Erin's Journals

It’s hard to imagine it, but January is just about at an end. To say that we’ve been busy (and with company coming Tuesday – and a joyous houseful until we leave in mid-February) is an understatement. This is, as Rob put it, “a different locale to work,” and I’m totally okay with that.
 
Writing the journal every day is a labour of love; returning emails (as much as I can keep up with) is, as well. Writing and recording ads for our Rotary Club in Sidney, as well as for clubs in other parts of the Saanich Peninsula, has been great fun and a chance to flex some muscles that haven’t been used in a while. Tweaking a full-page ad for Rotary for the local paper in Sidney has been an intriguing challenge as well.
 
So much to do and it has made time go far too quickly down here. But we’ll try hard to soak in these last few solo days and get set to entertain for the next few weeks.
 
I’m not a natural host; some people make it look extremely easy and I wish I was among them. Perhaps, like you, I’m always concerned that our guests are busy enough or having fun; Rob and I eat so sporadically that I have to remember to buy food for breakfasts and lunches! But we’ll manage; the people who are coming are all dear friends and we’re looking forward to whatever they choose to do during their time here.
 
In one month – exactly – I’ll be in Toronto (and later Ottawa). And I will tell you that at long last I can fill you in on a recently-added Toronto appearance, for those who’ve been writing in some frustration that I was hitting outer areas like Oshawa or Oakville or Uxbridge, but not the city that Rob and I called home!
 
Well, as I mentioned a week or so ago, CHFI is having a contest wherein winners can join Maureen Holloway and me for an Up Close and Personal in the Rogers Theatre on the night of the book launch: February 26. There’s info on the CHFI website and soon you’ll hear ads for it as well. I’m so excited to be talking with Mo and look forward to the familiar confines of that building and its lovely intimate theatre.
 
But here’s the news: the next day, Wednesday, February 27, before I head out to Oshawa for a Chapters Indigo event that evening (and after a morning interview at CTV’s studios with my dear friend Bev Thomson) I’ll be attending a book signing at First Canadian Place in downtown TO at 12:00 noon and am dearly hoping that if you were looking for a chance for us to connect in person, this will work for you. Here’s the info:
 

 
They’re asking that you buy a book there and, of course, I’ll sign and personalize it. I’m just SO happy that Miracle Melissa (my publicist) has made this happen.
 
And so it goes: the calendar gets fuller with every passing day and in the best ways possible. I hope that as we prepare to flip the page and enter a new month in just a few days, you’re seeing 2019 unfolding in all of the ways in which you’d hoped – with maybe even a few added surprises (but only of the best kind).
 
Have a cozy weekend again, my friend, and thank you for coming by. I enjoyed the spirited discussions on FB about yesterday’s “noisy kid” journal. I love that we can share our opinions – even if they differ – in such a civil and safe space.
 
OH! And this Sunday at 9 Eastern Time, CNN is running its documentary Three Identical Strangers. I saw it in a theatre last year and will watch it again – triplets separated at birth find each other in their college years and you will never forget this story. Ever. I wrote a journal about it back in August, and you can find it here, if you’re interested. You’re going to want to set the PVR right now for this amazing film.
 
Take care.
 

Did you hear the story about the Vancouver area man who’s been evicted because of his three-year-old’s “running, stomping and banging?” The story from CTV is here. 
 
Here’s the Twitter-length version: several residents had submitted formal complaints that little Marcus is too loud. Dad admits that the condo’s wooden construction likely amplified the little pitter-pat of Marcus’ not-so-tiny feet, but still, they’ve been given to the end of the month to find new lodgings.
 
And do you know what? I am okay with that.
 
Yes, we have a four-year-old grandson who likes to be boisterous – BOYsterous even – and we get that. But he’s also been taught to be considerate of the feelings of others. That includes those whom you can’t see, but are on the other side of walls or floors or ceilings. It’s called parenting.
 
We had our own terrible neighbour when we lived in a condo in downtown Toronto. Up on the 31st floor, our neighbours above were in what they called the LPH or Lower Pent House. Whether at 11:30 pm or 1 am, we’d be awakened by the very clear sounds of someone practising piano. Same refrains again and again. And did I mention it was loud?
 
Our condo rules specified that a certain percentage of floor space had to be covered by rugs or carpet, in the hopes of keeping down the noise factor. This piano – it was a baby grand, we’re told by staff who’d been in there – was not on a rug until we complained about it.
 
But the young lady playing it (whose parents occupied another condo so their little private school prodigy could do whatever she wanted) didn’t care about our pleas for quiet after a certain hour. Whether or not she knew that I got up at 3:30 am every day, I’m not sure; nor do I think it would have made any difference.
 
When building management would call her the next day, she snapped that her parents have lawyers to “take care of you!” We didn’t stay around to find out if the entitled little twit was telling the truth.
 
When Lauren moved out a short time after all of this silliness, we downsized to a smaller condo on a lower floor. There, we could hear a woman come home every night around 10:30, walk around in her high heels and then often vacuum.
 
The mechanical noise or the clickety-click of heels were better than Miss Thing’s wretched renditions of whatever composer she was making grateful for his decomposition. This overhead overload is also why we always try for a top floor when we book into a hotel. It’s not always possible without blowing the budget, but at least we don’t hear partiers coming in with their stilettos on tile floors at all hours.
 
So, yes, heartless as some may see the decision, I’m on the team of the man’s neighbours, who want, asked for and deserve some peace. Yes, boys will be boys (and nowhere do I see that the child has a condition that makes him unable to control or limit his activity or noise levels), but the words “stop!” and “no!” and “quiet!” go a long way, too. I’m tired of always being at the mercy of other people’s civility (or lack therof).
 
Leaving a condo wasn’t the first or last time bad neighbours made us choose to go: we sold our cottage on the Trent Canal because our new neighbours thought it was just fine to set off fireworks at 1 am on a Monday and to tell us to F-Off when we ran out in our pajamas begging them to stop. If being a good neighbour has to be enforced, then so be it. I hope they like their new home better. Maybe it will be over a bowling alley and everyone can get what they want.
 

Well, here we are, one day closer to the weekend and one day after the Oscar Nominations were announced for another year. Since I totally didn’t get Roma, which was honoured with 10 nominations yesterday (my earlier review here, if you’re interested), I thought maybe I’d have better luck with the film which tied Roma for 10 noms, The Favourite. 
 
I try hard not to go into a film knowing too much about it; had I done so, I could easily have ruined the experience of The Wife, whose starring turn by Glenn Close should finally win her Best Actress (on her 7th nomination) on Sunday, February 24.
 
Here’s what I knew about The Favourite going in: a rather libidinous royal (played by Olivia Colman, soon to be Queen Elizabeth II on TV’s The Crown) is wooed and swayed by two younger courtiers – fellow Oscar nominees Rachel Weisz and Emma Stone, who are both trying to earn her favour through intimacy. I could expect, I believed, a rollicking and rrrrrribald comedy.
 
One journal visitor told me that she and her husband were prompted to leave (or nearly leave) the theatre mid-movie. Now that is something I’ve never done: gotten up and left a film. I’d have to be in the wrong theatre or have chosen a totally inappropriate film in order to gather up my coat, purse and snacks and leave my $13 seat behind. So, I knew we weren’t going to do that.
 
We paid our discount Tuesday $7 ($8.30 with online booking fee, which is stupid ’cause we’re doing the work here) and off we went last evening; popcorn and peanut M&Ms for supper once again. It’s good to be a grown-up.
 

 
The film is set in the 18th century; the central figure, Queen Anne, is the last of the ruling Stuarts. Beset by ailments and able to trust few, as she rules in war on the field and conflict in the palace, she finds herself the unwitting flag in a game of tug o’ war between her controling lady-in-waiting (Weisz) and a conniving, grasping, seemingly angelic scullery maid (Stone) who moves stealthily up the palace ladder.
 
There’s plenty of planning and intrigue but NO ENDING. The film just goes black in the midst of a scene that seems to paint that truly “you can’t always get what you want,” whether you’re “to the manor born” or you let nothing get in the way of your goal. Everyone pays a price for everything we have.
 
At least…I think that’s the message? Like almost every skit on Saturday Night Live, this film (which had glints of humour but far fewer laughs than an episode of SNL) simply went black without wrapping up any loose ends. It reminded me of Roma in that way, too. It just ends. (But do stick around for The Favourite‘s credits; they’re truly the most annoying post-film graphics I’ve ever seen. Like an eye chart, only less legible and with a far shorter window for viewing each slide.)
 
I didn’t dislike The Favourite, but there’s no way I can recommend it – or at least, not all of it. It needed an ending. We invested far too much in the Lady, the Queen, the maid and the members of parliament just to have it go to a black screen.
 
If that’s art, I’ll take mine paint-by-number. You, too, Roma.
 
Talk to you here tomorrow.
 

There’s that old saying about taking lemons and turning them into lemonade and while I’m all in favour of the sentiment of it – making something sweet out of a sour situation – around here, the lemons go into hot water and start our day. And we’re thrilled that they grow on a tree near a house that’s undergoing renos, so we’re helping ourselves to the dark yellow, sweet fruit that would otherwise go to waste.
 

 
The above are Meyer lemons – thought to be a cross between a citron and a mandarin/pomelo hybrid. They’re sweet enough that they can alter a lemon meringue pie recipe (cutting the need for sugar) and they make for a lovely morning drink. (While the jury of internet know-it-alls seems to be out on whether lemon juice is a good cleanse, Rob and I figure it can’t hurt and it’s a great way to prime our taste buds for a great cup of coffee!)
 
Yesterday, our dog walk came after quite a ferocious wind storm. We were delighted to come across an orange tree that had shed so much fruit (the origins of the word “windfall,” I’m told) that the cloth bag we’d brought (for just such a possibility) came in very handy. 
 

 
But right next to that tree was one bearing the strangest looking fruit I’ve seen down here in California. What on earth was this bumpy mess?
 

 

 
We assumed it was probably a grapefruit; they grow plentifully on neighbours’ trees as well. So when I got home, I had no hopes that it was something I’d be able to eat (a prescription I take forbids grapefruit) and Rob was resigned to having to eat one of his less favourite fruits. 
 

 
Imagine our delight when I cut it open and tasted it: this was no grapefruit! It was indeed a lemon. A great big, sour lemon. In fact, it is a citron – the very fruit used in making a Meyers lemon. When I looked up the Meyers lemon online for this journal, there it was: a picture of the bumpy yellow fruit that had made us scratch our heads.
 

 
We were able to get quite a bit of juice from this bitter baby and we’ll be having some first thing tomorrow. 
 
In the meantime, while I’m always glad to learn new things and experience new foods, I still wonder who the first person was to crack open an oyster and say, “Hmmm…I bet this will taste good.” Ugh. It’s a wonder people have survived, huh? 
 
Here’s to taking lemons – or citrons – and making, not just lemonade or pie, but a journal. You have a great day and we’ll be back with you tomorrow. Pucker up!
 

Hey there – hope you had a gentle weekend and managed to do some cocooning. We did, although it wasn’t our intention.
 
On Friday, celebrating a sunny day, we were outside and I decided to rearrange the garbage cans (yes, my life is just that exciting. Next up: sock drawer). While standing in loose fitting loafers, on a hill of gravel, I somehow rolled my ankle and went down on the driveway. There was no outward damage: some scrapes on my hands where I (thankfully) broke my fall. The problem – aside from that rolled left ankle – is the right knee, which bent inward (towards the other leg) at an angle that the body isn’t quite meant to achieve.
 
When Rob came out from the house, I had caught my breath and taken inventory. No blood, nothing broken. Phew! He helped pull me to my feet and off we went on our little outing, a drive to nearby Rancho Mirage for dinner.
 
Overall, I felt fine and grateful not to have hurt the ankle I sprained so badly about ten years ago when I hit a wall on Rob’s motorcycle/scooter while learning to drive it – something I gave up immediately, as I felt it was God saying, “Oh, no you don’t.” I cancelled my lessons at Humber (which were to start that weekend) and spent a few days on crutches due to those right ankle and knee injuries.
 
Anyway, Saturday was the Women’s March in L.A.. A bus left Palm Springs at 7 am taking everyone to the march, which was to wrap up with performances and speeches. Having been wildly inspired last year in Seattle when we took part, I was hoping to add to our experience L.A.-style this year. But, alas, not to be. I wouldn’t have been able to walk far on my bum knee.
 
Yesterday, this picture popped up in my Facebook memories from last year.
 

 
We’d driven to Seattle to see comic Lewis Black, and as luck would have it, we fit in the matinee for an August Wilson play as well. The 2018 Women’s March coincided with those highlights and we were not only grateful to have taken part, but marvelled along the way what Lauren would have said! I mean, we had never marched in protest or support of anything during her lifetime. 
 
Why march? Why as parents and grandparents? See the quote above. That’s why. Because women’s rights are human rights. Because any equality or progress that we have made over the last century is due to women who stood up and were heard, and those sacrifices and that bravery can never ever be taken for granted or forgotten.
 
I liken it to the “what’s wrong with being friends with ‘Russher’?” question that tRump and his ilk have asked since questions of collusion began to arise before the 2016 election even took place. I liken it to the MAGA-hatted gang of Kentucky Catholic high school thugs who intimidated, mocked and threatened Native American Nathan Phillips of the Omaha tribe – a Vietnam vet at that – at a march on Friday. (One of the most prominent boys’ mothers blamed “Black Muslims” for intimidating her boy. I kid you not.)
 
We are bound to repeat history if we do not remember it – and what better way to remember than to make our voices heard?
 
On this day honouring Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. here in the U.S., we remember and salute those who have sacrificed to bring awareness to inequality, unfairness or outright illegal practices. Whether it’s Canada’s own Viola Desmond or Dr. King himself, Nathan Phillips on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial or a Women’s March in Toronto’s Nathan Phillips Square, we have a right and an obligation to stand up and be heard, lest that right be taken away. If the past two years here in the U.S. have taught us anything, it’s that the future holds no guarantees.
 
March for those who did so in the past, but with your eyes on the future. I don’t know where Rob and I will be next year, but we’ll be looking for a march. 
 
Have a gentle Monday and we’ll be back with you tomorrow.