Oct. 9th, 2004

I burned the coffee this morning. How do I manage to do stuff like that? I woke up, my throat begging me, practically choking me to get out of bed and go put on a pot of coffee. So I obeyed. Frustrated because making coffee meant that I had to take out the trash that someone else failed to do the night before- and it's raining outside. Spill the old wet grinds on the floor, and we all know how impossible it is to clean that stuff up. It gets everywhere, like sand from the beach when you are wearing pants rolled up to your knees and you attempt to dry your feet before putting your socks and shoes back on, with all the grains of sand stuck between your toes. You get home and unroll the bottoms of your pants, and the sand spills out like water from the Niagara Falls, like pieces of glass from a dropped plate, like a bag of dropped marbles. Years later you are still finding coffee grinds under the fridge.Coffee's finally on, I stumble up the stairs to the computer, happy to see that my yahoos from the Cafe are already awake and waiting. Such a nice way to start the day with warm words from what you have pictured in your heart and mind to be the fresh-scrubbed, friendly loving faces of your dear family on Christian Forums. Hours fly by, my life passed.A strange smell permeates the air a whole floor up. I recognize it instantly. I am reminded of walking into a Starbucks - burnt coffee beans. But it's ok....because my addiction has been replaced by something new that's offered in a cafe, the NEW CAFE that is...and that is the love of my friends here in CF.I am a clutz, things fall when I walk into a room, hence the name 'Calamity-Jane'. Some say I am like a 'Light' because people scatter like cockroaches when I enter the room. Thankfully, that's not the truth, they just don't want to get hurt.My name is Heather, and I am an addict in so many ways.

Oct. 10th, 2004

So much the naked eye thinks it can see....So I am sitting here at my computer desk eating ice cream, listening to Ben Harper and looking at the view outside my window that overlooks a river, expansive mountains and the city that never stops. It's Thanksgiving weekend - and I have SO much to be thankful for. I could be one of those poor folks I see huddled in the doorways of shops on our dowtown streets, that will get shooed away by a blast of cold water once dusk has settled in. I don't have to worry where my head will rest, I do not think twice about whether I will have a meal to eat tonight, let alone a BIG dinner where I sit down with a family who loves me. I live in a country that is safe and a city that is considered to be one of the most beautiful in this world. Our climate is a calm one, rain being more of an annnoyance than a threat. Our homes don't get washed up with floods and do not get ripped apart by tornadoes, one after another. Free speech will not get me killed here, and I can vote. As a woman here in Canada, I have rights, I am a PERSON, a contributing citizen with the chance to get an education so that I may have a career where I can experience equal opportunity. So often I forget all this.Today my pastor asked everyone in the congregation if we have ever thanked the Lord for our bladders. We laughed, naturally; how odd to think up something so small as a bladder. Pastor Kevin reminded us once again, how often we don't know what we have until it's gone, or it simply no longer works. Thank- you Lord for giving me strong bones to carry me, to go on with my daily routine; Thank- You for my sight to see all that exists around me, to find beauty in what others might see as an eye-sore; Thank-You Lord for giving me the hearing I have left to lend an ear to someone who simply needs someone to listen; thank- you for my hands Lord and for this heart that lives in me so that I can be equipped to do the work You have asked of me, to make small differences while I am here.Lord I ask that I never lose sight of all that I am blessed with.

Lame? Maybe...

I am going to be transferring over some old posts from another blog I had written. No, they are not masterpieces by any lengths but they are worth something to me and I would like to have them all in one place - and I know I have silent readers who are going to be scratching their heads " Am I having deja vu of someone else's thoughts?"
Thinking you've been there and read that already? Well you're not crazy, entirely.

Love,
Calamity H. Jane

p.s. Is that even how you spell DAY-ZSA VOO?

Another RANT!

Ok this time it's not about cell phones, though it's neverending!
This time, however it is about mothers who while they know the kid belongs to them, seem to have forgotten about the MINDING bit.

I use transit to scoot around the city on a daily basis and as a result am subjected to a gong-show on every trip. It never fails, transit is full of clowns the circus left behind.

Someone please explain to me why a mother with a screaming child cannot think of anything else to shut them up but to smother the kid by covering his/her mouth? Is this supposed to stop them from wailing? I don't know about you but if someone was holding me back from oxygen I too would put up one helluva fight!
And next to have mom remove the hand from the kid's mouth ( BREAAAATHE " thanks Mom") only to smack them because he/she bit her! Umm, give your head a shake lady - seriously! Someone oughtta smack you at this point! She may as well have slapped a piece of duct tape across the kid's gob - plenty of nutjobs on the bus, they must be carrying some.

And how about the lady waiting in the bus shelter with me this afternoon on my way home - she's letting her little toddler run around near heavy, speeding traffic. When she finally grabs hold of the kid and calls him a 'little shit', she must have squeezed his arm too tightly because he starts to wail; I figure she must have been injured on the job before because instead of using the hand-across-the-mouth trick she pops a piece of what looked Jolly Rancher candy into his mouth to shut him up. Seems to have worked wonders. But that's getting your kid on the right track early by plugging him full of sugar just to get him to behave, I'm sure he'll be a sweet boy later on in life.
Not long after the kid finished his candy he's up and running again and nearly bails into a man picking up used cigarette butts off the grimy concrete. Now you tell me, how many reasons would the ground be wet in the corner on a hot, dry sunny day? Imagine you are in a downtown core, homeless and drug addicts rule the territory and there aren't too many toilet facilities for their use - why not take your leak in a bus shelter?
Well this kid has got NO BLOODY SHOES ON!!!
Once I got over the fear of this kid stepping on glass shards, I started to feel ill thinking how I refuse to even SIT on the bench for fear of what might be lurking on there and here this kid is practically making out with the dirty bench rolling around on it and then rolling on the concrete.
Clearly this lady is not thinking about the used needles and condoms and poop from all sorts that have once been there, and maybe this was her first time at that particular bus shelter - but it DOESN'T MATTER! Get a CLUE, it's common sense, put some flippin shoes on your child!
I was appalled and I SO wanted to say something, but Big Mama was BIG indeed and she would have killed me, plus it was evident she wasn't in a friendly mood. I decide to leave it and just be near in case Junior decides to take a flying suicidal leap into oncoming traffic.
Another mom shows up with a stroller. She's a young mom and the little girl tucked away in the stroller is freaking out, and yet Mom continues to ignore her child - smart, way to be attentive and act like you actually give a damn( kids remember this stuff, I swear); but then I have to give her the benefit of the doubt, maybe she isn't ignoring her child, maybe she really can't hear the baby screaming, but people across the street are starting to look over and out of nowhere she yanks out the earphones she had jammed in her ears and hollers " SHUT UP!!!"

Perfect, bring your iPod and baby's not there anymore. I'll have to remember that one for the future.

I don't get it - May God help us and save us from this future generation.

"Can you hear me now? How about now? Can you hear me NOW?

Hang up the phone.

That's right. Hang it up.

Stop hollering, tell your phone-buddy you will have to call them at a better time, press the 'OFF' button and put the damn phone AWAY!!

Oh I'm sorry, did I just upset you?

Well you threw me off the edge the moment I heard your effing phone blaring " My hump, my hump, my hump, my lovely little lumps. ".


What is wrong with people who cannot seem to function without their cellphone glued to their hands and ears? If enough of us make a ruckus about it, will our medical pay for the procedures to have them surgically removed?

I cannot STRESS how I abso-frickin-lutely hate to have some yahoo hollering away into their phone when they are seated beside me, in front or behind me. I wish I could give them a swift kick to the ass and hurl that phone of theirs into oncoming traffic.
And if I hear that bloody Black Eyed Peas song coming out of someone's purse or briefcase, I am going to give them some junk in the trunk by shoving their phone up their ass!

Alright... thanks for listening.
And thanks for not answering that call.

Women : For Sale

I have heard it said that many women in the sex industry are there because they want to be; they do not work for anyone but themselves, they do not give a cut of their earnings to a madam or a pimp and they truly enjoy sex, so what better career choice is there?

Well I don't know that I am convinced. I say this because I have never met one woman who has worked in the sex trade who was well-adjusted, and did not experience some sort of physical, sexual or mental abuse at the hands of another while she was a child, who has not been under the influence of drugs and alcohol and did not need to fill the void of self-worth. Is there such a woman who is capable of caring for and loving herself, who is capable of going to university to become a doctor but has instead opted to work in the industry? If there is, I would really like to meet her and hear her story.

Today in Vancouver, prostitution is illegal but activists are busy at work trying to change that. There are some non-profit groups formed to help the workers get off the streets and into rehabilitation and there are support groups lobbying for the rights of sex-trade workers who are demanding safer working conditions and for their line of work to be made legal. And of course the ones arguing for the legalization of prostitution are fighting everyone else.

This is where I feel stuck at the crossroads.

I hate everything that prostitution stands for, and yet it is one of the oldest professions known to mankind, it has always existed and always will. And since I know that prostitution is here to stay as long as humans need to fulfill their sexual needs, why not then make it safer for the workers?

When I see a girl walking the street or working a corner, I cannot help but picture her as a child when she was first hurt, betrayed and violated. I hate that these women have come down such a long and hard road that has only led them to the streets selling their bodies to SURVIVE. For us folk who work nine to five jobs, survival is working paycheque to paycheque, getting by with just enough to pay the bills, feed the kids and have a place to rest our heads at night; for the ones who work the streets, surviving is picking the right 'john', hoping he won't beat and leave her for dead, hoping he will pay her the money owed for the dignity she lost years ago; survival is turning tricks for drugs, drugs that once made her feel good have taken over so much they are all that make her feel human.

I admit that I have a hatred towards men for using these women for their own gratification. I would not consider myself anti-man, but I have a feminist streak in me - how could I not with all that one can witness and read on a daily basis about a raping of yet another woman.
Rape.
I still cannot come to a place in my head where I can rationalize selling one's body as their CHOICE. Sure it may be a yes or no, but control comes from all ends, be it addiction or a pimp or even lack of self-worth, to a point where choosing to have sex or not is no longer an option for her.

I remember several years ago my family and some friends gathered together for a barbecue; my aunt and I had gone up to the store and upon our return all the men were on the front porch looking into a telescope focused on some nearby fields and cheering. I asked what it was they were looking at and was guided to the telescope and told where to look; it was there I saw two men being serviced by a prostitute.
I cannot adequately express what I was feeling, I just knew that I wanted to call the police or run down to those fields myself and beat the two men to a pulp. I was naive and am still naive to think that the police could do anything to stop it; after all these three people were consenting adults and would only be asked to take it somewhere else and I believe the stigma is real that if you sell yourself you are 'less than'.
I did a brief stint of volunteer time at a rape/womens crisis shelter, which oddly enough I had to quit because I did not feel safe alone at night when my shifts were scheduled; I remember the coordinator showing us multiple examples of newspaper clippings and news reports on the murders and missing person cases of average women. These women would be contributors to their communities, mothers, wives and pre-dominantly caucasian and would have a considerate amount of media coverage given to their story; now switch to the somewhat recent story of Robert Pickton, a man currently charged with the murders of 26 women, almost every one of them a worker in the sex trade. Prior to this ghastly discovery no mention was made to the disappearances of these ladies, they weren't given top priority for police to do widespread searching and investigating. Of course the families and loved ones of these 26 women have made it loud and clear how this needs to be changed.

I sent away for a book called "Brothel" by Alexa Albert in hopes of getting a better understanding of the lifestyles and choices of women who choose to be in this profession, and if paying taxes like every working citizen gives them a sense of professionalism. In Nevada prostitution is legal and regulated - the brothels in which these women work are carefully guarded, the visitors screened and protection is taken very seriously. Activists here in Vancouver are lobbying for prostitution to be legalized so that it can be regulated, and the women can work under safer conditions and they can be accounted for. It is this reason and for the missing women of the Downtown Eastside that I want to support legalizing prostitution; while I want safer conditions for the women, I wish prostitution could be done away with, but it will never be and some women will never see anything wrong with it and it is their opinions I want to understand. I received the book in the mail today - maybe it will at least help me get halfway there.

Pshaw. Consider it done.
When you love chocolate as much as I do the chopsticks would just get in the way. Besides, a straw makes things so much faster.

The Way You Keep the World at Bay for Me.

Growing up you cuddled and coddled me; always on the lookout you stopped me before I could bolt out onto the busy street, covered my ears before hurtful words could reach me and checked under my beds for monsters who bit the toes of little girls.
You were overprotective, selective of my friends my clothes and my teachers. Always in front of me, behind me, and beside me with my small hand held in yours you did your best to guide me down the straightest, safest path there could be if you could make it just so. You expected me to do the best I could and to work hard and never to ask for too much. You reprimanded me when I tried to take my own road, scolded me when the choices I made were harmful and consoled me when I lost the biggest person in my life.

Now can you show me how I can save you from yourself? Why was I never taught that sometimes the child becomes the parent and that the ones you know most can become strangers you never knew? Didn't you know we forgave you, and we didn't want you to hurt anymore, that you had been given a second chance to start again - to start fresh, start NEW. Mom accepted your apologies, we accepted yours, now you need to believe that you are worthy to forgive yourself.

We love you Dad, we want you back. Life is too short to be wasted, this one we all know too well.

Women for Women

Woman on a Cross - anonymous


O God,
through the image of a woman
crucified on the cross
I understand at last.

For over half of my life
I have been ashamed
of the scars I bear.
These scars tell an ugly story,
a common story,
about a girl who is the victim
when a man acts out his fantasies.

In the warmth, peace and sunlight of your presence
I was able to uncurl the tightly clenched fists.
For the first time
I felt your suffering presence with me
in that event.
I have known you as a vulnerable baby,
as a brother, and as a father.
Now I know you as a woman.
You were there with me
as the violated girl
caught in helpless suffering.

The chains of shame and fear
no longer bind my heart and body.
A slow fire of compassion and forgiveness
is kindled.
My tears fall now
for man as well as woman.

You, God
can make our violated bodies
vessels of love and comfort
to such a desperate man.
I am honoured
to carry this womanly power
within my body and soul.

You were not ashamed of your wounds.
You showed them to Thomas
as marks of your ordeal and death.
I will no longer hide these wounds of mine.
I will bear them gracefully.
They tell a resurrection story.

anonymous

I says, "Pardon?"

I am hard of hearing.

When you read that, what are your first thoughts?
* poor girl
* Oh, I never knew that...
* Does she wear hearing aids?
* Does she know sign language?
* Oh she must wish and pray for her hearing to be restored....

It is impossible for me to know what many people think - it certainly varies and I meet a great deal of people who pity me but also don't bat an eye and think I want to be able to hear completely. I have met many people in my lifetime who automatically will up the tone of their voice and speak SO LOUDLY just to accomodate - "thank you, but I can hear you just fine. I am an expert lipreader asa result."

I don't consider it a disability because I am able to do just about all things a person with normal hearing could; however I have an inability, an inability to hear my alarm clock sometimes when I am in a deep sleep ( which can be SO STRESSFUL !); I am unable to hear a faint whisper or a soft song being played on a quiet radio.... but I can live without those things. My inability to hear fully has not stopped me from living life; on the contrary it has opened up a whole other side of the world for me - an introduction to Deaf culture and sign language.
Because of my hearing inability I have so many more abilities that hearing people do not, which makes me now ask the question - who is the one with the disability?

I had a young man, a nice and caring but a bit misguided fellow pray over me the other day - he covered my ears with his hands and prayed that the Father would heal me and remove my doubts that the Lord could heal me. I was infuriated. I do not doubt God'spower to heal, I just believe that God has helped me overcome it and never once in my life have I ever felt sorry for myself.
I decided not to stop his prayer but I interrupted him and said what I felt the prayer should have been about - THANKS. I thanked God the Father for my hearing aids and in my own prayer I thanked Him for my inability to hear, for giving me the gift of sign language so I can have a ministry to help others who have zero hearing. I have learned a great amount about myself because of this gift that God has given me of being born with a hearing loss.

I ask all of you before you pray over a person, care enough about them to know their story, how they have overcome obstacles in their lives that their inabilites have caused them, and most importantly, ask them if they truly want to be healed, because what is an affliction to many is consider a prize to others.

Entertaining Amos

It took him and his family 2 years and 5 months to make their trek by foot from Northeast Canada to British Columbia, and he is still walking today. We found him stumbling along Hastings street, his eyes focused neither ahead or below him, but when they met ours, he smiled. 

The three of us, after serving coffee in a place for people to come in off the streets, decided to switch shifts and take a walk around the neighbourhood. We pass by billboards advertising "LOANS for Anything", " Public Washroom/Showers—CLEAN! SAFE! MONITORED!", and people shooting up in plain view. Some of the people we walk past are slumped over, squatting in a corner; others passed out while still standing. They make easy prey for those who are desperate to buy their next fix, if there is anything to take at all. 

A throng of people huddled together in an alleyway, taking their time until the cops arrived - we didn't know what was happening, didn't want to stay to find out. 

Across the road, a man was fighting with his girlfriend. She had accidentally knocked over their shopping cart full of all the possessions they had, spilling its contents onto the sidewalk. 

A transvestite comes barrelling out of the doorway of a bar to our right; with an old man's collar clutched in her hands, she pushes him out and retorts "I am a fierce woman! You should be afraid!". A man waits for us to pass him by before he turns around to urinate on the cement barricade—thank you, Sir. 

The neighbourhood swimming-hole—a small lot previously dug up in preparation of another hotel, now abandoned as though the realtor saw no hope and skipped to another part of town. Now it is home to old tires, clothes, swimming ducks, garbage, needles, crackpipes and probably on occasion, bodies of those who could no longer go on living.This is home for the people of the Downtown Eastside, Canada's poorest and most ignored neighbourhood. A pandemic has been declared because most of its citizens are sick with AIDS, and getting sicker by the day. The neighbouring communities don't want these people in their own backyard but want the problem dealt with, so the police have resorted to herding them all into one area to be contained. 

Many of the folks who come in for coffee just want to get out of the mayhem. They are people who are honestly trying to climb out of the darkness, who are just looking for a break or for someone to give them the time of day. They don't want to be outside amongst the pandemonium, the death, the drugs and the danger. Here they can find a place to rest, where drugs are not tolerated, fighting is not an issue and when people smile, it is genuine. 

I met a young man, so soft-spoken I misunderstood his name; he corrected me immediately, and rightly so. His name is his and not one person can take that from him. I asked where he had just come from expecting a typical answer like most of us would give " Just got off work, went to the bank and did some grocery shopping", but he had just come back from 'the showers' and just came in for some coffee before going to go catch some sleep. His nose runs the whole time and he rubs the sleep from his face as he struggles to stay awake to make conversation with me. I ask him his story, where he was from and why he was here; he came from Montreal 12 years ago to go camping, and circumstances got in the way and he got in trouble and hasn't been able to get out of it since.

" Shit, you know? Shit finds you and it won't let go. You can't get away from it. I try." 

He had been sleeping in the hotel next door, tonight he might have to use a shelter, but for now he wants to just rest in the other room while it is available. I shake his hand with both of mine, and I tell him I was glad to have met him, and I wish him the best of luck and tell him never to let the shit get his spirit down. I can tell, he desperately wants to move on; and before he leaves I ask him how old he is.

"I'm only 32." 

Stumbling and tripping over his own feet, shoved aside by the people that barrel past him, he points at one of the girls I am with, "Your shoe's untied". She looks down, it is clearly tied up well. He laughs and laughs and doesn't stop, and it's contagious, and we are all laughing.

" Made you look!" 

People stop to see what kind of a joke a homeless man and three young girls could possibly share. His face beams and his smile seems to stretch forever. Everything about him is contagious. So endearing with his sparkly eyes and wispy voice with chirps on the ends of his words. We have a hard time understanding him; he's heavily intoxicated, deaf and doesn't have most of his teeth. We say to him "Good evening" and he extends his hand for us to shake it,

"My name is Amos."

He points to his ears to explain to us that he cannot hear so well, and his hand gestures form proper handshapes that once belonged to a person who used sign language but has long forgotten it. I point to both of my hearing aids and sign to him "Us-two, same". So am I. 

He tells me he understands my language and he's overjoyed, as if for once, someone might actually really be able to understand what he is telling them.

We carry on in broken English conversation and flying hands about his family's migration across Canada—and one big wrong-turn that found them at the U.S. border. The way he tells his story is positive, "Oops, we walked a thousand miles the wrong way, must turn back." He laughs, again; he thought it was funny. We are in awe of him. He tells us that in the wilderness you use the river and the stars as your guide, but in the city you follow the lit signs. He points to the old vintage WoodWard's 'W' that still burns bright red in the Vancouver skyline. This is his guide at night when he cannot find his way. 

The conversation changes to the moon and making trips there, perhaps by walking; we tell him it would take more than 2 years and 5 months for him to get there by foot. 

He stops us and begins to cry;  and though he has slurred through much of his story, he is never more clear than when he is serious. He begins to tell us of his wife, whom he misses so much. She died of liver cancer. Instinctively I grab hold of his hand and I cry with him—I want to console him. He holds on tightly to my hands and says "Please don't touch me ever again," and the girls tell me to let go of him, but I tell them "He won't let go of me." He pats my hands and looks at them and then his wedding ring catches his eye and he finally frees me. "This is so nice. Just to talk. That's all I want, is conversation. Is that so much to ask?" We invite him in for coffee. He is hesitant but he follows. We tell him there is no catch, it costs nothing, we want to give him coffee and hear his stories. 

When we arrive at the building, he stops and tells us that he is staying at the hotel next door. Then we motion to him that we are only beside him and that he can come visit anytime he wishes. He stops. Looks at us in disbelief and then looks up at the sign above our Doorway. "Salvation Army Shelter". He knows this place, he knows what it is about. I start to think he will not come in, but I remind him that this is his choice, that we would LIKE for him to come inside. He obliges. 

There are already some people lying asleep on the ground, coming in for cover from the dark and lonely night but the lights are all on and you cannot miss their presence. Amos stops and stares. He is taken by them. Immediately he starts to sob. 

"So many.... so many. Just like me." 

We are finally able to get him to come in to the room where the decor is classy and swank. The lighting is soft and dim, spotlights on donated artwork, jazz music and us, the baristas ready to serve. We take his order and persuade him to sit down. He likes a four x four coffee, much like the rest: four sugars, four creams. He tells us his stories, stops to sob from time to time and gazes off into his hands. I notice he keeps a small leather pouch on the end of a chain around his neck; I ask him what the contents are and he says he cannot tell me, it is his secret. He becomes silent, takes the pouch into his hand, holds it and cries still. We do not push it, after all we all have secrets that make us cry. 

His stories make us cry, just the pain that is so evident in his face will make anyone shed tears. Though, he tells us that he does not cry, a real man NEVER cries - but he wants to, more than anything he wants to be able to cry because he hurts. Everything he has ever been dealt in his life hurts; the beatings from his foster parents when he was a child; the shortcomings he has faced in his lifetime, the prejudice against him for being Aboriginal and an alcoholic. Losing a loved one and becoming homeless. It all hurts. 

We sit with him and enjoy his company. He spots a deck of cards on the table and picks them up, sorting through them, thumbing them and caressing their faces as if the King, Queen and Jack were once good friends of his. Amos starts to laugh, a wicked laugh that turns the heads of others around us; we ask what on earth could be found in a deck of cards that would make him laugh so hard? 

"I beat the devil - I BEAT him!" 

But, he hasn't beat the devil and Amos knows this.

I noticed his jacket has a small emblem on the left side of his chest. It reads "Disciple". I tell him, that indeed that is what he is, a disciple, with the heart he has and the tears he sheds for the plight of others. He smiles, probably not hearing what I was telling him. I wanted to tell him I was entertaining an angel. 

It is closing time for the cafe - we shake his hand and we tell him he is welcome here any time. For some reason, his face shows doubt. I walk him back out to the street and he stops once again to cry for the people asleep on the shelter's floor. He tells me he is lucky, he knows how to take care of himself. I direct him to his hotel and I remind him again we are only next door and please come visit. Doubt has been replaced with possibilities, he might come back. 

As he leaves I watch him make his way down Hastings, this small man with wrinkles etched into his face; he walks clear past his hotel into the crush of people, ghosts and shells of themselves. He turns around as if to check if I were real if he didn't just dream what happened to him this evening. I wave at him, reassuring him that our conversations were not a figment of his imagination, and he smiles, stumbles and waves back. 

Into the night, many years later after his cross country journey, Amos is still walking.

God, bless Amos and give him stars to follow.

White Girl from the West Makes Decent Curry Dinner!

Ok well nevermind that the biryani mixtured was pre-made and that the mint raita yogourt I used to dip my naan bread came in a jar - and well, the naan bread came in a package of four BUT!!! - the POINT is, is that instead of trekking to an indian cuisine up the street I decided to do the unthinkable, and make it myself!
Dun dun dunnnnnnn....

And the verdict??
Not too shabby!

You see I am a sucker for any east indian dish- not so much the sweet stuff- but everything else is awesome. I LOVE spices of all temps and the different tastes mixed all into one dish, carefully and slowly made. iIt is nothing short of an art really, the girls in India are raised learning how to prepare painstakingly hard meals. Unlike the Western Civilation way where we buy our spices premade and packaged, the women will grow, pick and grind their own, cooking it until it has reached perfection - the ability to cook a FANTASTIC meal is something to be revered.

So much to the dismay of my co-workers who beg me to stick to something unoffensive like veggie samosas and pakoras when I bring in my lunch of curry and tandoori and masala, I continue to eat this most wonderful food, stink up the office space with strong aromas of tumeric, cumin, curry and the like and repulse those with boring taste pallettes.
And I shall continue to crack open the jars of pastes and sauces and sprinkle in my own curry powders and add my own basmati rice, because I do not think I am worthy or skilled enough to learn this art - and quite honestly I am afraid too!

She Wears Rose, Lilac and Barbie Doll

She wears rose, lilac and Barbie Doll
Fluffy, sparkly, and bundled up in down,
her skin is fair, her nose pink.
Big blue eyes peer at you from chestnut bangs too long to leave loose, too short to be tied back.
Restless purple galoshes kick the door of the jerking train; He hands her his keys.
Her tiny fingers pick through leather, plastic baubles and cold metal pieces - jagged edges with a strange taste.
She holds them up to her father, her face a question mark.
“Vroom, vroom”. Daddy steers an imaginary vehicle.
SHAKE! Shake! Clash! The keys are violently tossed aside and she laughs.
He bends down to pick them up, playing her little game; he will do anything for his little sweetheart.
Gazing faces blush and turn away when she meets their eye.
She steals hearts, this little princess who can make any man smile.

And still they dance....

http://www.guluwalk.com
http://invisiblechildren.com


If you have it in your heart to support 40,000 Acholi children who walk as far as 12 km each day to a place called Gulu for a safe place to sleep away from the preying eyes of the Lord's Resistance Army, then please check out if there is a Gulu Walk taking place in a city near you.
Get informed, and when you are, spread the word. Over a million people have died and many of the children forced to become soldiers who have to kill to survive because of this civil war that has been happening for the last 19 years. It's a secret that needs to be let out. The LRA has to be stopped and these poor children and their parents saved. The United Nations stepped in during the genocide of Rwanda but yet Uganda seems to have been overlooked and the crisis is only getting worse.

Gulu Walk - Worldwide, October 22nd.

They didn't think he could pull it off...

Well Turkey Day is over for us Canucks.
This was my family's first Thanksgiving without my mom who passed away March this year.

My dad actually bet another postie at work that he wouldn't be able to pull off Thanksgiving since it was my mom who usually did everything starting the night before from peeling potatoes and brussel sprouts to stuffing the bird.

She also made this wicked broccoli and cauliflower casserole that could make even the pickiest child go buckwild for the stuff. She had the recipe of course that she followed more or less but she had her own secrets that we never got.
She had a lot of secrets that I wish we had bothered to ask for long ago.

My younger sisters actually made everything - it was their first time making - well just about anything other than the basics (Kraft Dinner, frozen pizza, toast...etc.). And they passed with flying colours! It was bang-on just like Mum's.

One by one we all passed out from overeating - the sedatives in the turkey, the heat from the fireplace and too much wine, Grandma was out cold first.
I went home and said of prayer of thanksgiving, because even though I am without her now, I am closer to my dad as a result and my family is doing ok; and heh, I didn't have to do dishes.

Cheers Ma!

Operation Eden

Have you ever had a morning where one small event can drastically change the course of the day?

I found Clayton's blog this morning. Operation Eden.

We are all aware of Katrina and her wrath, no matter where in this world we are.

Bittersweet comes to my mind. This ties along with my other post this morning how beauty can still be found in the muck. Some cannot see it, others try hard to find it, and some of us cannot ignore it.

Hey, your glass is empty
It's a hell of a long way home.
Why don't you let me take you,
No good to go alone.
~ Sarah Mclachlan


Another 2000 people lost their lives again this morning in India, to the chaos that is Mother Nature's character. How strange that she can make this world the thing of beauty and glory to the Creator that it is , and then a tyrant of rage and malice the next moment; ironic it is that some of us on one side of this planet are basking in the cool autumn sunshine and pulling dry red leaves caught tangled in our hair - while on the other hemisphere people scramble for their lives, when not running from eachother are surviving earthquakes, typhoons and the like.

I am forever scratching my head wondering how we can all live on this SAME earth and yet we allow those to suffer amongst us in this day and age. How can a powerhouse like the US of A, which claims so much of this world's suffering due to unfair trade, war and poverty not be able to provide for it's OWN PEOPLE??? How can Bill Gates live knowing he can single-handedly provide for almost an entire countries people who are deprived of the bare necessities of food, water and shelter. What is the use to horde finances, where does capitalism gain get us if the ones among us are still without so much. Is it worth it to be ahead and above? Amazing how even when our eyes are open when we move around this world, they are blinded to so much( or how much we refuse to see.)

It's evident to anyone who reads this that I am still worrying about where I am going to get my morning cups of coffee this next week once my last $10 runs out .
For the record, I am just as guilty as the above. My eyes are open but sometimes I just don't want to see.

I am running out of coffee and I only have $10 to last me til next pay day, a bit more than a week to go. What does one do?
Easy you think, just go and buy yourself some to make at home in the morning. Yes well for anyone normal with domestic capabilities ( note* that's not me) this would be the thing to do, the no brainer solution; however I am the type that will somehow find a way to burn it ( how do you BURN coffee exactly?), and if i am not careful when i make my toast in the morning, I will put two slices of bread in one slot - no, not really, but bad like that.

So I get home tonight from work, thankful that this weekend is Thanksgiving, because that means a couple meals I won't have to worry about paying for, and it occurs to me I am almost out of coffee. And so, the next thing I do is go and make myself a pot of coffee. I know I have it, I know I have to save it, stretch it, spread it out, split it up and yet in a moment of impulsiveness I will inhale it all and leave myself with nothing left for later.
Time and TIME AGAIN, I screw myself over.
It is true, I am my OWN worst enemy, and the future is looking bleak ( and jittery.)

Now could someone be a dear, and go buy me a cup of java to calm my nerves??

Hosers.

So let me start this one off and see if this blog business actually works or if I am capable of operating something like this! And why not go ahead and post a pic of two of Canada's Finest men, Bob and Doug Mackenzie!