Erin's Journals

Hello – and I hope you had as restful a weekend as the season allows. It’s just two weeks now until Christmas Eve and we’re feeling strangely serene given how insulated we are from the whole holiday rush. Presents were handed off to be delivered to our family members in the BC interior; Phil, Colin and Brooke have received and opened their gifts, including my favourite of this year, a collection of three pairs of socks for Colin.
 
Before you think I’ve really lost my mind, let me qualify that by saying, yes, he got bigger presents. But when I found these in a store in downtown Palm Springs that only sells socks (the most amazing selection) I actually hugged the sales lady! I’m sure she thought I was nuts. I mean, who gets that excited about socks? Well, I do – but let me explain why. 
 
I went into the store and my jaw dropped as I saw hundreds – maybe thousands – of pairs of socks adorned with everything from sayings to famous faces to sports teams. Yes, this American store had these!
 

 
Hoping against hope, I asked the young woman who offered to help us if they had a pair with bananas on them. As you may know, we call ourselves Grama and Grandad Banana and when Colin wants to talk with us, that’s who he asks his Brooke to call. We call him Baby Banana or Cocobanana…just silly names, like we had for his mommy when she was growing up, and it’s fun. 
 

 
There you have them: Coconut (our nickname for him when he was born, child of Peanutty and a play on Colin’s name), Bananas (us) and monkeys (as in the “Five Little Monkeys” in one of his favourite song videos right now). 
 
Our pal Lisa took them back to Canada last month with her, popped them in a gift bag and mailed them to Brooke and Phil. The socks arrived and he opened them last week. He called out what each of them was and we were delighted – probably way too excited for a child to open socks than we had any right to be – and he said he wanted to wear the banana ones the next day. On Sunday he was wearing his coconut socks!
 

 
(This was the best picture I could get via Facetime – trying to capture a rambunctious four-year-old is a bit of a challenge!) 
 
Now, don’t get me wrong: I’m not so far removed from childhood that I don’t recall what a downer getting socks could be at Christmas! Typical grandparent gift of old, right? But these three pairs made me hope just a little bit that when he chooses to put them on in the morning (and, oh yes, he coordinates many of his outfits, including which socks he wants to wear to school, play and sleep) he might think of us.
 
While I’m not sure he gets the connection between us and the gift of the tablet he plays on, and through which we get our precious Facetime, those socks might just give him a better understanding (literally) of just how much two people very far away are thinking of and loving him. Oh, so much.
 
Have a gentle Monday and thank you for coming by. Here’s to warm feet, warm hearts and warm thoughts – always!
 

Here we are already at the end of another week and now, something I promised: a Friday Favourite. Today, the spotlight is again on one of my favourite things…sleeeeeeeep.
 
Before I get to that, I want to thank you for your response to yesterday’s “Baby It’s Cold Outside” journal. I am dying to write another journal with your comments and my answers to some of them and, if you’ll indulge me, I’ll do that next week if it still feels relevant. But for now, the journal I meant to post last Friday before the whole book tour thing began to spark (and I expect to have more dates and times soon. Stay tuned as we used to say….)
 
This one is the perfect gift if you, your spouse, or someone else you love is one of those people who loves covers. Loves blankets. Loves being tucked in. Loves weight.
 
For me, even in the summer, I will have my sheet, a comforter and then a bathrobe or blanket overtop. It’s not a matter of staying warm, it’s that feeling of security and comfort. Even when Molly climbs up and sleeps on my shoulder (when I’m lying on my side) I don’t mind at all. Unless she snores, which I’m sure she minds about me, too.
 
We were wandering through a store a few weeks back and I couldn’t believe my eyes. There was a product that I’d only heard shared on the air in stories about weighted blankets: studies show they ease anxiety, can help some behavioural difficulties and, of course, just provide oodles of comfort. We bought one immediately. 
 

 
The packaging says it weighs 12 pounds and, in making the bed, I really can’t argue that. It’s heavier than it sounds! It has a soft short-plush side and the size we bought is basically a single.
 

 
Prices vary (it’s definitely available in Canada and I’ve seen it up to 15 pound) but expect to pay about $100. What makes it heavy? Tiny (and silent) glass beads. They’re also what keeps this blanket from roasting you (I gave it to our friend Anita to try out one night when she was here and she was incredulous that it didn’t roast her). 
 
Again, if there’s someone you know who loves heavy coziness while sitting watching TV or lying in bed (even anxious dogs are said to benefit from them) I recommend this one hundred percent. As I said, I didn’t know they were a real thing until I saw them on the store shelf. So maybe you’ll know to look for one now, too.
 
Have a terrific weekend and I have lots of new journals for you again here next week. Saw a tremendous movie that got great attention from the Golden Globes in their nomination announcements yesterday, so I’ll share that, too. Take care. Stay cozy, my friend!
 

We’ll get to the “Baby It’s Cold Outside” discussion in a second…but I want to start today with a special shout-out to a woman who is tiny in stature but occupies a great big place in our hearts.
 
Helen Moase today turns 89 years old and she’s the very example of strength and heart. Shortly after Helen’s husband, our very dear friend and former bandmate Carl, passed away in 2004, she suffered a heart attack. Those of us who know this couple just weeks away from marking their 50th wedding anniversary, also know that Helen was suffering from a broken heart, as many are saying helped contribute to the passing of 41st US President George H.W. Bush only eight months after his wife Barbara died.
 
But Helen was fortunate in that she was still able to fight: she decided to do whatever it took to return to good health, determined that her children were not going to bury two parents in one year. And I’m happy to say that, not only did she recover fully, but Helen went on to volunteer at the same hospital that treated her, so that she could help others who’d gone through what she’d endured, to recover and find good health again.
 
Soon she’ll mark the milestone of being the longest-serving volunteer there and we couldn’t be prouder of our friend, who was, in addition to being married to a man that Rob considered to be like his father in many ways, Lauren’s surrogate grandmother. She’s a part of our family and this is a big day. And here she is with the tiniest member of our family at our old place on Lake Simcoe: Molly on the couch and almost on Helen’s shoulder!
 

 
From the sublime to the (possibly) ridiculous: I’ve had people asking my opinion here this week on the fact that radio stations are opting out of playing the holiday season staple “Baby It’s Cold Outside” because of its lascivious lyrics. I guess I’m asked because Mike Cooper and I did a version that was played every Christmas season on CHFI. It was fun, silly and sounded like two very good, hammy friends flirting with each other (as we did – with hopeless, helpless abandon and to the amusement of our spouses).
 
Here’s a link to our version (which you weren’t going to hear on the air again anyway). You be the judge. To me the most offensive part of this song may well be how we digitally down-tuned the instrumental track so that the band sounded like they’d been on a three-day binge! But Mike and I have a shared vocal range that is, shall we say, limited. (Mike wrote yesterday and said, “Thanks for making me sound like a perv.” Ah, Mike!)
 
The issue that has come to light thanks to a CBC article is that the lyrics just aren’t acceptable in a post-#metoo era. Of course, some call it the Golden Age of Being Offended.
 
Like the true Libra I am, I’m of two minds. (We’re all about weighing all the options and still being unable to pick one damned thing off the menu.) I’ve read comments on that CBC site and a great many of them are from men who basically say “lighten up or change the channel.” One part of me agrees wholeheartedly. As the comedian Ricky Gervais put it, just because you’re offended doesn’t mean you’re right.
 
But…what if they are? What if they are right? The lyrics to this Oscar-winning song include, “Hey, what’s in this drink?” (which I assumed meant he’d put booze in, but others’ minds go in a more Cosby-like direction) and his relentless pursuit of a woman who keeps on saying no – again and again. Clearly, he wants her to stay and fool around. I hear that as a fun song. But is the song instead deep down about rape or a lack of consent?
 
Here’s where interpretation – the ear of the beholder, if you will – comes in. As with almost anything we experience, it’s a matter of our own personal filters. If you were in a position where you were concerned you couldn’t get out of a tight situation that might have turned into assault – or God forbid, you weren’t able to – I can understand finding that song triggering or disturbing.
 
For others, it’s a hokey and dated song about a guy trying to get lucky. Is she resisting because her aunt and her parents say “no,” is she playing a cat-and-mouse game (and remember this song is well over 50 years old) or is it JUST A SONG?
 
Some who posted on the CBC’s comments cited lyrics in other songs that get radio airplay despite their controversial content. And they’re right. But once again – your radio has buttons. You have a choice to change the channel or to mute the song, which is what I do whenever I hear certain songs at this time of year. (For the record, they’re not because they make me sad – only “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” does that – but because I just can’t stand them or heard them waaaaaaay too many times from 5am to 9am over the years.)
 
Does a person have the right to be offended? Absolutely. Does everyone have to agree? Of course not. And the last time I checked, radio stations are allowed to choose which songs they do and do not play. Usually it’s dictated by popularity, what fits a format and what listeners prefer to hear. Right now, one song is probably not the hill many program or music directors want to die on, so it gets put away.
 
Now, can we get back to things that really matter? Like thanking volunteers. People who look beyond the everyday minutiae to help others. That works for me. Thank you, Helen, and Happy Birthday.
 

Today, a legend in Toronto radio is hosting his final morning show. I never had a chance to work with Roger Ashby, but I have vast respect for what he’s achieved in this beloved medium of ours, and empathy for the sea of feelings he’s experiencing today. I wish him well, always, and many years of joy with his wife Moira. I’ll be sending big hugs. And to Marilyn, too. I know what it’s like to lose a longtime partner. Smooth sailing, all. 
 
Thanks for your enthusiastic feedback about yesterday’s Gift of the MAGA journal. To be clear, I didn’t come up with the nickname Cheeto Mussolini (although I wish I had). It’s just one of many I come across on Twitter now and then. Credit where credit’s due – if only I knew to whom!
 
Okay – let’s shake that off. Deep breath. A really niiiiiice cleansing breath. ‘Cause this is lovely. Here we go.
 
If you have December 12, one week today, circled on your calendar, you’ve probably bought your ticket or tickets on the Princess Margaret Cancer Centre Home Lottery. It’s sold out, so I’m not here to nudge you to buy tickets on behalf of this amazing facility that has helped so many of our loved ones. Even though I’d listen to our own radio ads and buy tickets, I remember Mike Cooper winning at least one thing on the draws every year. Me – nothing! But that’s okay; the tale of this win beats them all. 
 
Last week, I got a message on social media from Carol C. She wrote about her girlfriend, whose husband Malcolm died from cancer on July 10. He chose to leave this world via MAID (Medical Assistance in Dying), remaining at home through his illness and in the loving care of his wife Daphne and their family. They were all grateful for MAID and at peace with the process, and wanted me to share that with you.
 
Malcolm, an avid arborist who loved to travel (they had to cancel a trip to Switzerland planned for just the month prior to his passing from lung cancer) was never one to buy lottery tickets. But for some reason, Daphne was moved to buy a Princess Margaret ticket because of her late husband. I’m guessing she was hoping to help out other families who had been through the same hellish ordeal that her family had just emerged from. Or maybe she thought she deserved a little good luck? Perhaps both; who knows?
 
Daphne got more than a little good luck. As Carol shared with me, when the Early Bird Draw was made last Thursday, this happened.
 

 
Daphne won the $1.5M Muskoka 3,000 square foot lakefront cottage plus $75,000 in cash and two Muskoka paddle boards. 
 
Fantastic, right? Well, from the outside, perhaps.
 
It is probably the luckiest thing that could have happened to this family, but I know for a fact that what they really want is to have Malcolm with them. Really good luck would have meant his cancer was stopped and he went on to enjoy many more years with his family. Imagine, if you can, winning a dream home like this on the water in your retirement years and the person who has traveled all of those years with you isn’t there to share the sunsets, hear laughter as children play in the water, or take in the quiet beauty of an Ontario summer and fall. 
 
There are many ways at which someone could look at this windfall. I hope that Daphne and her family – whether they decide to sell (as so many do) or to enjoy the furnished home that providence has given them – know that there is still so much joy to be had in this life, even after we lose the people closest to us. I’m sure they’re considering what Malcolm would want; I wonder if they hear his British-accented voice saying, “Bloody Hell – why do you think I made this possible, if not to bring you some happiness?”
 
Life is short – so often too short – but it does have ways of surprising us! It’s up to us to stay open to the possibilities and find the sweetness in even the most heartwrenching times. I wish Daphne and her family every bit of happiness that they can mine from this incredible turn of events. Goodness knows they deserve it. Here’s a shot her friend Carol sent.
 

 
Have a lovely Wednesday and I’ll be back with you here tomorrow to respond to questions about a holiday season song (’cause it ain’t about Christmas!) that has some radio listeners feeling, well, cold – outside and in.
 

I haven’t mentioned it here yet, but a very Happy Hanukkah to you and yours. Now, to switch lanes: you’ve heard of the Gift of the Magi, right? They’re the Three Wise Men and, of course, are a huge part of the story of the birth of Jesus. Well, meet my own Gift of the MAGA: three stories of not-so-wise-men that we’ve encountered in just the past week down here in California. Here we go.
 

 
MAGA #1: The other night as we took our guests to the Cheesecake Factory in Cathedral City (named for the nearby canyon – Cathedral, not Cheesecake) we parked our car near a beaten up old Subaru that had a bumper sticker on it that read: If you still support Hillary, Back UP. I don’t trust your judgment.
 
I don’t know if whoever drives it still feels that way at this point in Trump’s presidency, or if taking the sticker off would pull off the bumper, but it still made me shake my head. Like her or not, Hillary was warning us about him being a Putin puppet until the last vote was cast. And every day she’s being proven more and more correct.
 
MAGA #2: During their all-too-brief visit here, we took our friends Ian and Anita to a local weekend favourite, the market at College of the Desert. Lined with vendors offering clothes, hats, fishing excursions in Northern BC and lots of food, we were drawn into a store that had the loveliest plush-lined light pink spa robes. I was looking seriously at buying one until I saw that near their embroidery machine were two hats. Both of them black, they had the call signs of every legitimate TV news outlet like MSNBC, NBC, CBS, CNN and more sewn on…surrounding, in big letters, two words: FAKE NEWS. Guess which broadcaster wasn’t there? You got it: FOX. 
 
Now, there’s a chance that the man who kindly greeted me as I entered the white tented store was only selling the hats to make the $20 that other hat vendors at the fair were making. But – probably unreasonably – I decided that I didn’t want to give him my money for that soft robe that had beckoned me to begin with. 
 
Why unreasonably? Because if he had a hat that said “My Daughter is the Best Kisser,” “No Fat Chicks,” “Beer Makes Even You Look Good” or something equally tasteless, I’d ignore it and keep shopping. But because what those hats of his say is so egregiously similar to what comes out of Cheeto Mussolini’s mouth (unfortunately I didn’t come up with that nickname, but I wish…), I couldn’t even consider supporting the guy who would sell those hats. 
 
MAGA #3: Driving to a restaurant along a busy six-lane road in the dusk, I could see into one of the many high-end car dealerships. (Need a Lamborghini or a Bentley? Palm Springs is the place to be. Oh my….) There, in the brightly-lit but empty showroom, I could see a TV on and the face of Tucker Carlson. If I was a potential car buyer, I’d tell whomever was on the front desk that I didn’t trust anyone who believed FOX News, turn on my heel and leave. But I guess when your demographic is “old guy with too much money,” you fish where the fish are. Come to think of it, why not have an aquarium channel on? This fish would be looking for another place to feed.
 
Clearly, this winter I have to learn a lesson in “live and let live.” Perhaps that’s what I’ll take away from this time in a foreign country that is having heightened civil woes. And I’ll continue to hope that every decent person of Canada, where hate crimes have risen noticeably since Trump helped make America openly racist again, fights this trend on every front. In my home country, I will stand up and I will be heard. 
 
On Twitter last Friday, I retweeted a comment commending PM Justin Trudeau for calling the US President by his first name at the G20, just as Trump does to Trudeau and anyone else he feels he can belittle, whenever he pleases. When someone tried to tell me that Trump deserves respect and Trudeau should have shown it, I straight out said no.
 
Well, bright and early Saturday morning, at least two Proud Boy wannabes were calling me out and responding with personal insults and swearing about JT. I guess a simple retweet not hating our Liberal prime minister is all it takes for the vitriol to come out in a bilious torrent. But it was fun to block them. Is there a way to apply that ability to everyday life?
 
Something to ponder as we head into another day. May it be a peaceful one all around.