse slowed, and my sense of calm returned.

22 April 2002, 21:04

organized

Throughout these parts, I have a reputation for organization -- well, in some respects anyway. At work I have a frightfully clean desk and (when necessary) I can write a mean business plan or report (not that I get to do much of that anymore). Sometimes I am insanely driven to complete tasks. And I'm sure that it's a little more than slightly annoying to people in my life who are more laid-back and easy-going. Anyway, I spent the afternoon organizing: cleaning out my inbox, following-up on issues that I had let go this past month, writing long-overdue thanks and other replies, sending out some poetry submissions, etc.. In between I re-organized folders and purged old email, folders,a dn bookmarks. And it felt incredibly good to get a bit of control over it all. I knew that the geek in me couldn't hide forever.

21 April 2002, 21:04

noise

I've been told that it's a normal and quite common reaction to the death of a close friend or relative. And it has certainly happened to me. I desperately want to leave where I am and go on a trip. I could seek out secluded beaches in Fiji, wander through a forest or desert, sit on a rock by the Atlantic ocean, hike through the soggy Lake District, haunt the streets of small towns in Italy or France. It doesn't matter where. I just need to get away from here and sort out my thoughts.

I can't stand the sound of the city -- the constant and combined clamour of cars and trucks, trains and sirens, rollerblades and high heels. Of cell phones and radios and PDAs and laptops. Of selfishness and self-centredness and ego-centrism. Of not living life and filling it up with white noise.

I can't believe how loud it is.

19 April 2002, 17:04

911 only

On my way to the bathroom I passed by an almost-closed office door with a little deep pink post-it note stuck at eye-level; it read "911 only". I first thought that it said "411 only" and I wondered if people were to stop by if they wanted some kind of information (411 is the three-digit code to dial for Information in Canada). I took a second look and realized that is was "911" -- Canada's three-digit code for emergencies (like Britain's "999"). And for the life of me, I couldn't think of anything work-related that could ever be considered an emergency.

I imagine that the man behind the door was able to work all day undisturbed.

18 April 2002, 16:04

the king of cheese

Well, I saw Paul McCartney in concert on Saturday. I have to admit, I never felt particularly excited about going -- but, since the old chap is pretty high on Trevor's list of forty-odd musical heros, I wanted to show a bit of support.

I didn't know what to expect. And then, as we were funneled through the tightest security we have ever experienced prior to a show, I was worried about what they might be expecting. The metal detector wand fanned everyone's torso. People were patted down for weapons. Purses and bags were rifled through. I couldn't believe it. I wanted to yell: "Listen, get over yourselves. This is a Paul McCartney concert. This joke isn't funny anymore!"

But, I must admit that once all of the security aggravation was over and we found our seats, we were treated to a wonderful show. Trevor's assurances that I would know most of the songs were most certainly true. And the TV monitors and lightshows were quite spectacular. I loved watching the footage of old Beatles concerts and hearing Paul sing the songs that my Mom would have loved to have heard live in 1964 when she was 16. It was actually a bit of a thrill. And the Paul/Wings songs reminded me of being a kid and listening to the radio before school, waiting to hear if there was going to be a "snow day" (when buses were cancelled due to snow).

The best part of it all was looking over at Trevor and watching his face as each song began. He was elated and excited -- he looked like a kid who had just received a new drum set for Christmas.

Of course some of the songs caused me to well up (i.e. Yesterday) -- but that does't take much these days. Every few minutes or so I was hit with a memory from childhood or a song that one of my parents would sing, and then joy and sadness would collide in the moment, awash in Paul's voice and vivid images on a screen.

But that's what music is for, isn't it.

16 April 2002, 21:04

weather vein

On the first day of April it snowed, flakes whipping wildly past my parent's bedroom window. And for the rest of that week, it snowed every day; sometimes it was just a bare dusting, and other days the flakes fell like a January storm. The next week moved on to rain, then mist, and three days of fog, gathering and dissipating like the breath of St Swithin. Always, some kind of precipitation hanging in the air. Tomorrow, the odd forces of southern Ontario weather are rumoured to deliver a thick humidity attached to a record 29 C afternoon.

The strangeness of the past two weeks' weather is what I am focusing on right now.

15 April 2002, 23:04

3:15 AM

At 3:10 AM on April 1st, the phone rang with the news that brought a disquieting mix of sorrow and of relief: my father's death was very close. It took five minutes more.

For a week afterward, regardless of the depth of my sleep, I awoke at 3:15 AM. It would take just a few seconds to shake off the myriad of hospital-related dreams to realize that I had wakened at the time of Dad's passing. Again.

This past week, the 3:15 awakening has been happening a little less frequently, but the dreams continue. Always at the hospital. Always caring for my dad. Always wondering if this was the "the day", but in denial of what was inevitable.

After two nights of uninterrupted sleep, last night we were awakened by a crash in the kitchen: the cat had been walking the counters again and knocked a glass of plant cuttings to the floor. Half-asleep, we quickly mopped up the mess and headed back to bed in hopes of never completely wakening. However, I managed to blink bleary-eyed at the clock. 3:15 AM.

I can't help but wonder: is he trying to tell me something?

13 April 2002, 13:04

a week later

The visitation and funeral went as planned. For the visitation, people lined up out the door and around the block to shake our hands, offer sympathies and empathies, and to pause for a few moments before the coffin where a man who didn't really look like my dad lay at rest. There were so many flowers.

Just before the funeral service began and the casket was about to be closed, I slipped a mickey of Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum under Dad's sweater. A little help for the journey.

So many people showed up for the funeral that extra rooms were cleared, and chairs were set up in front of TV screens or by speakers. The minister performed a traditional Anglican service, interrupted only by some more personal words from my Dad's sister and from me. I didn't know if I was going to be able to speak, especially when I looked up and saw so many sad faces looking up at me, but I managed. I had to do it for my Dad. This is what I said:

Ron Fletcher was a lot of things to a lot of people, but to Mike and I, he was our Dad.

And what a Dad. I think that one of the reasons that Dad had kids was that he was such a big kid himself. He loved to have fun. On our many vacations at Sauble Beach, the whole week was planned with activities - and Dad never hesitated to jump on the go-carts or Super Slide with us, or to go running into the waves after a storm, holding our hands, yelling at the top of his lungs, and laughing all the way. I sometimes think that he had even more fun than we did.

Dad thought and acted like a kid. At the first rumblings of a thunderstorm, we would jump in the car and drive out to the country just to get a better view of the lightning. He would take us on drives just to get lost. He took us to the Shand Dam for ice cream because they made the biggest cones anywhere. At home he would turn the stereo up really loud and we would all dance around the room. He made us tents out of blankets and houses out of big boxes and forts in the snow. And the look on his face always told me that he was enjoying himself as much as we were. I think that he was a little disappointed when we grew up, because there were still so many kid-like things he wanted to take on.

When I was young I thought that my Dad was the strongest, craziest, bravest, and most courageous person I knew. As an adult, I have come to realize that this is true.

My dad was a friend to so many of you here, but he was also a friend to me -- something that doesn't always happen between daughters and dads. He always took an interest in my life, and never hesitated to offer encouragement, advice, and praise. Dad and I talked a lot - often in the middle of the night when he would get in from an afternoon shift and I was still up, and once I left home, over many many long distance phone calls. And it was during all of these talks over the years, and also by the example that he led in his own life, that he taught me three very important things:

Enjoy life.
Stand up for what you believe in.
Never pass up the opportunity to do something nice for someone else.

Dad demonstrated these traits each day of his life. He knew how to have fun, and he loved sharing his life with the people around him. He loved his family deeply and was never afraid to show it.

Dad always stood up for what he believed in. When there was a battle worth fighting, he waged it with determination and courage.

And Dad was always doing something nice for someone else. He was one of the most thoughtful people I knew. He loved helping people, doing good things for the community, and surprising people with presents.

And whether you knew Dad well or not at all, these three things can act as guidelines to any happy and fulfilling life.

I could go on forever about all of the great things my Dad has done, and about all the stories and memories that will stand as a testament to the wonderful life that he has given me. But this is a time for all of us to remember and celebrate the life of a great man, and what he meant to each of us.

To me, Dad was an inspiring and generous, whimsical and imaginative, kind and courageous man. And he was better than the best dad that I could ever ask for.

09 April 2002, 12:04

gone

My Dad was an incredible man. He was courageous and kind, and everybody liked him. He stood up for what he believed in, and although I didn't always share his beliefs, I admired him for his commitment to them. He was a man of his word.

My Dad never passed up the opportunity to do something nice for someone else.

My Dad enjoyed walking around town whenever he could muster the strength, and as he got weaker, nothing frustrated him more than him not being able to take a walk. He even managed to walk in the hospital.

My Dad was in the Navy from ages 17-20. Throughout this time (on occasions of questionable sobriety) he ended up with 3 tattoos: a devil, a thistle, and winged snake. I always thought that they were pretty cool, but he told me that no daughter of his was going to have a tattoo. Ever.

My Dad built sandboxes for my brother and I were kids, and just not so long ago, he helped to build a playground in the park near our house. He did good things for his community.

My Dad loved Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum and Cointreau.

My Dad had a great sense of humour. He wrote limericks and short poems for people's birthdays or other events.

My Dad liked to sing songs. He liked Kris Kristopherson and Jimmy Buffet.

My Dad was nice to his neighbours.

My Dad was imaginative and creative, youthful and whimsical. He didn't act his age.

My Dad liked to buy presents for people.

My Dad had an unbelieveable year. Since last March, he had a double bypass, was diagnosed with colon cancer, had surgery, underwent chemotherapy and radiation for weeks and weeks, found out that the cancer had spread to his bones, was given one year to live (just three weeks ago), and was admitted to hospital the following day. He fought death with every fibre of his being. We told him every day for a week that it was ok to let go, but he refused. Even 24 hours before he died this morning, he got out of bed and sat in a chair beside me. He couldn't talk anymore so he hugged me.

My Dad has always been there for me, and even though he is gone, he will always be with me.

01 April 2002, 14:04