Painkillers vs. Killjoys

There I was, standing in my local all-night super market at 5:30 am. I was enroute to my 6 a.m. bootcamp class, and I was on a mission: get painkillers. At first, the young man trying to help me points me down aisle 4. I hardly ever shop at this place, but even I know that they would never stock painkillers on aisle 4. Or any aisle, for that matter. The boxes are small and a bit too easy to steal in a neighbourhood that gets pilfered a lot. This guy must be new.

After he points me in the direction of a locked glass cabinet – I stand there trying to decide which painkiller would best suit a roommate with a fever. There’s Cold & Flu, there’s Sore Muscle & Back Pain Relief, there’s even Extra-Strength Existential or Mid-life Crisis Relief! Okay, no, I wish. I could not find the one for Fever, and all around pain that would wake said roomie at 5 am.

I mean, I had to get up. I paid good money to get up that early and run around outside, doing push-ups while someone in charge of my workout routine mocked my general lack of athletic ability. For anyone who knows me, I’m a morning person, but this would mean I was a ‘pre-dawn person’. Can’t say that’s my happy hour at all. I pick out what I think would work best, walk back over to the cash.

The young fellow rings it up at says “Drugs are bad. In the long run, it’s not good for you. But they do offer relief I guess.”

I’m in a bit of a stupor, standing there at 5:30 am, with a look on my face that I think says “Are you talkin’ to me?” It’s just past 5 am, fer crying out loud, do I know where I am? Not really, but hey, I’ve got an idea, why not engage me in conversation when you erroneously sent me down aisle 4 when I knew you were wrong but I humoured you anyway.

I wait until he hands me my change, at which point there’s another man next to me in line (doesn’t anyone sleep in this ‘hood?) and I say “You’d probably need painkillers at least once a month if you were female. I think that’s more the issue.” And I stalk away. Actually, more like I stumble away, as I tripped on my shoelace, but I repeat: it was really, really early. In the morning. All I could think was: does this guy actually know the meaning of pain? True physical pain? Of course he does, he’s human, but still what does he do? Bite down on a wooden spoon?

I know, not all women need painkillers. I know some females who can control the pain factor with reduced caffeine, sugar and gluten (Amazons, I tell ya, these women are modern-day Amazons) but like I’m going to be rude enough to go into all that while standing in line at the supermarket? Before day-break, when I can barely put a coherent thought together?

I thought about it.

Some days, that’s enough.

Mr. Harper, what were you thinking?

Dear Mr. Stephen Harper,

The first year I was old enough to vote, Brian Mulroney won the election with a majority vote for a second term. I myself would have to sustain a massive head injury with a blunt object before I would ever vote for you, or any member or the Conservative Party. I thought I should be upfront. Not that you care what I think, but I still wanted to mention, in my opinion, you suck.

I was really hoping to make an argument that was much more articulate, but I am beyond the ability to think clearly and rationally. I am surprised to have to tell the leader of a great nation the varied and multiple benefits of building and maintaining a strong artistic community.

Often, the arts work as our ambassadors to other countries, other cultures. I admire artists for so many reasons I don’t even know where to begin, but here’s one I thought even you would understand: Artists are the ones that entertain the troops. I should explain I’m expanding the definition of troops not only as the folks overseas, but as the people here at home, working day by day, building their families and their communities into a country we could all be proud of, a country many could admire.

Simply put, I think art saves lives. It changes people, it heals the masses. The only way I could ever applaud you, sir, is in the level of this stupidity:

Only last week, the government had announced it would slash the following programs because they were deemed out of date:
Trade Routes ($9 million).
the A-V Preservation Trust ($300,000).
the Canadian Independent Film and Video Fund ($1.5 million).
the National Training Schools Program ($2.5 million).
PromArt ($4.7 million).
All programs will disappear by the end of March 2009.

Shame on you, and shame on your political party. Make that a pox on your political party. When they go down in those figurative flames, I’ll be dancing in the streets to music by some Canadian artist, I’m sure.

Ghumshuda

When I get songs stuck in my head, it’s a very sad state of affairs. There’s a limited selection I can draw on, due to my musical ineptitude and downright ignorance. Hence I’ll find myself humming The Little Drummer Boy while strolling down the city streets in the merry, merry month of August. Sometimes it’s an 80’s song. Then I really worry, imagining myself rockin’ out to Spandau Ballet at the future senior’s facility I will inhabit.

Right now, I can’t get this song from a Bollywood movie - Bagwan help me!- out of my head. It’s from the movie Chalte Chalte (According to Wikipedia, the title translation is While Walking) and the song is called Ghumshuda – which is the chorus I keep repeating ad naseum – “Ghumshudaa! Ghumshudaaaaaaaaa! It means “Lost! Looooooost!” I’m addicted to the song and the dance number, which you can view too, thank you youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mhHRnH3InGI

I just looked it up and felt that weird shudder you feel when someone walks over the fireplace mantle where your loved ones will keep the urn with your ashes in it. It’s very appropriate for how I’m feeling these days. I back in my home town; everything is as familiar as can possibly be. I’m gainfully contributing to society and proudly paystub-deduction-paying my taxes again. Feeling lost seems an odd way to describe the circumstances I find myself in, but “if the shoe fits princess, buy it.”

It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

Yes, She thought, thinking back, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

It was not a dark and stormy night when She made the decision to return to the land of Her birth (okay, suburb of Her birth if you wanna get all technical about it, but it sounds stoopid) to visit her father for his 70th birthday. That decision was a God one. Yes, exactly right, God one.

What She was not sure about was, would She, should She tell her mother?...and so very quickly now because Papaji has finished his espresso and is tapping his feet waiting for her to finish with denternet. As in: How long you need denternet? I can just wait, why for I go some place else, I just drink my espresso and wait here.

It is called an espresso because you can drink it super fast and then tap, tap, tap: You finish?

She would like to tell you as well - "ees some bigga problema with this espresso-sports bar internet because no makea de punchooation, and also, She only gal here looky very loosy-goosy gal, no good for repewtation. Sorry for the no good punchooation everyabody."

Today, five minutes after She said "MAYBE WE SHOULD TELL YOUR BANK MANAGER NOT TO MENTION SEEING ME BECAUSE MOM DOES NOT KNOW I AM HERE" - they fatefully run into said Mom, with her faithful sidekick, Guiseppina, who She has come to refer to as that bullshitting-backstabbing-false-goody-goody, because Guiseppina tried to explain to Her last year how "Her mother truly loved Her and Her mother got sick with a psychotic illness because she (Mamma-She, not me-She) was soooo worried about this daughter after She left home."

This was when She (the daughter) replied: "Did she (the busybody) think she (the mother) was worried because she (again, the mother) thought someone else would kill me, did she (Ms. Idjit Busybody) think? Especially when she (the mother, in the library with the candlestick. Aha, that's the most important clue to solving this mind-puzzle) kept threatening to do that throughout my entire childhood and adolescence.

I am not proud of yelling at children in India, nor am I proud that I yelled at a septuagenarian and told her she was a no-good-busy-body-idiot, implying by my tone she could go F herself while jumping off a cliff, she understood absolutely nothing about me, my life, my mom the psychotic illness that had robbed me from having a mother.

That was last years visit. This is now. This time, I ignored them both and walked on, saying to my dad "KEEP WALKING, DAD, KEEP WALKING" - because I had not actually seen my mother. Only the busy-body, who clearly ignored my advice. When I realised my mom was in her car, in the passenger seat, I nearly threw up.

I gotta go, my dad has practically started the engine on the car, and I have tied up the phone line here. Old school, totally old school.

There's No Such Thing as a Free Lunch

Oh my God!

Yes, that's right, in a world gone mad with text-messaging, I can't help but spell it out for you:

http://www.freerice.com

Please visit this site, test your vocabulary, get smarter and save the world, one word at a time.

Time Heals All Mother's Day Memories

It's been two weeks since I yelled at my mother on Mother's Day.

But you know what they say, "time heals all wounds."

And "This too shall pass."

And my personal favourite "Everyone you've ever cared about and you yourself are going to die"

Okay, I made that last one up, but I still think it could enter the fray of comments we use to calm distressed folks down. I don't think it would talk them off the ledge, so some personal powers of discernment would be required.

Sometimes I think of a friend who used to say "I'm over it," almost immediately after something had upset them and I would think "You sound like you've convinced yourself, well done." Because that's what this world really needs, more deluded people.

Four years ago, my father left in an ambulance and never went back. That year, I yelled at my mother on Mother's Day and her birthday, which happens to fall in mid-December. Then I found myself bawling at my counselor's office about what a terrible person I was, yelling at a woman who's been struggling with a mental illness since before I was born, and if that wasn't enough, I was yelling at her on Mother's Day! On her Birthday!

Things like "This is all your fault!" and "You're so crazy you drive everyone else around you crazy!" and "I left home to get as far away from you as possible, understand? You're toxic and dangerous and that's why dad left too!"

Have you seen these things written on any Hallmark cards? I thought not. I know I would be better suited to coming up with names for nail polish than working in the greeting card industry. I think it even said that on my grade 8 Future Careers Evaluation.

This is what my counselor said "You still have Christmas. You could make it a 3 out of 3."

I thought that was pretty good, as a reply. It made me laugh.

I can't remember now what I said to her that Christmas, but I'm quite sure I didn't yell at her. She didn't tell me she was living off her preserved peaches for a week because she had spent all the money the bank had given her. (She insisted they never gave her the money)

All I know is, four years later, it's still a struggle to not lose my patience. Last week I realised I need to get off the phone much sooner. Still, that's hard to do when someone is telling you, volume on high, every single thing they've told you a million times and they are still wanting you to do something about:

"Give me your phone number. Where is your father? Why do I have to stay here and you there and him where he is? This is wrong. All our problems started when you left home. Who told you to go? Who? Won't you give me your phone number so I can call you? I'm so alone all the time. I'm alone and I'm scared and I'm too much by myself."

So I say "I'm only going to say this another 50 million times: no, no and no AND I'm sorry I can't do anything about that, ma. You exhaust me."

Truth is I exhaust me, and it's been a long time that I can't see another way of coping but just listening and fulfilling my duty as a daughter, as one very wise doctor advised me to do, long-distance. It's true what they say - listening is a skill. It's an art. It's one I'm trying to master. And she's the hardest person in my world to listen to, so I'll keep practicing.

Every Sunday is another opportunity.

After all, Mother's Day comes but once a year.

Thank the Good Ganesh for that.
Om Gam Ganapataye Namaha

I Made to the Hot of the World, Ma!

In the spirit of the just past Mental Health Awareness Week and Mother's Day - an opportunity for a double-whammy few words from our sponsor - since I thought perhaps you were all wondering how my mom handled my global travel. I started this in India, so I'll finish it now. That would be my anxiety-ridden, self-medicating with alcohol to numb the effects of auditory hallucinations mother, in case you were confused about who I meant. I was. Confused, I mean. And I've known her my whole life.

Mamma: I know you in Toronto now. They see you at Sherway Garden Mall.

Eufemia: Who saw?

Mamma: They!

Eufemia: I hate they. You mean the voices. Do we have to go over this again, because I'd rather hang up. It's really hot here.

Mamma: Your voice is so clear, I can hear you like you're next door.

Eufemia: Well, I'm not. I'm 10 hours ahead of you, like I've been telling you since December.

Mamma: Where?

Eufemia: IN INDIA.

Mamma: Oh, ya, India. What's the weather like?

Eufemia: IT'S REALLY HOT.

Mamma: What's the time now?

Eufemia: Ten hours ahead. It's 5:30 p.m. [PLEASE NOTE: For 19 years my mother has been asking me, with a degree of regularity that makes me homicidal, what time it is in Vancouver. As if the Teutonic plates shifted again and Vancouver was suddenly in the same time zone as Japan]

Mamma: Did you eat dinner already? What you eat there?

Eufemia: Pasta.

Mamma: No, come on you.

Eufemia: Rice.

Mamma: Ya, I think they eat rice. Did you get my letters? I sent you some money for Christmas and your birthday.

Eufemia: I DON'T KNOW BECAUSE I'M IN INDIA AND YOU SENT THEM TO VANCOUVER.

Mamma: You sure the girl* no steal what I mail you? I send you money. I send presents for Christmas and the birthday.

*By the girl, my mother means my God-sent roommate, who even called my mother to reassure her I was fine while I was away at the ashram without regular access to a phone. My mother's concerned Caroline would steal the 100% polyester blouse that looks like a sequin factory exploded and all these shiny, ugly bits and bobbles got stuck on this red fabric and some dear slave-wage seamstress decided to make the best of it.

Eufemia: She wouldn't steal anything. I'll be able to tell to you when I get home, stop asking me to tell you now.

Mamma: Are you coming home to Toronto?

[ANOTHER NOTE PLEASE: Toronto has not been home for 19 years. There was a house there, for a long time. It's been sold. But it was a house, not a home.]

Eufemia: No

Mamma: Why no?

Eufemia: Because you live there.

Stay tuned! Next up: How Eufemia Talks to her Mother on the Hallmark Holiday Engineered to Make herself Feel like a Donkey's Arse.