Trick or Treating Where?

Part way through my grade three year, we moved to the last house on a quiet street, nestled up against a pine forest. In the way that we never have the chance to choose our relatives, this was a time in my life where I didn't choose my friends as much as they were thrust upon me by proximity. There were simply a gaggle of kids living on our street and we learned to get along. After dinner, our band of misfits would play a variety of games - kick the can being a favourite. Despite the wealth of hiding spots our forest gave us, we never played there. Not kick the can. Not at night. No one told us we couldn't and it wasn't a scary forest during the day, but a night it was a little too dark and too creepy for us.
It was a deep rectangular forest and hidden away at the very back was an old mansion. We believed stories we'd heard about old Mrs. Cressman who lived in the mansion. She had Dobermans that she would let run wild at night and anyone daring to venture too far into the woods would be attacked. On the best of nights, it kept us out of the forest. But on Halloween, when ghosts stories were whispering in our minds, we were truly afraid.
There is a vague unwritten window for trick or treating and mostly we start younger than we remember. How old we are when we stop going out for the evening asking for candy from our neighbours is really up to our genes. Being very tall at a young age only shortened my trick or treating career. It was near the end of my window when I was finally brave enough to walk all the way through the forest in the dark to the old Cressman mansion. It was shrouded in trees and vines so much that it seemed to grow out of the ground itself. I remember knocking on the door for the first time, proud of myself for having come that far. The wide door swung open slowly to reveal a small grey haired women hunching over a big metal bowl. It was a bowl filled with the holy grail of Halloween - full sized chocolate bars. Not some miniaturized version of a Mars bar or a Smarties box with four Smarties inside. No, full sized real chocolate bars. A true prize for only the bravest.
I was at a mall today when I thought of that woman. I remembered too, when I was younger, going into someone's garage where we were blindfolded and we given things to touch. Eyeballs and brains. Actually peeled grapes and overcooked pasta. We screamed. Then touched them again.
I'd like to think that people still do that sort of thing, but I doubt it. Today, as I left the mall around four o'clock, hundreds of children in costume poured into the mall. They went from store to store trick or treating under fluorescent lights. (No Batgirl costumes ruined by snowsuits - that's for sure) It was depressing. What sort of message was woven through that event? Well, I was afraid that maybe no one let their kids go out trick or treating through their neighbourhood anymore. We live in a small apartment building and so we never get kids at our door, but I wondered if this is where they had gone.
I'm glad to say that isn't true in Kitsilano. On the way out this evening, my wife and I drove down a few side streets and there were plenty of kids out, but is that just because there isn't a mall in Kits. I hope not. I hope you had lots of kids trick or treating at your door.
Oh and thanks, Mrs. Cressman, for the full sized real chocolate bar and even more so for the scare.

Halloween Fireworks?

What is up with all the fireworks at Halloween? Is this just a BC thing or do people everywhere do this? I'm a transplant of eight years and I really think of this as home. I may even take a little pride in having embraced the BC way of life on many levels. In fact, I even call a twelve pack of beer a 'case'. Boy, that took some getting used to. But I just don't know about these fireworks. Canada Day by comparison is relatively calm out here. I don't mean to complain. I like big explosions in the sky for whatever reason. I guess I just don't see the connection.

The Great Gazoo

My paper mache alien head has turned out to be too close to the Great Gazoo to fight it. I've bought some green paint and some green clothes. Now I need a little green make up and a green cape. If only one of my friends would go as Fred or Barney, then I could refer to them for the entire night as Dum-Dum. Ah well we can't have everything.
I'm looking forward to tonight. I hope that I never get over this childlike love of dressing up in disguise. Taking on a new persona is still fantastic escapism for me. And with no parental intervention I won't ruin my costume with warm clothes bundled over top.
Of course, my mothers sensibilities had us wear our jackets on top of our costumes. Like all children, I couldn't imagine who, besides my mother, had ever heard of a vampire catching a cold? But last night at dinner, Donna pointed an outraged finger across the table at her mother. Donna is still disturbed by being forced to wear her snowsuit underneath a Bat Girl costume. "Who," she cried as if it happened yesterday, "has ever heard of a fat Bat Girl?" Well tonight she'll be Cat Woman and trust me - she won't try to squeeze a snowsuit under this costume.

Murderball - a documentary

This is an excellent film about individuals that don't want to deserve your pity, but want to earn your respect. Some things I learned from this film: Quadriplegics have impairment in the use of all four limbs. Murderball, with its armoured wheelchairs, looks post apocalyptic. And I'd be a little scared to play these guys.

I have always misunderstood the term quadriplegic and it was this recent documentary that set the record straight for me. I thought that quadriplegics were completely paralyzed from the neck down, having the use of neither their arms no their legs. That said, you can imagine my surprise to hear that there was such a thing as 'quad rugby' a.k.a. Murderball. Stephen Hawkins is the visual reference I was working with and any game of rugby that he is playing isn't going to be too interesting to watch. Not so with Murderball.

Murderball will suck you in as it lays out a collision course for the American and Canadian national teams on route to the Athens Olympics. And on this level it shows like a typical sports documentary. That familiar format helps open a door for you. It serves to underline the normality of the extraordinary lives to which we are given access. Each team member has his own amazing story. Each one has had enough reason to quit and has instead chosen to inspire.

Four Eyes

Donna often catches me leaning back from whatever I'm reading, like I'm climbing out a window. I admit that I've begun to focus in a fashion more akin to a microscope than a person. The page is raised and lowered until the blur is lifted.
It's not that I'm afraid I'm getting old. Even the most casual observer can see that the war on grey is not going well for me. Still, unlike a few people around me, I have not turned to dye. I have a few friends who sport the occasional unnatural purple haze to their hair as the dye slowly starts to relax. No, I have fought hard against getting glasses, because I just don't trust any 'doctor' that sells you the cure. I lump bone crackers in with mechanics, in that you don't ever know if they did anything and that you always seem to be coming back. But Optometrists, they sell you the glasses right there, so I doubt they are going to say, 'You don't need glasses."
So, while that may be true, I have to admit that the fact I need glasses was becoming painfully obvious. I knew I couldn't read the newspaper as easily as I once could, what I was worried about was driving. I thought I could see fine, but maybe a professional opinion was in order. Maybe I've been getting by on blind luck.
Turns out I'm just far sighted so I only need glasses to read. So four eyes it is. Donna likes them. And me, I think I look even smarter.

Costume

Halloween is coming. Do you have your costume ready? Last year I rented a great clown costume, but not this year. I'm not sure how it will turn out, but I am trying to make my own costume. Now serving as the form for my paper mache creation is the giant silver exercise ball that I rescued from its Siberian outpost (our garage). The two flights down and up are the most exercise I've every had with the ball. I am trying to make a giant alien head and I'm afraid it won't work. I'm afraid that paper mache, while easily mastered by grade school kids everywhere, will elude me. This is only my second attempt at paper mache and I certainly hope this will be a much better attempt than the last. Or else, I'll be a giant alien mush head.

One of Donna's Personal Myths

Donna has spent most of the day moaning. Sometimes from the couch. Sometimes from the bed. Sometimes just while standing around looking dazed. She's sick. What's worse is that she isn't very good at it. I kind of enjoy being sick on some level. I wouldn't pick it mind you, but at least you can sit on the couch for hours watching movies or sleep wrapped up in heavy blankets or some sort of hybrid. And all guilt free. Not that guilt really factors into my daily conduct. Which is just the opposite of Donna.
I suppose at the heart of it, it is guilt that gets in her way of eking out any joy in being sick. She feels she is supposed to be doing something else. She fights it tooth and nail. She denies any sign of sickness and suppresses them with an array of 'medications', ignoring the most important - rest. She does all this to defend a personal myth: She doesn't get sick.
Or at least not cold or flu sick. We have to ignore incapacitating headaches and crippling hangovers. Both of which have her vomiting for an entire day. But she isn't sick. Not sick sick, at least.
So today Donna didn't go to work. I've made her soup. Brought her a box of Kleenex. Rented her movies. Massaged her neck. Driven her to the acupuncturist. And cancelled dinner plans. Now I'll make her favourite hot toddy kind of drink- a blueberry tea. But ask her if she is sick and she tell you, "I don't get sick."

A Car Called Hubris

Last night we got a flat tire. Simple. Straightforward. A quick and sudden flat tire. We were driving on an easy road at a time that wasn't too busy, so this was a danger free chance to get in touch with my manhood. Beside me, Donna was no longer simply my wife, she was in my eyes a damsel in distress. Time to get my hands dirty.
Well I got down on my hands and knees beside my wounded steed, jack in hand, and searched out the best place to begin the lift. "Why don't we just call BCAA?" "Beside not having a membership, well this isn't that difficult," I replied, still eager to prove my worth. I reached under the vehicle, placing the jack under the frame, and began cranking it up. And up. And up. And still no real movement. I mean the rim was still firmly planted on the ground. Down went the jack. Shuffled it over. And up, up, and nothing.
My wife, now in anyone's eyes a damsel in distress, spotted an acquaintance of ours. Someone more inclined to cars than I am. Of course, truth be told that applies to most men. We called him over for his input. I take solace in saying that he wasn't helpful. Or at least not in a tangible get the wheel off the ground so we can pop on the full spare kind of way. No, he did nothing to prevent me from sulking away, tail between my legs, defeated. What he did do was help me come to admit my defeat sooner and thereby limiting my pathetic struggle.
If the question were asked, 'Why did you buy an SUV?' Well the answer is pretty easy. My wife is a traveling sales rep. She drives throughout the province carrying a lot of samples, so we need the room. If the question is why we bought an SUV instead of a minivan. Well the answer has to be pride. We don't want to be that kind of couple. You know - sensible. We want to be rough and tumble. Ready for anything. When truth be told, we are pretty sensible. (Bought the Jeep second hand for a great price.) And we're clearly not very rugged. And the sin of pride will get you every time.
Last night it caught me in the rain, when our friend pointed something out to me that should have been obvious. The jack I was holding didn't belong to my giant SUV, but rather to a little tiny Honda.

Acupuncture: The Jury's Out

What you may know is that my wife, Donna, suffers from migraines. What you may also know is that she hates wearing socks. What you probably don't know is that these two facts are related. Or at least according to Dr. Oh.
Donna has a small blue plastic box that often comes with us on trips, short or long. Inside you will find wafers that dissolve on the tongue to be taken as she feels a migraine coming on. When one doesn't work, take two. When two don't work, well good luck. A few days ago, two didn't work. I suggested acupuncture.
It is not that I'm a believer in ancient or homeopathic or natural or holistic medicine. On the contrary, I want expensive pharmaceuticals when I'm sick. No, really I just wanted to see someone with a whole bunch of needles sticking out of them. Since they aren't likely to let me walk into the back and take a few snapshots of any ole' patient, well my best chance of seeing a human pin cushion up close was my wife. Anything seems reasonable to her in the face of an oncoming migraine and so off we went.
It was a two round affair. The needles stay in for half an hour and so they can't do your front and back at the same time. I only went for the first round, because Dr. Oh barely let me look. "One photo. From here." Then back to various issues of S.I. left in the waiting room. Not big on bedside manner - when asked if it will hurt, he simply and flatly said, "Yes."
While she did feel good after the needles were removed, Donna's headache had started to subside the minute we made the appointment, so any hope of an objective evaluation had gone right out the door. I'm holding off judgment on the effectiveness for a little while at least. Although, I don't have high expectations.
Still, no matter what happens, I'll admit - I feel lucky. The unexpected did happen at the acupuncturist's. Dr. Oh told Donna that cold feet cause headaches and she needs to wear socks all the time. Let me thank you now Dr. Oh, 'cause usually it's just some warm part of my body that Donna uses to defrost her sockless winter feet.

Peeing in Public: Equal but Separate?

Gender specific single occupancy washrooms: Why do we accept them? I mean those little pairs of washrooms, equal but different, at the back of cafes and restaurants, with some clever symbol on the door indicating whether you stand or sit to pee. Could you imagine wandering into a downtown cafe anywhere in North America and seeing bathrooms divided by race? Or religion? Imagine a Starbucks with a crescent or a cross or a star on a bathroom door. We would be outraged.

Returning recently from Greece, I have to note that they have multiple occupancy bathrooms that are not gender specific. I suspect they are everywhere. But they sure aren't here. No, here we can't even pee consecutively in the same room. Or at least not in public. I don't get it. I don't know anyone who has separate washrooms at home. We might say something like, "Hey Frank, thanks for having us over. Say do you mind if I use your men's room", imagine if that's what you found at the end of his hall - men's room on the right and women's on the left.

But in public, they're equal but different. Or are they? Come on, it's a lie. More often than not, the women's is so much nicer. We never have plants, or little decorative touches. So much so that occasionally a man will find himself half way through the door only to stop. This is too nice he thinks. Then checking the door, he realizes he hasn't noticed the picture on the door is a dairy cow. To be sure he checks the next door down the hall. A bull confirms his suspicion. What to do now? The bull door is locked.

Don't you feel a little silly standing outside 'your' washroom waiting for someone to finish, when right there next to you is an empty one. Do I go in? I'm not allowed to use that one. What if I go in and I leave a foul odour and then as I open the door to leave, I find a woman waiting for me?

So let me warn you now: I'm going in. I'm going to use their room too. I won't let 'the man' tell me where to pee and not to pee. I'm going to shed this oppressive yoke that only wields social stigma to subtly reinforce gender inequalites. No I say., no.

Actually, who am I kidding. I'm a typical Canadian, all they need is a sign to stop me.

A Honeymoon in Greece

Too much Saganaki. Too much wine and beer. We needed to come home for a rest. To be honest, a diet that consisted far too often of saganaki (a slice of cheese fried in spirits) should have packed on more than the meer three pounds that it did. It felt like I should have been flagged at the airport on the way home, had a "heavy load" sticker slapped on my ass, and charged a fuel surcharge fee for my excess weight. No, three pounds is a bit of a miracle.

Two weeks in the Greek Islands. A beautiful part of this world. Rich in history and natural beauty. We had the chance to do a little travelling while we were there. A taste of Athens, the Islands, and Meteora.


Athens

Athens is a big city and like most big cities, it sprawls for miles and miles. It is dirty and run down and were it not for the Acropolis perched high in the heart of the city, it would have little to offer. The Acropolis View hotel, in case anyone is interested, certainly can claim a view from some rooms, but here we call that a peek-a-boo view. Leaning out a little from our balcony, we could indeed see the Parthenon. I guess the 'Acropolis Peek-a-boo Biew Hotel didn't have the right ring.



Mykonos

The islands on the other hand are strung through the Agean like a necklace of jewels. The four we visited were each unique and offered something special. Designed to confuse pirates, the streets Mykonos wind and twist like a labyrinth. A tourist trap with a twist you might say. They go in, but do they all come out? The layers of shapes all painted white and stacked askew are truly magical.
The Pelicans are a sight to see as well. Tame enough for locals to scratch their stomaches, these massive birds wander the streets in search of either handouts or simply a good place to groom themselves.


Santorini

Santorini is that girl in grade six, two rows over, who was beautiful but seemed to know it. An island that was much larger, Santorini had a volcanic temper. She blew her top and sunk into the sea leaving a ring of cliff edged islands overlooking the crater, waiting for another outburst. A naturally stunning view from the cliff edge is ever greater at sunset. A must see for any island hopping trip, we found it too commercial to fall in love. More than the other islands, cruiseships seem to set the tempo for the economy.
While our hotel room did have a just claim to this gorgeous natural view, I suppose the telephone pole would have seemed jarring to most.



Ios
If Greece had tumbleweeds, we would have seen them in Ios. A party island that thrives on younger tourists, it screeches to a halt when school starts back in September. The town square was being slowly recovered by locals, drinking coffee and twirling beads beneath English signs offering a free t-shirt to anyone who would drink seven shots in a row. Beautiful, rugged, this sleepy island was a real treat to visit. With a church or chapel for every 4 to 5 people, the island boasts over four hundred chapels. The sunsets were beautiful. The beaches quiet. And with a car you could get to very remote areas easily.

Mykonos

We returned to Myknos to relax a little more. We found a fabulous hotel where we could drink wine, read books, and watch sunsets from our balcony. The windy streets began to feel familiar. We also took a trip to a beach on the far side of the island where you could do a little dancing or watch a strange man dance on tables wearing ... well, actually, what is he wearing?

Meteora
With very little time left, we made our way to a town in Greece that is under the shadow of some amazing rocks. They are carved out of a huge cliff and look ready to topple at any minute. And perched on top of these outcroppings are a handful of monestaries. Built in the 1700's, by hand, with no roads or even stairs. The monks used ropes to raise and lower themselves. Stunning. A fabulous end to a great trip.

I Do

September 17th, 2005 - our wedding day.
Just the idea that we would get married was surprising to many of our close friends. Neither of us were the marrying kind, or so they thought. Too traditional, they said. Even more surprising was how traditional the was wedding. But I wouldn't have it any other way.

What is the point of getting married? For me it was a language issue. The term 'girlfriend' just didn't seem to cut it. Actually, worse: it seemed to sell short what we had. I tried partner, but that often left people with the impression I was gay. Not so bad, just untrue. I wanted the words that implied the depth, and commitment of our relationship. I wanted to say things like, "Have you met my wife?" Luckily she felt the same way.

What I didn't know, was how important it was to me to have all of our friends present. How the public aspect of declaring your love for someone could be so profound. I don't simply mean the vows we spoke, but also the people who stood to speak about us and those took the chance to say personally all the things we sometimes think are understood and don't need to be said. Yet hearing them has a magical effect. I didn't think that my bride and I, having lived together for years already, would feel dramatically different and I don't suppose we do. But, I do feel closer to all our friends for both the words of kindness and for having shared something so personal and so important.

I couldn't have asked for a better day. Despite the overwhelming degree of planning that you put into a single day, so much can go wrong. With an open bar, that possibility is astronomically bigger. While I am dissapointed to say that we didn't have even a hint of fistcuffs, there was a least a little scandal on the dance floor. But as my mother said, "It was great. I haven't been groped in years."