Rewind ... Snap!

Deb: Remember in Annie Hall when Woody Allen was trying to win an argument with a pretentious knob in the movie lineup? In order to put a stop to the inane back and forthing and secure himself as the winner, Woody casually goes behind a cardboard movie marquee and guides Marshall McLuhan toward his opponent, whereupon Mr. McLuhan puts said knob in his place.

How many times have we wished for that moment in life? How many times have we fantasized that we could call upon irrefutable proof when we are defending ourselves?

Art by Deb's finger

Last week we endured a huge kafuffle when someone in our lives angrily insisted that I had failed to impart to them some extremely important information, thus causing them undue stress, anger, and fear. They were very upset and proceeded to tear a strip off of me and three other innocent parties. The people he was dressing down had no idea to what he was referring as they had done nothing wrong. They were confident that I had done my part as promised and yet they were being lectured by this irate person.

The thing is, I had done my part. I had delivered in detail every piece of essential information needed, leaving no stone unturned. But my angry friend would hear none of it and insisted that the conversation had never taken place. I was miffed and frustrated. It had taken place. This I knew. But how to prove it?

Grasping at straws, I glanced around to see if Marshall McLuhan was maybe waiting for his cue in our powder room or crouched beside our piano, but he wasn’t.

So what does one do when these unfair moments occur?

I will admit that many times a day I may not be able to remember why I came upstairs, or what your name is, but when it comes to important conversations, I have a mind like a steel trap. As I was being dressed down by this irate person, all I could see in my mind’s eye was the replay of the exact conversation that had taken place between us. The problem was, only I could see it.

In the end, I was saved by my husband who piped up that he had been there for the conversation, and that I had indeed imparted every single morsel of information. Bless his beak!

But what about the other times when you do not have a trusty witness to jump to your defense? What then?????????

My husband, as I have reported before, often laments the “heinous lie” that was the jet-pack. He was positive that by now he would certainly have his own jet-pack charging in the garage. He does not give a damn that they have not cured the common cold. In fact he would be perfectly happy if they would give up trying for a cure and put all their brainpower behind his beloved, unrealized jet-pack.

Me? I want an earring. Just something simple, maybe a tiny gold stud ... but with the ability to instantly playback moments in my life in a full HD 3-D projection that also includes any person I am trying to prove my point to.

A sample usage might go this way:

Doctor’s secretary: ”Ms. McGrath, I am going to have to charge you for your missed appointment last week.”

Me: “But I called more than 48 hours before and cancelled my time.”

D.S.: “Sorry, Ms. McGrath, but I have nothing on the record to indicate that.”

Me: ”Well, I called and I spoke to a ‘Diane’ who took the message.”

D.S.: “Well Ms. McGrath, there is nothing in the record, so...”

Slowly and without emotion, my hand reaches up towards my gold stud and I tap it, ever so slightly. Before you can say Princess Leia, out streams a tiny projection flowing freely between us, showing clearly and with stereophonic sound, me making the call a full two days before the appointment. The projection ends with “Diane” hanging up the phone, spilling coffee on her desk, cleaning it up, and resuming her duties, the conversation with me, gone from her mind.

I tap the stud. Projection ended. I look the receptionist in the eye, my face neutral, my demeanor calm.

SNAP! BAM! GOTCHA! EAT THIS! SUCK IT!

Oh what joy that would bring. Oh the satisfaction of it. I would have to go home and nap after such a triumph!

Okay, yes, I have allowed myself a generous helping of petty today.

But oh ... oh ... ohhhhhhhh, wouldn’t it be swell? Oh the places I could go. Oh the conversations I could recreate! Oh the points I could make, the proof I could offer.

Now I should say at this point that I am not an obsessively “right” person. By that I mean I do not always have to be right. Far from it. I am the first to admit wrongdoing or mistakes and I always apologize immediately and profusely.

But when I am right, when I have done my due diligence, when I have covered my bases to the nth degree and it is denied me in a loud angry tone?...

Where is Marshall McLuhan when you need him?

Barbara: Oh, Deb, this made me laugh so much!! And I know the actual situation you speak of because I was there when it was going down. This is so much more frustrating than the simple “two different versions of a story” because there were real repercussions here. I always like to imagine what would be the most beneficial response to any complicated human shenanigan, but, damn, if I can’t think of anything else for this sitch. I think you handled it perfectly by simply stating your case, presenting your defense, and finally letting it go. That said, I LOVE your earring idea. That is by far a more elegant “final word” than anything I could’ve come up with! 

I Wanna Cop Your Lingo

Barbara: I’m in the middle of writing a screenplay right now and I have a couple of young characters that have fun with cool speak, making up their own lingo as they go. That said, I wanted to do some research on what’s the latest in jive talk (that I know “jive talk” is not the latest hip-speak and used it anyway shows just how not-trippingly this stuff rolls off my tongue).

So I’m doing my research and don’t I run across several websites and blogs that go on rants about how modern slang is being appropriated and—as a result—un-cooled by soccer moms everywhere. Okay, I’m no longer officially a “soccer mom”—LOVED those days—but I can still say that my feelings are hurt. And I feel something of a retort rant coming on.

I like my words, peeps!!!!! Love them, in fact. I want access to all of them, not just a select few that were coined in “my time”. I want to diss, to be down, to lurk. I want random experiences and stellar calls. I want to wear bling (only sometimes). I want to feel stoked or psyched or pumped (well, okay, maybe not so much, but I want to reserve the right!).

I remember when I was in my mid-twenties having a rare argument with dear friends when they took the outrageous—to me—stance that rockers like the Stones should pack it in in their forties (their FORTIES!) because rock was for young people only. I would have thought that this ‘tude was outdated until I watched a recent episode of The Debaters (a Canadian show where comedians are given two different sides of an argument to debate). The subject was the same: should old rockers “be allowed” to rock, or should they pack it in. Obviously I’m of the mindset that if someone wants to do something—and what’s more, possesses the talent for it—they should bloody well keep doing it, regardless of age.

Same with the language thing. I get that appropriating language from the streets or from younger generations can make you look like you’re “trying too hard” or like a fool (worse, if you use the word incorrectly—remember “foshizzle”? Did anyone use that one properly???). But I’m telling you now: I want those words!!!! I want all of them. You throw something cool and exciting and fresh into the mix, I want to get my hands on it. Or my mouth, as it were (or does that sound creepy?). Anyway, my point is the same. Don’t release a nugget into the word-o-sphere and then get all greedy and selfish about it.

Tell you what: if you give me “dippin” (for, you know, when I want to leave a party and have to grab Phil’s arm and say, “Hey honey, we’re dippin’,” you know stuff like that), then I’ll give you “malarkey” (hey, it’s an evocative word and really should be brought back).

Deb: Barb, you my girl are the cat’s meow! I agree with you 100%. I too love me some words and I will say anything I damn well please. And like you, I may just bring back “23 skiddoo” and “oh you kid”. But I do think that each generation feels that they own their own slang and hipisms and they do and they should. Me, I’m just a random happy camper. Where’s the beef? I don’t know. Don’t think there is one. After all ... love means never having to say you’re sorry.

The Squeaky Wheel Owns All The Grease OR Nice Guys Don’t Even Finish

Deb: Do any of you have these people in your lives?  Service people you are undyingly faithful to and to whom you bring all of your business? You know, the manicurists, dry cleaners, seamstresses, dog walkers, butchers, florists, or handymen that you stick with through thick and thin?

We do. We are loyal customers and good customers and all the various merchants and services love us. That’s the problem. We’re the nice guys. The people they can count on. And as a result, we have become the people they can take for granted. They don’t have to woo us or treat us special because we are one of a core group of people who keep their businesses going.

Do they appreciate it? Yes, I am sure they do. Deep down. Very deep down. So deep down I think it seeped out of them into the cracks in the sidewalk. We are the people who frequent their establishments, businesses, pay our bills on time and compliment them on a job well done.

Now I honestly do not expect them to treat me any better than they would treat any customer. Truly. I am not looking for freebees or champagne on my birthday. However I wouldn’t object! I am just looking to be treated with the same respect as everyone. And yet­­––and here’s where it becomes interesting––I AM NOT.

I am the gal who goes to the seamstress with an appointment to hem or alter my garments. AN APPOINTMENT, MIND YOU! And I am the one who stands there with pins in my pants and daggers in my eyes as I watch her take customer after customer who have just strolled in off the street. The reason she gives me is that after all, they are just picking something up. Well, I am a fair gal. That is fine with me. THE FIRST TIME! But three or four in, I am seething.

Our handyman––whom we have employed for fifteen years––put us on his waiting list to sand and re-stain our deck. I asked him in DECEMBER! Still not done.

We have a dog walker who we have employed for years because we were so busy that the dogs were not getting enough exercise. He also stays at our house when we are away, guarding property and animals alike. We no longer need him as much as we used to, but we keep him because he depends on us financially. We needed him over two weekends and for a two-week period this summer because we are going away. It turns out that, without even asking us our schedules first, he has already taken jobs with people who employ him once a year, leaving us to scramble and depend on the kindness of friends.

I know what you are thinking and you are right. WE are the tools. And, believe me, the infraction list goes on and on and on. I have just cited a few examples here. So the question is, what do we do? These people do good work for us. And there are several options open to us––none of which appeals to me.

One: we speak up and then they are hurt and uncomfortable and I am miserable. My people do not speak up. They have not spoken up for centuries to my knowledge.

Two: we fire them and start over. Well, the problem there is that they all do excellent work and it is a pain in the butt to go looking for people of equal quality, not to mention the lack of time factor.

Or three: we start doing these things ourselves. Ha ha haaaaaaaaaaaaahaha ha ha ha hahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. Oh. Wow. Ha ha. That was … good. Oh yeah. Ha ha ha. Man. Do these things ourselves...........Ha ha ha. (*wipes tears of laughter from eyes*). Ah. Hmmm. Oh. Ha.

I guess we should just replace them one at a time and become the cranky occasional customer who doesn’t really show appreciation and just employs them once in a while. That seems to be their kind of client. But it’s not our way of doing business.

So ... what do you do when you are the nice guys and want to continue being the nice guys and yet still get respect? All ideas welcome. Help us have our cake and stay nice too.

Barbara: You have me stumped here, Deb. I don’t have a lot of regular service people in my life. (Okay, a pedicurist/wax girl and esthetician who I LOVE and who are divinely respectful … which is why I LOVE them). That said, I did have a cleaning woman once who started cleaning less and less and chatting on her phone more and more. And she thought I was the nicest, sweetest client. No wonder! I let her run the roost. In her case, we still joke that we sold our house to get rid of the cleaning woman.

So in order to answer your question (plea) with a bit more confidence, I asked my guy who happens to be a trainer for service-oriented folk. And he has a simple, direct and no-buts solution to your conundrum. You won’t like it.

You. Speak. With. Them.

Nicely. Not yelling. But like a boss (as much as you hate this word) speaking with a valued employee to find a solution to a problem. You don’t have to go over past digressions, but you should discuss future expectations. Ie: Dog Walker: We love you dearly and you’re the best, but we want to know what we can expect in the future when it comes to conflicting needs between ourselves and your other clients. Seamstress: I only have a few minutes to spend here while you hem my pants/dress/skirt, so while I understand that other customers might come in for a quick pick-up, too many pick-ups in a row will make me late for my next appointment. Handyman: I asked you in December to please stain our deck, get the FUCK over here and FUCKING STAIN THE DECK!

Too much? 

Slow That Number Down

Deb: Slow that number down please. My brain is not a computer.

Think of this blog-post today as a public service announcement for all of you who have ever been victims of the rapid-fire phone number message.

You know what I’m talking about. The “Hi, this is Dr. Asure’s office confirming your appointment. Please call us back to confirm at 4175559041.” And they proceed to rhyme off the number faster than the speed of light.

I have found myself on the receiving end of these number sprinters on many occasions and I can’t tell you how it annoys me to take time out of my busy day to have to listen to the message eight or nine times, each time picking up just one more number.

And when these people, these rushers of numbers, are on the receiving end of said messages, do they ever think, “Hey, wait a sec, I do that! I should stop.”

Clearly they don’t. And yet it is such a simple thing to fix really, isn’t it?

Beep ... Hi this is Deb McGrath calling. Please call me back at  4...1...7...5...5...5...6...1...6...1.

That number again... 4...1...7...5...5...5...6...1...6...1

And done. Solved.

I am quite confident that now that I have spoken up, this will never happen to me again. I am sure that word of this menace will now spread like wildfire, the plague, or a congressman exposing himself.

Boy, when I rule the world...

Barbara: Ha, Deb! I hope you friggin’ rule the world soon because this menace has terrorized me more times than I can say. And is often brandished by a person who also speed-mumbles their name, leaving me with not only a call-back number I must decipher, but a caller I must fake-ask for (“Yes, I’m returning (mumble) Fafafa’s call.").

Thanks, Deb, for taking on this most noble cause. Spread the word everyone: Citizens for clear phone messages!

Too Old To Swim????!

Barbara: I’m pretty flexible when it comes to other people’s opinions. I know they’re just that: OPINIONS. But sometimes an opinion gets so under my skin that I have to rant and rave for, like, five whole minutes. Start your timers, folks:

Okay, read this article—well, not really an article, more like an article blurb—in my paper the other day. Of course, it’s just an abbreviation of several other abbreviated articles of its ilk around the world. To wit: Hillary Moss of The Huffington Post at styelist riffs on it, as does Daily Mail Reporter at The Daily Mail UK (PS: Mr/Ms Mail Reporter, if that really is your name, I’m sorry it's such a pedestrian one, however, if this is the Daily Mail’s idea of attribution, it fucking sucks. Writers unite! Anyway…).

I couldn’t find the survey that they all quote, but apparently it was administered by Diet Chef, a diet service in the UK (and we all know how reliably relevant and important surveys administered by diet services can be). Well, Diet Chef interviewed 2000 women about their opinions on women of certain ages wearing certain clothes. Now, it’s possible we’ve all been guilty of, “She’s wearing that?!” at some point in our lives. But I have to say, it’s one of my least favourite of the womanly clichés.

Anyway, after interviewing these 2000 women, this survey feels compelled to make the following proclamations for aging women everywhere: No miniskirts after 35. No bikinis after 47 (is this my last bikini summer?!). No leggings after 37. No long hair after 53. No wearing trainers except for sports after 44. WTF?! Am I condemned to short hair because of my age??? And I might be grasping here, but aren’t the aging feet of older women––of all feet!––prime candidates for the support and comfort offered by a running shoe when they’re, say, going for a stroll or navigating the aisles of the supermarket (… unless these activities are considered “sport”. Then my bad.)

But the kicker? The unleasher of my wrath and fury? This decree:

No swimsuits after 61.

Yes, you read that right. No. Swimsuits. After. 61.

Do we hate ourselves so much, must we be so controlled and self-conscious and uptight, that we aren’t even allowed to SWIM!!! after a certain age?! Or perhaps these 2000 surveyees believe that if an older women absolutely MUST slip into that refreshing lake or pool, then she should do so only in the dead of night and only after donning a full body suit, thus avoiding egregious insult to the delicate vision of all youthful beings who inhabit the earth.

Makes me want to don thigh-high leather boots and a bikini top, throw a see-through blouse over it, brush my long hair into a ponytail and jump into the fucking lake.

‘Nuff said.

Deb: Deb: As I write this, I am piercing my naval with a bobby pin.

STOP THIS BULLSHIT. Everyone should stop doing it! But women especially. I heard a young girl last week say that it is gross to think of people over 50 having sex. Man, I was so sad to hear her say that. And now this BULLSHIT. People say “don’t revisit what you have worn any other decade.” It is a stupid rule for people who are afraid, for people who conform. Wear a hat full of red blooming roses with a peekaboo blouse. Or wear a sensible skirt and cashmere twin set. I DON”T CARE! But wear what makes you feel lovely and happy and damn everyone who says you can’t!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


PS Oh, and in case anyone missed it, we posted a new deco tip and recipe last Saturday!

An Arts Fart

Barbara: I know I just ranted about our recent national election, but I have one more point I want to make that’s very near and dear to my heart.

This rant started after I heard that someone yelled to our Prime Minister right after he won the election to “kill the CBC” (something he has in fact insinuated he might do). Now for those of you readers not from this country, this is an easy catch-up (for my point). The CBC is our national public broadcaster. They produce and air mostly Canadian content. Because it is government-owned, its Canadian content is largely protected. But because taxpayers pay for it to survive, its existence is often threatened.

“Kill the CBC” is a regular call to arms from certain types. And I always wonder why. I mean, first of all it’s a business like any other, filled with employees who rely on it for their paychecks (so they can, yes, pay their taxes and boost the economy with their confident spending). These people (whether writers, actors, producers or administrators) are as worthy of jobs as the next guy. Would people line up to shout at our elected officials to “Kill Schools” or “Kill the Bank of Canada” or even “Kill GE”?

So let’s ask those taxpayers who hate it––why do you gang up on the CBC? Is it because it’s an arts’ based forum and therefore not “serious”? The CBC features TV shows and radio programs and films and news and documentaries. Are TV and radio not as worthy as, say, drilling for oil? Now I’m not going to debate the merit of any specific show, but I will ask: who doesn’t friggin watch TV, listen to music, read, or watch a movie every now and then?! I mean what would we do without our arts? We’re not talking hoity, evening-gowned snobs sipping champagne and flicking channels with manicured fingernails (although let’s presume they do too). We’re talking virtually every single ordinary one of us!

All of us rely on some form of the arts to help us get by. To make us normal, functioning members of society and not just work-oriented automatons. The arts are as vital to our survival as healthcare and education. And they make us a hell of lot more fun and interesting to be around.

Deb: I have been employed by the CBC many times in my career. I have listened to CBC radio and I grew up on everything from the Friendly Giant to Rick Mercer. The CBC gives Canadians a starting point, a common ground if you will. Is it perfect? No. What is, I ask you? When I travel the country for Little Mosque and meet the fans, I see firsthand what the CBC means to Canada. Not everyone lives in the big cities, flipping through 200plus channels.

Can you imagine for one minute, Britain scrapping the BBC? It would never happen. They hold onto their precious institutions and so should we. 


PS You can also visit Friends of the CBC

The Right To Vote

Barbara: We have an election in Canada today and it seems like a good time to vent my frustration about all things political.


What happened to the gentlemen and women of politics?! I mean, where is the decency, the honour, the honesty, the compassion? When will our politicians be transparent? When will they do what they say they’re going to do after they get elected?

I know there are probably legit answers to all of these questions: politicians were never gentle; decency, honour, honesty and compassion don’t win votes; transparency is “dangerous”; and battling parties prevent the one in government from doing what it said it would do. Blah blah blah. And bullshit!

And here’s another big question: why are so many political platforms run on money issues and not on issues that shape the quality of our lives? Who among us hasn’t realized that on our death beds we will NOT be counting our filthy, crumpled dollar bills with maniacally gleeful grins on our faces, but will be looking around at our loved ones (hopefully) and being glad for a life well-lived, one filled with love and compassion, both outwardly given and self-directed???

So why do so many of us roar and cry over money money money when it comes to our governments? “We shouldn’t share it; we shouldn’t give it away; we shouldn’t take care of each other because if we’re not careful, we will go broke and will therefore be unhappy, so let’s hoard all our bucks in the coffers of our biggest businesses and government basements.” Why is it that money is always the one to talk? I wish it would shut its big fat mouth and let us quietly contemplate for a moment what we want to say on our deathbeds about our countries.

When will our politicians work together instead of fighting each other like schoolyard brats and work instead like gentlemen and women toward a common good? When will our politicians—all of them, not just a few unelectable ones—realize that this would be our greatest legacy?

Listen. I get that our economies are always of some concern. But can’t we have our cake and eat it too? Can’t we look to how we need to support each other, whether through healthcare, employment, environmental safety and support systems, and raise these issues up first—just like we would do if we were addressing issues in the smaller circle of our families?

Okay, and so why, as voters, do we not fight harder for the honour of our politics? Why do so few of us go to the polls and vote? In Canada and the U.S. the average is around 60%. Really?! 40% of us don’t care enough about the outcome of our elections to get off our butts and spend a few minutes in line to help shape our countries?

Let’s demand better from ourselves and our representatives. And vote. Our voices together do make a difference.

Deb: I could not have even begun to express this better than you have. Your words are reflecting the conversations going on in our home and in the homes of friends.

I never thought I would get to the point where politics would repel me, where the players would all bore/sicken and stun me.

But I will say this.

Despite my boredom regards the players in this election, I am proud to say that I can walk into a voting station today and cast my vote. This civic duty will continue to be dear to me, its significance will not be lost on me, its importance will not be overlooked.

SO VOTE YA BASTARDS. I don’t give a damn who you vote for, just vote. 


PS: On a lighter note, we published a new deco tip and recipe on our other pages.

Lvoe, Barbars

Barbara: Tha’s hwo I sing my emials evry single time.

Friggin’ typos.

I know my way pretty well around the spelling, but there are words I typo every time. What teh hell? I’m all in the zone and writing my email, text, or Facebook message as fast as three fingers can possibly fly over a keyboard, and––since these formats don't auto-correct––I have to stop and go back 1000 times to fix teh same mistakes over and over. It’s buidling, not building. It’s not good, it’s god. Obvioulsy, not obviously. And friggin' teh teh teh!

And don’t get me started on the two words I maybe use most of all in my messages. “Love, Barbara” comes out every time as “lvoe, Barbars”. I may have even sent an email or dozen with this indecipherable sign-off. Maybe that’s why I stick with the untypo-able: xoxo (Although, real truth be told, I have typed xoxxo, or variations thereof—not the same issue, I know, but I aim for and like the symmetry of xoxo. So I even have to spell-check my acronyms and emoticons. Llo, *sihg*).

It’s exhausting! And why can I write “exhausting” without a slip of a key, but for teh lvoe of Barbars, can only ever get “beleive” on the first pass?!

It’s always soemthing…

DEb: it is so funny you should bring this up because I do many of these adding a few of my very own. I always have to correct lvoe and I also have caps in the middle of words. My fingers just want to. Wonerful isn’t it, how some wrods just end up with misSing letters and some end up with letters that wan’t to be soMewhere else? I worried about the fact that lvoe never comes out rigHt for me. I thought it was a weird thing, sOmething to fret about. So glad you lvoe to write lvoe the same way I lvoe to. KindEred spirits!

Lvoe, DEb

When The Voice In My Head Is Louder Than Yours

Barbara: I noticed this phenomenon first when I was on the receiving end, but it didn’t take long for me to realize that I do it too!

When in discussion with a certain someone, I’d suddenly become aware of the fact that she was finishing every one of my sentences for me. It wasn’t malicious, it was … hmmm, what’s the right word? ... “enthusiastic listening”. She was so intent on letting me know that she was on the same page as me that she kept flaunting our symbiosis by speaking my mind for me. Now here’s the real problem: she was almost always wrong. I would be on my way to saying one thing, she’d interrupt, and I’d have to start my thought over again in order to make the actual point I was trying to make.

Me: “If we bring flyers to the school, we can—“

Her: “I know, hand them out to all the kids. Great idea.”

Me: “Oh, okay, we could do that. But I was going to say we could give them to the teachers to hand out.”

Her: “Right. Give them to the teachers. We could do that too.”

You can see there’s a twofold problem for me: one, the obvious one of being interrupted and misread, but two, the subtler one of the voice in her head being so eager (and clearly much louder than my own), trumping the idea I was about to present and making it seem … lame. And ironically, her habit seems to deflate her too: one, because she’s not on as “same” a page as she thought, and two, because she kinda really likes her own idea now much better and foresees a (possibly lengthy) debate.

It used to really irk me. (I’ve had issues with being “heard”.) Until I found myself doing it too. Repeatedly. To all kinds of people. Then I read somewhere (wish I could find the link for you) that studies show that while we all spend time interpreting other people’s thoughts and intentions, we’re only right 20% of the time. 20%!!! If we’re really gifted and sensitive, it maybe gets bumped up to 30%. That means ALL OF US ARE WRONG ABOUT PEOPLE’S INTENTIONS 70 to 80 percent of the time! Can you believe that?!

I realized that rather than getting irked when it happened to me, I had to do my own homework. I’d have to restrain that voice in my head that can get very LOUD and INSISTENT and, quite honestly, a little OVER ENTHUSIASTIC. So I came up with a game plan: Stop finishing other people’s sentences! Stop trying to convey how much you “get” them! Listen, listen, listen! You can always formulate ideas after you’ve heard the one on the table first. It’s not a race.

And maybe I can hit that 30% mark. But don’t interrupt me. Please.

Deb: I am both a perpetrator and victim of this senseless crime. My excuse is that I get so excited sometimes that I just burst out. Most of the time I say, “Sorry I interrupted you,” but by then the damage is done.

Other people do it to me, and for the most part I can see that it is because they are excited too.

Bottom line is, we do not listen well enough to each other. Well, many of us anyway. And the truth is, I am a very good listener and a major question asker. I am genuinely interested in people and their lives. But when something they say sparks something in my brain, I blurt.

But here is my take on the whole affair. My rule is to try to appreciate the person’s intention. 

Are they simply forcing their stuff on me or are they just enthusiastic? The enthusiasts can be forgiven, but should learn to wait for it… wait for it… wait for it...

I am one of those enthusiasts, always down on myself when I interrupt, but doing it nonetheless. It is something I truly work on ALL THE TIME.

But those of us who think that our poo is just more interesting than the next guy’s poo, shut up and listen. If you do, you may find yourself responding with something far more intriguing than the thought that was ruminating in your noggin while you watched the other person’s lips moved. Take it from a pro. 

PS Stay tuned for a new 3-way on Friday! And a new recipe and deco tip on Saturday.            

When Hate Comes In Waves

Deb: What in the name of God is going on? Mel Gibson? Biting the hand that feeds you, Mel? Charlie Sheen? Yes, Charlie, it was anti-Semitic! John Gallianno? You love Hitler, do you, John?

Beyond my incomprehension that this is going on. I guess what really upsets me is the media response. There are tons of columns discussing the sordid ravings that are Charlie’s life and his addictions, and the details of his “Goddesses”. There is a lot of coverage about Gallianno and who will replace him at the House of Dior. Even more articles about Mel and the ponderings as to his future in Hollywood.

But where is the media outrage about the common denominator: anti-Semitism?

I am constantly struck––and always have been since I was a child––by the beauty and art and influence the Jewish race has brought to this world. Frankly, I am loath to think what we would be without them. Even Christmas––and of course we all see the irony in that––would be less joyful without the myriad of Christmas anthems penned by our Jewish brothers. I am not going to start a list here naming all the Jews who have enriched our lives, because this blog would have to be a hundred pages long. For me, off the top of my head, my life would be less fabulous without Chagal, Paul Newman, Woody Allen, Sally Field, Leonard Bernstein, Jack Benny, and Groucho, just to name a few. This is a teeny little sample of ONLY the well-known people from the Jewish community who have touched my soul.

When I was a little girl, my Dad, a passionate lover of the Jewish people, took pride in pointing out numerous Jewish people whom he loved and admired. My house was a lesson in racial harmony thanks to my parents and they would sing the praises of Negro (it was the 50’s and 60’s) and Jewish accomplishments louder, knowing that it needed to be louder. My Dad loved pointing out when I would admire someone aloud, “He’s Jewish, you know”.

Recently, much to my chagrin, I have had more and more occasion to visit hospitals. The one common thread throughout each and every hospital is the list of Jewish donors. And I am not speaking of Jewish hospitals alone. I am talking about every clinic, and every single hospital I am in. The selflessness of this community is saving the lives of so many people, some anti-Semites among them, I’m sure.

I have pondered this often, as many smarter people before me have, and I have no answers. Okay, maybe I’m grasping at straws, but is it the “chosen people” thing? Sounds silly I know, but are others jealous of this age-old label? Do they envy their accomplishments? Jealous of their ability to rise above centuries of sickening tragic circumstances? What? They exemplify the human spirit and yet they are punished for it again and again. I don’t know. I’m only ever left with questions.

Mr. Sheen, Mr. Galliano and Mr. Gibson, shame on you. I hope you are being ostracized. You deserve to be. It is not my business how you harm yourselves, but shut your racist mouths! And as for the media, speak the frig up! Fill our papers and our news and our heads with the shocking news that this type of thing is happening everywhere and all the time. It is our right to know the extent of it and it is our duty to show our disgust and disdain.

After all they have done for this world, it’s the very least we can do.

Barbara: Deb, I am as shocked and taken aback and, frankly, confused as you are after these series of unbelievable public remarks. Honestly, I wish we had no need to discuss racism at all anymore. But it seems that in the modern world of 2011, we still do.

The very idea of identifying people’s faiths when faith has nothing to do with the discussion at hand makes me really uncomfortable. If we’re talking about religion specifically and how it affects people’s lives, then of course religious background might be pertinent. But if we’re using religion to randomly insult and dismiss people, it’s just ludicrous and demeaning to us all.

So why racism in general and anti-Semitism specifically? Why target a whole group of people who have done nothing to hurt you? What purpose does it serve?

My first guess is that these outbursts come from a toxic kneejerk impulse to blame someone else for their own problems, to find a scapegoat. I mean, come on, how is Judaism relevant to train wrecks like Charlie Sheen and Mel Gibson? Did Chuck Lorre interrupt his set and force everyone to memorize the Torah? Did he divide his cast and crew between the “chosen” and the “un-chosen”? I don’t know Mr. Lorre—he might be the asshole some people say he is––but I’m gonna go out on a limb here (*sarcastic eye-roll*) and suggest his faith has nothing to do with how he behaves. Even less so the demure diners in that French restaurant sitting next to a hate-spewing John Galliano. Hats off to the grace of the innocent victims here: they didn’t sink to the same vile depths as their attackers to retaliate. No, they did what our parents always tell us to do: ignore them and they will go away. Or, better yet, post it to Youtube.

I think it’s time now for us to join hands with people everywhere in solidarity, not mouth off about the incidental things that keep us apart. Hate a specific person if you must, Mr. Sheen, but for godssake, for God’s sake, don’t blame the Messenger. 

Myself Through Your Eyes

Barbara: The receptionist at my gym thinks I’m a bitch. And you know what? She’s right.

We’ve all experienced that moment when someone reveals how they perceive you. Sometimes their revelation is flattering, sometimes it’s surprising, sometimes it’s … complicated.

I remember once my sister told me that when we played games, I was very competitive. I was dumbfounded. I’d never felt myself to be competitive. I mean, I always took the game-playing seriously. I love the puzzling, the need for quick wits, the mind calisthenics. But winning isn’t really super important to me. At least it doesn’t feel like it is. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy winning. A lot. But I’m never upset when I lose. Never get mad. It’s just part of the deal. Later my sister admitted that she might have been projecting her own heated battle over the Scrabble board.

Years later, I was invited to try my hand at curling as part of a festive gathering. Yes, some Canadians apparently have a thing for curling. I am NOT athletic, but I was determined to get a handle on this weird and difficult sport. We were divided into haphazard teams (pity the team who was saddled with me), and I gave it my all. I was bad––very very bad––which made any half-decent “throw of the rock” pretty darned exciting. There may have been ear-piercing squeals of delight. A few days later, the girl who organized the event told me that one of the players (who had never met me before) remarked how “very competitive” I was. “Very competitive” again. Me. My excitement and exuberance had been mistaken for something else. You hear me: MISTAKEN.

But back to the receptionist at my gym. She’s been working at the club for about a year now. Before her arrival, I had been (what I consider to be) a cheerful member for 15 years. But there was a change of ownership last year and since then a million new, annoying, redundant, expensive rules have been implemented. Every time I go to the gym, I get more and more annoyed. And this receptionist is usually the bearer of the bad news. Problem is, she tells me these rules in that grating (to me), officious tone that implies rules can never ever be broken. Or gently bowed. Not even for loyal, paying, long-term customers. She isn’t helpful or kind or sweet about it. Not to me anyway. And so now, as a result, I am cold and unsmiling to her. Bitten and shy (not once/twice, but over and over). We do the whole gym check-in––wherein we exchange all the necessary cards and towels––but we are mutually terse and cool. That essential part of my social self (my usual warmth) goes into hiding. Then—to emphasize, I think, just how much of a bitch I am––when other gym members come in behind me, she’s all smiles and cheerful greetings. The other day, her name and photo had been hung on the wall as “employee of the month”. Huh. Well, in her world, I’m the bitch.

As for impressions, I will say this: sometimes you’re right … and sometimes you’re wrong … and sometimes it’s not me, it’s you.

Deb: Let me say for the record, I have never seen a competitive streak in you at all. You are a team player in every way and I will compete viciously with anyone who says otherwise:-)

I don’t blame you for being pissed by the changes, but more about the way she executes the information. I am going through a similar thing with the receptionist at the dentist. She is sweet and always smiling, but she harasses me on the phone and in person about my husband and his appointments. I tell her time and again that I do not want to speak for him or book for him as he may have his own preferences as to time and day. Started out really nice with her and then the calls came fast and furious until I found myself being clipped with her. Felt badly about it, but I thought at least it’s over. Got to the dentist yesterday and she said, “Oh, Ms. McGrath, can we book your husbands appointment?” I mustered up every nice bone in my body and said, “I’m really not comfortable booking for him,” and she said, honest to Pete, “Oh it’s just that I hate to harass him." WTF? ... Sometimes it’s not me, it’s you.  You speak the truth, Barb!

Something To Get Mad About

Barbara: I’m not super-political and I’m not an educated advocate, but I do want the world to be a better place. I don’t particularly like to get mad at stuff, I prefer a more moderate approach: accept things you can’t change and work diligently to change the things you can. But there are always going to be those irritating things that come along and slap you in the face.

Environmental issues generally drive me crazy. I mean the stomach-churning, ire-raising, head pounding impotently against the wall kind of crazy. Why? Because it seems like such a simple and obvious corollary: if the world is dirty, we must clean it whatever the cost.

I’m going to digress for just a moment here (it’s my blog and I can tangent if I want to). Deb did a PSA (public service announcement) recently for Greenpeace that is posted on the internet. It is absurdly funny. Tear-wiping hilarious. And absolutely bang-on message-wise: Corporate Obtuseness and Political Support romance each other to become the “perfect” power couple. It’s so funny that I asked Deb if we could post it here. It’s so persuasive that it reminded me of my own recurring outrage at environmental destruction and my desire to get this off my chest:

I understand that corporate polluters will have to undergo expensive and time-consuming overhauls to clean up their act; I accept that this is a big thing to ask industry to do; I know that jobs could be on the line and I realize that my job isn’t one of them. But if I got cancer and the only way for me to survive would be to change my diet from a processed but relatively cheap diet to a healthier but substantially more expensive (and more time-consuming) one, I would do it. I would also encourage any friend or family member to do the same. It would be obvious: eat poorly, get really sick and die a slow, painful death; eat well while investing time and money into my health and … wait for it … enjoy a long, healthy, and abundant life.

I just don’t see the political and corporate sense in looking at the short term (ie, immediate financial gain, no required change, impressive quarterly returns—and who the hell made “quarterly returns” the be all and end all???) when the long-term reality is so bleak (hey, there won’t be no quarterly returns if there ain’t no world).

So—besides getting frothing mad—what do I do? The basics: we sort our garbage 3-ways (recycle, organic, and garbage), carry reusable bags, choose food with its ecological footprint in mind, invest in industry with a conscience, make points from time to time in public forums. Laugh and laugh at Deb’s satire. And then share it with you!

When A Nag Is Not A Horse

Barbara: My daughter blurted out a comment the other day that hit a nerve. And while I don’t want to betray her confidence, I did think it was the kind of subject apropos to throw around here for a bit. She had something she wanted to discuss with her boyfriend but was worried she’d come across as a “nag”. This thing she wanted to discuss was neither a demand nor a recurring issue between them; it was more along the lines of a request that he might or might not like. Okay, enough about them. Now to the subject: ARE we nags, or do we FEEL like nags, or do our significant others BELIEVE we’re nags?

And whoa, Nelly, no hating on men, women, significant others, or nags for that matter, equine or other. Just a debate on the difference between how things are and how things are perceived.

Please believe me when I say I am not dissing my husband here—I love him madly, you know that and he knows that––but I will confess that over the years I’ve had my own issues with requests. If I bug him about the tap dripping, am I a nag? If he doesn’t feel like fixing the tap, does he make me FEEL like a nag (meaning, it’s my fault I feel this way) or has he actually ever SAID I was a nag? Honestly, I don’t know!

When I look back over the years, I can remember often feeling that I was a nag, but as I write this I’m not sure if that comes from a literal experience or from my own ingrained response that just because someone doesn’t welcome my suggestions (“Honey, would you mind fixing the tap?”) that their negative reaction turns into a REJECTION OF ME, thus turning the whole sordid affair into an implied accusation that I am a … NAG.

Over the years I’ve gotten a lot better at not twisting people’s responses into indictments against me (it’s win-win, if I misinterpret, I’m an idiot, and if I’m right, I don’t wanna know). But this nag thing keeps nagging at me. And the reason I brought up my daughter’s experience is because I thought their generation might be past all that (especially modern urban creative types). But clearly, no.

So, here’s what I told her—and what I try to tell myself. If you want something, there’s nothing wrong with putting it out there (even if it’s an unwelcome chore). And if the other person doesn’t like it, that doesn’t mean they don’t like you. Even if it takes 200 reminders that the tap needs fixing J

Deb: The word Nag has been around as long as I’ve been alive. And sadly it has always been attached to the female of the species. But I have seen male Nags. And really, to me, Nag simply means someone who is responsible. Someone who wants to get things done that need to be done. Man or woman. It is the person in a relationship that is trying to keep things in running order and keep things looking nice. 

I have witnessed first hand on occasion those who overuse the Nag moniker and they are scary. But my general take on it is that those who are calling someone a Nag, are generally those who don’t give a damn how anything works and are even less interested in keeping it in order.  Do I sound bitter? I have a husband who does more than his share. And a father and a brother who do the same, so I am really not speaking from family experience. My bitterness around this has nothing to do with personal experience. 

I just hate when woman are saddled with these unfair labels and I think that this one has been passed down through generations, which is probably what made your daughter cop to it. There is nothing naggie about this lovely girl. 

Never Heard Of Them

Deb: I am standing in the checkout line at the grocery store and it occurs to me that I do not recognize one single human being on the front of one single magazine cover. In fact it has been some time since I have known these cover-of-magazine people. In fact if it hadn’t been for John Travolta and their new baby, it would have been like the checkout counter on Mars. As it was, I was staring at a nameless tabloid wasteland.

I remember when I was younger and I would mention a random actor or musician and my Dad would famously respond with “Neeeeeeeeeeeever heard of him.” I remember thinking how odd it was that he was so out of touch, and worse, didn’t seem to give a damn. I vowed that I would always stay current and know the latest celebs and music.

And then something happened. I stopped caring. Took me by surprise that did.

I have been able to stay fairly current as the boy makes me mix-tapes and has done so  for a long time. He calls them “Mother’s Mix” and I love them and listen to them often.

But the peeps on the covers of the magazines? Don’t know ‘em, don’t really wanna’.

Who are these cookie cutter creatures anyway? They all look the same to me. Different blonde versions of a skanky cyborg. And the guys all look like they were chiseled from the same rock. Six-pack, eight-pack, a dozen eggs! Geeze louise, do these guys live at the gym? Isn’t the point of “buff” to get some action for your efforts? And for the love of all that’s holy ... SHAVE! We get it. It’s that just tumbled out of bed look. But when the world is becoming overshadowed with five o’clock shadow, it’s time to break out the Gillette.

So, as a result, it has finally happened to me officially. I have decided I will spend more time living my life instead of reading the sordid details of someone else's. Plus it really makes me sad. I always think, “Man, what the hell must Martians think of us?” Then I get really embarrassed for humans and our rep in the Galaxy. Sheesh.

So as the US magazine shouts out to me that Brett Michaels has gotten engaged to Kristie Gibson, I can’t help but proclaim, “Neeeeeeeeeeever heard o’ them.”

Barbara: Oh, this so hit a nerve, Deb. I used to looooooove glancing through gossip rags as I waited in line at the grocery store. Why? Guilty pleasure, morbid curiosity, nosey snooping into how the other half lives? Sadly, all of the above. I didn’t actually buy the mags, but slurped up all my celebrity info via my 10-minute toe-tapping waits by the conveyor belt. It was intravenous gossip.

Nowadays those lines are no less boring, no less a seeming waste of time, but do I pick up those rags? No. Because the very thought bores me even more than the toe-tapping alternative. I too don’t recognize ANY of those people on the covers. And I’ve wondered countless times if it’s that fogey thing of being “out of the loop” or if the loop has gotten so ratty—with its Kardashians and its Snookies and its 16-year-old pregnant moms—that I’m loathe to imagine ANYONE actually interested in them. So:

IS MY MIDDLE AGE SHOWING?!

And then I hear myself say, Well, if they were showcasing Natalie Portman, say, or someone like that, maybe I’d be interested. She’s young, she’s fresh, she’s hot. But really I like her because she’s a nice girl with an Ivy League brain who’s actually talented. And I hear myself say: WHY CAN’T THEY ALL BE LIKE THAT? A nice girl like Natalie Portman.

So I ask you again:

IS MY MIDDLE AGE SHOWING?!

I Never Get Sick!!

Deb: How often over the years have I heard someone exclaim, “I NEVER GET SICK”? It is

always in response to my saying, “I haven’t been feeling too well”, or “I just got over the flu, cold, leprosy” or some similar claim.

The response “I never get sick” always amazes me for several reasons. First of all, it is clearly their way of saying to you, "I am superior to you. Your inability to fight common bugs makes you my human inferior." It is such an obvious status game and it really gets my goat.

This Christmas I declined to hug an old friend at a party because I was just coming out of a flu and didn’t want her to be exposed to any residual germs. She exclaimed loudly to the general crowd around us that she NEVER GETS SICK! I said, “Wow, I guess that makes me a big fat loser.” She looked as though I had struck her, but she had done this same damn thing to me for years. She never sees how rude and elitist that comment is, not to mention condescending.  But there you have it. She doesn’t see her rudeness and never will.  I was the rude one in her eyes.  But I don’t care. I have had it with this game. I have listened to this for years without saying a word.

Do they think I get sick on purpose, like this is something I can actually prevent? I take vitamins and wash my hands and take precautions, but sometimes a bug gets me. So piss off, you “never get sicks”! You do TOO GET SICK! You’re just too egotistical to admit it. If my only claim to fame was “I never get sick”, it would be a sad boast for a sorry life.

My name is Deb, I am human, and I do get sick! If you are some evolved form of humanoid then keep it to yourself or donate your body to science.

Barbara: Well, I never get sick. Because clearly I am a highly evolved humanoid. With super-

hero powers to fight infection and disease. I strut through city streets and verdant glen oblivious to germs and illness.

Did you not know this about me, Deb? Have I not impressed you with my (albeit humbly silent) immunity??? Have you not wondered at my strength, my fortitude, my … what’s the word … perfection???

Sheesh. Well, okay then. You read it here, so let that be the end of it between us. I await (with reinstated humble silence) the imminent arrival of marveling scientists from around the world.

In the meantime, could you please pass the Kleenex?

I AM NOT A THIEF!!

Deb: I am not a thief and I won’t be treated as one. There is a new “solution” that some

retailers have embraced to stop theft in their stores. The store Over the Rainbow in Toronto takes your bags and puts them behind the counter until you are done shopping, causing you to have to wait in line until a salesperson is free so they can return your packages when you want to leave. This is particularly annoying if you’ve only been looking and have no purchase to wait in line for. I have hated it since the day they started it. It reeks of unfair and insulting.

I am not a thief and will NOT pay the price for those who are.

The chain store Aritzia has gone one step farther in their witch-hunt. They take your purse and lock it in a drawer. THEY TAKE YOUR PURSE AND LOCK IT IN A DRAWER.

First time they did this I was flabbergasted, but like a good polite little Canadian I took it on the chin and surrendered my purse. SURRENDERED MY PURSE even though I AM NOT A THIEF. A friend said to me recently that after being asked to surrender her purse she said, “Well, how do I know I can trust the employees with my purse? How do I know you are not going to steal from me?” Well, the young girl looked at her like she had been struck and said defiantly, “I don’t steal”, and my friend said, “Well, neither do I, and I will NEVER set foot in here again.”

The other week I had to go in there and get a gift certificate for my niece for Christmas. All I wanted was to go straight to the cash and receive said certificate, but I was informed that to do so, I would have to first SURRENDER MY PURSE. To which I replied that I would need my FUCKING PURSE to make said purchase. She got the manager who didn’t even have the decency to be red-faced about it. She said that taking my purse was a precaution in case I wanted to “look around”. I said that I did not and that I would never “look around” in this store again. I purchased my gift card, shaking and fuming and marched out, never to darken their doorstep again.

I understand that stores are having theft issues, but that is NOT my problem. I may have mentioned this before but I AM NOT A THEIF! Hire security, put those wiry ropes on merchandise or ask your staff to watch for theft instead of chitchatting.  YOU DO THE WORK. IT’S YOUR FUCKING STORE!

And one more thing ... get your hands off my purse!

P.S. I am now officially boycotting any and all stores that do this and I am taking my letter to the papers, minus the “fucks”. This has gone too far. We are far to accepting of these insults. I am mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore. Hmmmmmm–catchy phrase!

Barbara: Wow. I’m glad I never went into these stores this mad season. That is abominable! And shocking. And just plain wrong. I will join your boycott.

PS on a happier note: my younger daughter woke me up at 2:45am last night so we could go out on the front step and watch the lunar eclipse together. It was magical. The sky was completely clear with crisp points of starlight, and in the centre, the big, high moon, blushing red from solar shadow. First full-moon lunar eclipse on a Winter Solstice in over 300 years!!

We sat and stared for 10 minutes before we got too cold (and tired) and went back inside. There’s the goodness of this beautiful world. And no one tried to steal anything from us.

The Madwoman Of Leaside

Deb: A few weeks ago I witnessed something so shocking that I didn’t even know if I could blog about it.

I was driving my car very slowly on a residential street, slowly because there were three boys on bikes just ahead of me. They were around ten years old, I would say. I noticed a dead squirrel up ahead, and in the next second saw one of the young boys ride up beside the dead squirrel––and spit on it. Spit right on the body of this dead little creature.

Well, I don’t mind telling you, I snapped. It was so shocking to me, this ugly act, that my head was spinning.  When I see a dead animal I always give a nod and a “God bless you”, so you can im-frikkin’-agine how I was desperately searching for reasons that this young boy might commit such an ugly soulless act. Not that it would have made it less ugly, but at least I could see a reason from his age and viewpoint if he had spit in clear view of his buddies. This at least would have made some kind of sense in the show-off-appear-tough kid world.

But this was a solitary act. No one saw him. He was not doing it to impress. But he did it. And my blood ran cold.

I watched the other boys pull up on their bikes one by one to chat. I didn’t notice any of them looking back at the squirrel, so I knew he wasn’t even talking about what he had done. He was just laughing. Suddenly, I was running full speed up to him, the red flash of my parking lights setting the mood for the scene that was about to unfold. I am not proud of what happened next, but I just snapped. Went squirrelly!!!

I said to him, “What the hell” ... wait, I should be more specific ... I SCREAMED at him, “What the hell did you just spit on that dead squirrel for you, little monster?”. 

His friends stared at him. “Fuck off, lady,” said evil boy. I could have laid odds on that answer.

“Listen, you evil little bastard, that squirrel is one of GOD’S CREATURES, you soulless little tool!” 

The boys all stared at the crazy lady. Evil boy stuck out his chin in defiance. The other two boys were scared shitless however and were waiting in hope for men in white coats to emerge from the ATM vestibule and carry me away.

“Mind your own business, lady!” said Evil.

I swear to God I was two seconds away from quoting Jacob Marley in Scrooge: ”MANKIND IS MY BUS-I-NESS!” But instead, just to solidify my newfound status as the Madwoman of Leaside, I screeched, “Laugh it up now, kid, because, you see, I know where you are going to end up. Oh yes! You, kid, are going to end up in jail because you are an evil little bastard.” 

And as they hopped on their bikes and peddled away like competitors in the Tour De France, all you could hear aside from the gentle falling of leaves, was the screech of, “Oh yes, don’t think I don’t know!!! You mark my words, you giant knob, you shell of a human being, that’s where you’ll end up if you don’t do some soul-searching! Jail, do you hear meeeeeeeeeeeeeee? JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

I stood there, my sweaty body reflected in the shadow of his raised middle finger, and let my heart-rate come down. Then I walked back to my car, passing my tiny stiff little friend. You have been avenged, I thought.

Then, I felt insane.

Good insane. 

I keep checking the mail for a lawsuit. Nope. Just Christmas catalogues.

Barbara: Deb, I’m here to confirm­­––between horrified outrage (at boy) and weak laughter (at you)––that this whole thing was indeed kind of insane. Idiot-child’s senseless action and screaming mama slash Dirty Harry slash morally decent protestor’s response. I feel I can say this to you only because a) you know how much I love and respect you, and (most importantly) b) I have experienced this kind of insensible insanity myself. It is a delirious, almost sexy kind of rage. Because it’s so friggin’ righteous.

Of course there’s the car-jacking incident, but, oh, there are sooooo many other times I can hear the echo of my own maniacal, hoarse, outraged voice screaming at some (very deserving) hooligan or other. I can feel the unfamiliar hot blood coursing through my usually calm warm veins.

I wonder if your outburst ever visits evil boy in his nightmares. I wonder if you’ve changed his unfeeling ways. I wonder if this would be called “fool for thought”.

I also wonder if there isn’t some little squirrel angel looking down upon you now as you pass through his old ‘hood, giving you a little furry nod and bow of acknowledgement and squeaky gratitude for defending his honour.