A Few Updates



On the Telemarketer Thing: I heard from the CRTC. They're on it. I haven't heard from that caller since their last hangup before they had their number disconnected. Whew.

On the Weblog Review: brainlint has been reviewed, and the critic was very kind. I expected more criticism because I'm not a design whiz, but the reviewer focussed mostly on the content of my blog, which is what I had hoped. I'm very pleased that s/he drew attention to the story about my dad; that means a great deal to me. I wish I could tell him/her that, but I've forgotten my user name for the Weblog Review, so I can't log in. Duh. Anyway, if you click on their link at the bottom of my sidebar, you can read it.

On being published: I heard from my editor (such a nice woman, she is) and she said my stories make her laugh out loud, which is a good criteria, and if I keep sending them to her, she will keep sending me money. So of course I sent her more - five more. She emailed back very quickly and said she plans to use three of them (What's in a Name, Why I'm Takin up Bingo as a Winter Sport, and my outhouse story, which I retitled Calendar Art). So now she has five or six in her file that she intends to print. That'll keep her goin while I am busy with the start of a new school year. Way cool.

On me: I've had a bit of a struggle lately. Somehow, I managed to get a severe infection in my left TMJ (jaw joint), which was badly swollen and painful, and more than a little alarming. I've been on amoxicillin for a week (had to cut out the naproxen, as a sensitivity to ASA was givin me an itchy rash), and the swelling's gone way down; but I still feel kind of lousy (fatigue, nausea, headache). Not sure if that's from the infection or the antiobiotics. I try not to be paranoid, but when weird things happen in my body (coupled with horrible pains in my side where my kidney used to be), I get a little freaked about the possibility of recurrence. In any case, I'm seeing my own doctor this morning (I could only get into a walk-in clinic for the meds) to ask her about some testing - maybe some bloodwork, an x-ray, and a ct-scan. She's always very compliant, and says we need to be vigilant, given my history; but she usually concludes that what I'm experiencing in my torso is phantom pain. I hate to end my holidays this year; and even more, I hate to begin a new school year feeling crummy. Hopefully all will be well by the time I face my new classes next week.

Anyhoo, that's all the news from Lake Woeisme, where all the men are strong, the women are good-lookin, and the children are above average (my apologies to Garrison Keillor)....

War



I am at war with a telemarketer. For weeks now, I've had to clear my call display of a long distance number that appears, on average, twice a day. No voice message. Finally, I began to receive some calls when I was home to answer the telephone. The caller did not say anything for some time before disconnecting. After weeks of this annoyance, I called the number and was greeted by a voice with a decidedly East Indian accent inviting me to leave a message. I did, politely but firmly requesting that they never call me again.

They called again, that same evening, repeating their pattern of saying nothing. I yelled at the caller to quit calling me.

Click. Buzzzzz.

I did a reverse lookup on the internet and learned that the origin of the call was Toronto, and the carrier was Bell Canada. I emailed Bell and described my problem. Today I received a reply that informed me that the number belonged to a telemarketing business. I was given a link to a form that would remove me from all telephone and mailing lists, which is great for the future, but rather like closing the barn door after the horse gets out when it comes to this particular dufus. Proof of this came in the form of yet another hangup call at around 8:30 this evening.

Enraged, I called the number back again, ready to break an eardrum or two. I heard a recorded message saying that the number was no longer in service. Figure that one out.

So I emailed the CRTC with a detailed description of my complaint. You see, once I had advised this telemarketer that they were not to call me again, they were forbidden by law to call me again for three years. Apparently, they have either no knowledge of, or no respect for, this regulation. I'm hoping the CRTC will set them straight.

Maybe they can send me a crowbar so I can pry my teeth apart, too.

True Colours



At the start of my roll of film of holiday photos, I shot a few of the now infamous lilies in our front garden, with my Pentax. This time, the colour of the flowers came out true and accurate - a kind of soft sorbet orange. My next door neighbour, who is a florist, tells me that it's a new hybrid of Asiatic lily called a San Jose. Mystery solved. Thanks for all your help and suggestions, faithful readers.

Here's a snap of one angle of the flowerbed. Too bad I didn't capture the plant on the stand (forgot its name, something with many syllables) when it was chock full of little white blooms, as it is now.

We're Baaaaack

We returned early this morning, as Curtis didn't want to miss his company golf tournament. I have little time to post, as I am still busy unpacking and putting stuff away, and then I'm gonna join the golfers for their dinner and prizes at the clubhouse restaurant.

In a couple of days I should have some photos to post, although I didn't have much opportunity to take pictures, what with the almost constant storming. The weather, in keeping with the coldest summer in Manitoba's history, was terrible; we even suffered a couple of power failures. Thank goodness for the luxury and comfort of the cottage we rent, and the rugged beauty of the scenery. We rented lots of movies and completed a number of jigsaw puzzles. As I type this, strong winds are throwing spatters of cold rain against my window, so I can't imagine the guys are havin a great time out on the course.

On a positive note, I came home to a bulging envelope with 10 copies of "Our World," containing my story, "Hot and Bothered," as well as a nice little cheque. That makes four consecutive months of publication. (Esther, I'm dyin to know: have you gotten your magazine subscription yet?)

More later, when I have time, and hopefully a few snapshots.

Curtis, our critters and I will be gone from Sat. the 14th through Sat. the 21st. We will be enjoying a lakefront cottage rental in beautiful Lake of the Woods, Ontario. My best friend Marina will be stayin with us the first couple of nights, and we'll be visiting my brother and his wife at their gorgeous cottage overlooking nearby Caddy Lake in Whiteshell Provincial Park. We have plans for lots of fishing and barbecuing, as well as some lakeside bonfires. On the day of our return, Curtis plays in his company golf tournament and I will join him for dinner at the clubhouse restaurant. I'll tell ya all about it when we get back.

Stay happy and healthy, everyone.

Friends and Enemas



I have always been a great friend to animals. In spite of my obsessive-compulsive tendencies about cleanliness and order, I never blink at having to clean up after a sick or dirty pet. If there's a bloated tick to be removed, a weeping sore to be lanced and dressed, a crusty bum to be washed, I will take on the task with tenderness and efficiency. To me, it's all part of loving and caring for a critter.

So when one of the male Siamese cats we had when I was a teenager, appeared to be constipated, I rolled up my sleeves and went to work. Yang had been perched on the edge of his litter box in his characteristic way - with all four paws, as he bobbled forwards and backwards unsteadily (this had often resulted in him flipping box and contents over his back and head onto the floor), yowling piteously for the better part of a day, and yielding no results. He was clearly in distress, and I was determined to bring him relief.

My mom, a lifelong sufferer of irregularity, had all of the attachments to her hot water bottle, necessary to administer a home enema. I set about preparing warm soapy water and took the steps necessary to empty the cat's bowels. He didn't like it much. Truth to tell, I wasn't too crazy about the whole thing, either. Siamese cats are vociferous at the best of times, but in the middle of a purging, they can shatter glass, lemme tell ya.

Even as clean as a whistle inside and out, Yang immediately returned to his litter box, still in obvious discomfort. My parents decided it was time for professional help, and we took him to the nearest vet.

Turns out he had fallen prey to a problem fairly common in male cats: a blockage in his ureter. His poor bladder was filled to bursting, a potentially fatal condition. The doctor performed a kind of flushing procedure that dislodged the obstruction, and what came out of that little cat could have provided enough hydroelectric power to keep lamps burning in the province for a month. Yang was so relieved he didn't even complain at what had to be an uncomfortable experience. He purred all the way home in my mother's arms, and he didn't hold a grudge against me for probing him the way I had earlier.

I think our pets truly understand and appreciate our efforts to care for them, don't you?

A Memorable Kitty

I often declare that my tabby, Milo, is the easiest going cat in the world. I mean, how many cats will not only allow, but enjoy you flipping them on their backs and blowing mouth farts on their bellies, until all their tummy fat ripples like a beaten egg yolk? Or kiss them all over their faces, nose, eyes while they go limp with relaxed contentment?

But then I recall a kitty we had when I was a little girl. He was a tabby, too (must be something about that breed). He was the penultimate example of a tolerant, pliable pet. I don't recall him ever having a formal name; he used to go outside, and Mom would open the door and call him with a weird kind of yodel: "POORI-POORI-POORI-POORIEEEEE!" and he would come runnin. I think I just called him Kitty.

Anyway, I used to dress him in the doll clothes that Mom had laboriously knitted: elastic waist underpants (tail pulled through one leghole), buttoned undershirt, dress, sweater, booties, and bonnet. Then I would lay him on his back in my doll carriage, his head on a lace-trimmed pillow, and tuck him under a sheet and wool blanket. There he would lie contentedly purring, his front paws hooked over the covers. And all this on a hot summer day, with the temperatures in the 80's.

I would push my doll carriage down the street, and women on their way home from work or shopping would stop to coo at my "baby", never expecting to see a furry, bewhiskered face.

If only I had a photo...

Splendour



My violated lily plant has produced more lovely offspring, and after replacing dead camera batteries and a dry printer cartridge (thank goodness for Curtis' calm in such aggravating situations), I finally have a photo to post.

By the way, I intend to do a search, but if any of you gardeners out there can tell me what variety of lily this is (Easter?), I'd appreciate it. It's about the size of a dinner plate.

Raised on Rasslin



I was born a year after my family emigrated to Canada, and money was tight. My parents found plenty of family entertainment at little or no expense. One of their favourites was All-Star Wrestling, a much tamer precursor to today's seamy and violent WWF. CJAY-TV, a local and now defunct television station, would televise live wrestling matches in their modest studio, and to ensure a raucous audience, people were invited to attend for free.

Every wrestler had his claim to fame, and like today's pro grapplers, it was often highly exaggerated and cartoonish in nature. That didn't stop rabid fans from becoming completely entwined in the melodrama on the mats, and my mom was no exception. I recall her spitting in the face of wrestler Gene Kiniski, and screamin shrilly at the referees. Even at the age of five or six, I was embarrassed. During most of the matches, my boredom would lead me to play with the grand piano that inexplicably stood in a back corner of the studio. One time, two combatants were flingin metal folding chairs at one another outside the ring, and I was clipped on the ankle by a chair that had slid along the cement floor. I started bawlin my head off. My best friend Barbie, who'd been watching the show, later told me, "I saw you on TV; you were cryin; I saw that little thing hangin down in the back of your throat."

Another memory I have is of witnessing an assault on Gene Kiniski in the parking lot on our way to the car after a match. I recall watching in detached fascination as he lay convulsing on the ground in his suit and tie, blood pumping from his forehead. I had no way of knowing what was real and what was staged; and let's not forget that I was a child who watched Popeye and Bluto beat the poop out of each other on a regular basis.

My brother Fred collected the autographs of most of the wrestling stars of the day: guys like Vern Gagne, Larry "Pretty Boy" Henning, Mad Dog Vachon, Andre the Giant, Haystack Calhoun, George "Scrap Iron" Gadaski, The Crusher, Baron Von Raschke, and my personal favourite, Crybaby Cannon. Crybaby's shtick was to always be defeated, every match, to back into a turnbuckle pleading tearfully for mercy; and then to weep copious tears in a post-match interview, during which he would bemoan the fact that his mother was watching and would be terribly upset to see her son take such a drubbing. The sight of a burly grown man cryin never ceased to delight me, and if I was playin in another room and he came on, my mom would call me and I would scurry eagerly to the television to howl with laughter at him.

A few years ago, I was reminiscing about all this to some of my students, when one girl suddenly cried out, "That's my uncle!" Turns out that Crybaby, whose real name is Wilfred Caron, was not a blood uncle to her but a close family friend, who lived in a modest neighbourhood in our city with his wife Georgina. Apparently, he was elderly and very depressed about his failing health. The student, Jan, said she couldn't wait to get home and relate my childhood adoration of Crybaby.

A couple of weeks later I received a large envelope in the mail. Inside it was an 8 x 10 glossy reproduction of a caricature of Crybaby Cannon. I have posted a reduction of it above, and if you look closely, you might be able to tell that it is shakily autographed, "Crybaby Caron May 1999". Using the return address on the envelope, I wrote a thank you and belated fan letter, trying to express to Mr. Caron, how much pleasure and entertainment he had given my family and me. I hope I brightened up his day, as he did mine.

Theft

Inspired by flax's lovely photography, I had intended to post a picture yesterday of the perfect, gorgeous lily that I nurtured and grew in our front garden. But when I went out to photograph it, I found that the bloom had been neatly snipped from its stem and stolen.

It might seem trivial, but I can't tell you how upset this makes me.