Housebound

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For reasons I didn’t understand at the time, it was clear to me early on that I needed to escape my home. At 24, I finally tunneled out. Despite growing up with plenty of space—my own room, a big yard beside a woods, indulgent parents, all the usual middle-class advantages—I felt a kind of panic. It all belonged to someone else, was someone else’s plan, someone else’s future. I finished school, got a job, saved some cash, lit out for a city apartment and didn’t look back.

I’ve always hated that house. After every visit, kept short with excuses of a busy urban life, I got the hell out. I rarely stayed the night. But now I am back. Now I am straddling two homes, two worlds, two headspaces. And somehow now it’s my name on the deed.

.  .  .

In my earliest memory, I am romping in the backyard on a summer day with Jake, the family dog. It's a big yard. And a small dog. The tall cedar hedges defining the property lines contain us.

.  .  .

A friend of mine says she wants nothing to do with the bother and responsibilities of home ownership. I felt the same way–at least I thought I did. I fancied myself an iconoclast, resisting societal norms. After all, in our culture, home ownership is accepted as an inevitability, along with marriage and offspring—the Holy Trinity of a Western existence.

My parents built this house, number 35, the seventh house on the right. There was no architect, no designer. My mother chose every finish, positioned every light switch, and drafted every inch. I tell people that her blood runs in the walls. It’s not a large or luxurious house; it’s a modest bungalow of about 1500 square feet. The right word, I think, would be “practical,” or “functional.” There are some distinctive features, which I have only recently come to appreciate, but their purpose does not seem to be to increase comfort, only usability.

They moved in five years after they married, saving every penny to afford the plans, the lot, and the contractor. They did not finish it all at once, and along the way they waited until they could afford the best fixtures and materials. The garage wasn’t added until decades later. I didn’t witness this exciting alteration; at the time I hadn’t spoken to my parents in years. One night around that time, I found a stoic phone message from my father telling me goodbye—just in case he didn’t make it through his hernia surgery the following morning.

.  .  .

My dad and I are sitting in the room adjoining the kitchen, a room most people would call the family room. My mother, in her usual warm and fuzzy way, calls it the auxiliary room. She is standing in the doorway. They are in the middle of a rare fight—I wish I could remember about what. She turns and shouts at him, "This is MY house!"

.  .  .

There is a clear demarcation between the public and private areas. In fact, a wall and two doors almost equally divide the house across the middle. The three of us rarely inhabit the public half (I still don’t) and there are clear "for family" and "for guests" delineations, even in the bathroom. There are actually two bathrooms, which my mother carefully distinguishes by name: the two-piece with the toilet is the “washroom” and the room with the tub and shower is the “bathroom.” I am so trained not to disturb the "guest sink" or towels in the washroom, or its careful vignette of glass jars, pink rose-shaped soaps, and seashells, that I still leave the washroom to wash my hands in the sink down the hall.

.  .  .

Guests of any stripe always take precedence. One December evening, terrified by Rudolph's toothy Abominable Snowman, I run to find my mother, who is chatting with a guest at the front door. Rudely interrupted by her weeping, saucer-eyed child, she turns and barks at me. I return to the TV to face the Snowman alone.

.  .  .

We rarely hosted childhood sleepovers. My room contained only my twin bed, so someone had to sleep on the floor, and we didn’t have a finished rec room or family room, only the auxiliary room. Once my best friend Sandra stayed over, and we camped on the hard tile floor of this room, our sleeping bags squeezed into the narrow gap between the washer and dryer and the kitchen table and chairs.

.  .  .

I am often banned from the kitchen and auxiliary room while my mother undertakes the laborious two-day process of waxing and polishing the grey two-tone floor tiles. I watch from the doorway as she struggles with a massive green-metal floor polisher that she just barely has under control.

.  .  .

I’m finding there are many rules around home ownership, especially home ownership in such an apparently desirable suburban location, SmartCentres notwithstanding. Some rules I learned early on; others I’m learning now. There is a tyranny in this place, a silent and unwritten proscription against uncut grass, empty recycling bins left at the curb, Christmas lights left up a tetch too long, foreigners. The suburbs are ruled by the Velour-Lawn Mafia, and I hear them in my head every time I turn in to my unplowed driveway.

.  .  .

My friend and I are playing in the back yard when I hear the front doorbell chime. Hoping for an interesting visitor or other diversion, we run to investigate. I am disappointed to see it is only the boring old garbage-collection contractor, there to pick up a payment from my mother. When I see him, I spin around and say to my friend, "Oh, it's just the garbage man." I do not understand my mother’s reaction or her shame; nor could I have predicted my own harsh punishment.

.  .  .

It must have crushed her to see me turn my back on her dream and escape, to know I hated my home and hometown. I didn’t know that at the time, of course. I only knew that in some essential way, I did not belong there, that I could not follow its rules, and if I didn’t flee, I would not survive.

.  .  .

I am lying in my little bed, in my little pink room. I am stiff with terror. Just down the hall, there is a series of soft booms. They sound like heavy footsteps, and I am sure I hear them coming closer. Clearly they indicate the approach of a monster of some kind. There is nothing to do but wait for it to appear. It is between my room and my parents’; besides, I know my fears will be dismissed even if I seek help. The monster is in no hurry. His footsteps continue until I succumb to my exhaustion.

.  .  .

She probably knew she was dying, but rather than share this information, she kept mum and continued to care for my increasingly addled and frail dad. She pretended to consider—and then politely rejected—all alternatives to staying at the house. She clung to her autonomy and control. I struggled to convince her to accept help. It was all just to humour me. I see that now.

Afterwards, the house stood empty, with new AlarmForce stickers on the doors. Somehow I could not move forward with the disemboweling and sale. My dad waited patiently in grim long-term-care facilities while I hunted for his new, final home.

Eventually I found that home, and we were both content for a time. But after his hospital stay last year, his new home could no longer cope, and he faced the prospect of long-term care once again. Luckily, there was another option. The seventh house on the right stood waiting for us.

It was a difficult and often stressful summer, but I have no regrets. Though it turned out that my dad had come unmoored from his memories of the house, I was grateful that we could enjoy the place together, sitting in companionable silence in the shady garage, supervising the street, or on the patio, watching the birds at the feeder or the bunnies munching on the lawn.

While I cared for him over those last months, I looked around me at what had become my mother’s shrine. I began to dare to make small changes that I thought might enhance the original. I installed some chic lights in the entry. I hired a landscaper to plant trees. I put up Hallowe’en decorations and dug a vegetable garden. I hope to make it greener and more environmentally efficient. I hope to find deserving new owners. There is no rush.

.  .  .

To my mother, this house must have been the culmination of a dream, an escape from a childhood made unstable by booze and war. It was a place where she could raise her favoured children and graciously host her gracious guests, where she could conjure, maintain, and control the illusion of a perfect suburban life with a generous yard and shining two-tone tiles. And thanks to that wall and two doors, her guests would be spared any glimpses of the private cost of that illusion.

I don’t hate this place anymore. I am stranded here for now, but not forever. For a time I toyed with the idea of coming back for good, of undergoing my initiation into the Velour-Lawn Brotherhood. After all, it is unlikely in these frenzied times that I will ever have such a property again. However, after three weeks back at my city apartment over Christmas, I knew eventually I would need to escape this house again. I’m not much of a homeowner. And it still isn’t really mine. The hard part will be letting it—letting her—go.

.  .  .

Last night, the remaining three residents—two felines, one human—huddled under the covers in that same narrow bed. The room is yellow now, a colour I have never particularly liked, but I can change that. I lay listening for the monster coming down the hall, but then remembered that I had lowered the thermostat at bedtime, silencing the soft booms of the slowly cooling furnace.

Getting There From Here

http://miriadna.com/preview/walking-path

I’m sitting here on the eve of my 53^rd year, eating delicious salted chocolate (thank you Marcella, ma belle!), and watching Rafa Nadal weave his usual clay-court magic in Barthelona. Not a bad evening overall, I’m thinking, especially since the original plan involved standing in a rush line at one of tonight’s Hot Docs screenings, where it’s now steadily raining.

The tennis match plus the imminent birthday has me thinking about where I go from here. It might seem odd to say this about a sporting event, but watching tennis (which is the only professional sport I pay any attention to other than the Olympics) always reminds me of the discussions I've had with the wisest person I know. I used to wonder how the rollercoaster emotional arcs of a given match could have such a profound impact on its outcome. My wise friend explained that athletes at the top of their game are very evenly matched physically, so it’s often a powerful psychic toughness that wills them to victory despite what seem to be insurmountable physical difficulties. On the court, emotional dips clearly translate into leaden legs and slow reaction times—and hence into lost matches.

There’s much to ponder about the last year. It’s been a biggie, there’s no two ways about it. Six months ago, without warning, I lost my relationship. Within a month of that, and equally swiftly, I lost my mother. These two events knocked over the first of a chain of dominoes, the repercussions of which are still playing out. For much of this time, I have felt stunned and somewhat out-of-body, but I’ve also felt as though I’m racing breathlessly to accomplish—or maybe it’s fix, or perhaps save… something.

People keep saying things like, “You’ve got a lot on your plate,” which is certainly true. My mother’s sudden death meant that my dad, who is generally healthy but suffers from moderate vascular dementia as the result of a series of small strokes, needed to be moved immediately from the family home, which is an hour away from me, into some kind of temporary care facility. Once that happened, I had to find a more permanent solution before his allocated number of respite days ran out. The winter was a blur of visits to long-term care facilities and retirement homes of every stripe. I tried to maintain my freelance work, but I was so tired and had such difficulty focussing that it was nearly impossible, and I eventually gave up until I could get my dad settled.

And now I think he may be. He has been an official resident in a retirement home for the last two months, and seems happy and healthy there. Actually, he is much happier than I ever thought possible, considering. He seems to have blossomed in this latest stage of his life, keen to take on challenges and flexing his newly independent muscles. It’s been amazing and gratifying to see.

So yes, I’ve been landing some shots in this marathon match, and I’m grateful for that. But it’s that emotional factor that will tell whether I can hang in till the finals. I’ve just come back from my first real break in about a year from full-on, full-time eldercare duty, in the form of a week-long trip to New York City (more on that shortly, I hope). I knew the trip would be more of a change than a rest, but even when I got home, I didn’t slow down, or try to rest up from the vacation. I had a deadline shortly after I returned, and plunged into the research for that. Now THAT’S behind me, too, but my wheels are still spinning, my schedule is still packed, I’m still crazy tired, and I’m starting to feel a tad desperate.

I’m now thinking that maybe I’ve developed the unhealthy new habit of dancing as fast as I can. Worse, I suspect that what I’m chasing is not only illusory, it’s fuelled by my long-time companion, perfectionism, which has bedeviled me for almost as long as I can remember. Maybe it’s time to take care of someone a little closer to home for a while. Maybe I should cut myself some slack. I do know I need to remind myself that there’s no such thing as getting something done perfectly, and to focus first on getting the task done, and then on getting it done to the best of my ability with the resources available at the moment. Then I need to move on.

This is, I think, how the Rafa Nadals of the world keep stocking their shelves with championship trophies. Rafa hits one shot at a time, keeps his eye on the ball, tries not to think about the point he just lost, and never gives up. That’s how he plays, that’s how he gets where he’s going, and that’s what he’s taught me. Now I just have to keep it in mind as I step up to the tape for my own next round. 

Food’s Greatest Stage: Loblaws at Maple Leaf Gardens

The Loblaws Maple Leaf Gardens entrance and "HMR" zone.
Photo by Derek Flack, blogTO

We read advertisements... to discover and enlarge our desires. We are always ready—even eager—to discover, from the announcement of a new product, what we have all along wanted without really knowing it.  — Daniel J. Boorstin 

I tried to hate you, Loblaws, but you’re just too damn good.

When you bought Maple Leaf Gardens, “Canada’s most famous building,” in 2004, like many Canadians, I was horrified, outraged. Though I hate hockey, gutting this hallowed space to install a grocery store sounded like sticking a Wal-Mart in the Taj Mahal. But your siren charms have overwhelmed me. As your opening date approached last fall, I found myself growing more excited. What marvels might you showcase in all that space?  

When I finally entered through the main doors a few months later (I don't line up at 8 a.m. for too much anymore), you bewitched me with an adult Disney World of endless culinary possibility. Soaring ceilings and original cement walls whispered of the cathedral-like space of the original Gardens, a feeling enhanced by a leaf wall sculpture of blue stadium seats, huge murals honouring this sacred temple and its hockey heroes, and natural light flowing through large windows. 

Photo by Derek Flack, blogTO

Loblaw Inc.

Moving further into the store, I was greeted with several strong sensory triggers: fresh flowers and plants were displayed, garden-like, in the entryway and along the main east–west aisle, as well as throughout the fresh-food section. Directly ahead were the powerful sights, sounds, and smells of fresh-cooked food. The employees call this the HMR (“home meal replacement”) department, and it comprises a pizza and pasta bar, a sandwich counter, and a hot entrée area, heaven for the increasing numbers of harried urbanites who like fresh food but don’t cook. In an open area behind the HMR, long wooden tables covered in historical collages of the athletes, musicians, and politicians who have taken centre ice invite communal dining. Everywhere there are fresh, delicious, and colourful things to eat. It’s a bustling area, with chefs and servers waiting on lines of customers, and shoppers darting deeper into the store’s spacious aisles. Busy equals successful, busy equals quality, busy equals good.

Endless bounty in the the fresh-market area.
Photo by Derek Flack, blogTO 

Every department in the “fresh zone” is like a stand-alone shop, with its own design and materials. Huge wall signage announces the Deli, Patisserie, Grill, Canteen, Sushi, Bakery, “Fishmonger,” and Butcher sections. Steel on concrete, wood on wood panel, neon on white subway tiles, even letters etched on glass give each department its own identity. Some are actual stores-within-the-store, such as the Sushi Bar run by T&T Supermarkets, and the Ace Artisan Bakery. No grocery aisles or frozen foods are readily visible from here; these more pedestrian areas are all hidden “backstage,” away from the fresh-food mainstage.

Loblaw Inc.

The overall effect is of a glitzier, cleaner, more upscale St. Lawrence-style indoor market. The signage and displays emphasize the freshness, variety, healthfulness, and abundance of the food. I notice there are few gaps in the shelves or displays, as though a silent alarm instantly alerts the staff to any display that needs re-stocking. Abundance is the norm. 

This is grocery store as theatre, as spectacle. The glossy in-store magazine breathlessly describes the store’s wonders (“food experiences beyond imagination” and “international delights” are all “under one legendary roof”), with sideshow hyperbole: “See culinary masterpieces come to life before your very eyes,” it cries. “Witness the amazing 18-foot-high wall of cheese...Buy chocolate chiseled by the chunk...Revel in the bounteous takeaway options...Breathe in the smell of good things baking...ogle meat options beyond compare...!” An old-time carnival barker couldn’t have said (or sold) it better. 

Cooks prep meals in the in-store kitchens above the ACE Bakery outlet.
Loblaw Inc.

The magazine offers tips for healthier choices (all PC products, of course), and helpful advice from the in-store pharmacist and dietitian. This store doesn’t just want to sell you soup and crackers, it wants to improve your life. There are services aplenty: a cooking school, pharmacy, medical clinic, dry cleaner, PC Financial, Joe Fresh, and LCBO. There is live music and dance. Food and drink, health care, clothes, entertainment, a bank....Is this a store, or the village Hillary said it would take to raise me? Am I home?

One (slightly creepy) aspect of all this perfection struck me on a recent visit: I slowly realized as I trolled the more traditional grocery aisles that all the shelves were perfectly "faced": in other words, there were no items missing. I looked around me but didn't notice any restockers, elfin or otherwise. I suddenly got that weird, I'm-being-watched feeling as I reached for the Triscuits. Was the stock being replenished automatically by merchandising robots humming away behind the rows of boxes and cans? Or were there hundreds of CCTV cameras monitoring our every selection, sending signals to teams of stockboys standing at the ready? Aisle after aisle was like this. It became a challenging game to find a "missing tooth" in the displays. Out and out creepy, I tell ya'.

As area councillor Kyle Rae promised, the new Maple Leaf Gardens seems to have had a rejuvenating effect on the fading Church and Wellesley Village community. It appeals to the discriminating, the moneyed, those who know how to choose well—or at least those willing to learn. As a supervisor told me, the goal is to provide an experience “like nothing you’ve ever seen,” a place offering knowledgeable staff and unparalleled choice. 

Loblaws at Maple Leaf Gardens offers a new way to belong. I can be a better person here, make better choices, see new things, learn new skills. How can my needs not be met in a place of such abundance? This is a community, one I want to join: I can lunch with friends, be entertained, I have room to move freely, I’m catered to and cared for, I’m welcome. 

Who wouldn’t buy in to that? 

Small Slices of the Big Apple

Photo: The High Line, 10th Avenue Square. Photo by Iwan Baan

A non–bird's-eye view of the same location.
Photo by Flickr user korpics
(See more images here, and check out the rest of the High Line’s Flickr pool.)

When a client recently told me she was taking her NYC-virgin husband to the Big Apple for his birthday, as a card-carrying, stalker-level fan of the city, I couldn’t resist sending along some suggestions. They planned to arrive mid-day Thursday, and leave Sunday afternoon, so any in-depth exploration was unlikely on such a short timeline. Instead, I e-mailed a selection of notes, links, and other random suggestions (all fun; some free!) collected from my own visits, and I thought I'd share them with (both of) you. At the risk of sounding a little like Stefon, the New York City correspondent Bill Hader does on SNL's Weekend Update ("New York's hottest club is..."), here's my selection of bite-sized NYC hors d'oeuvres:

My clients were lucky enough to be staying at the Plaza (!!) an experience I can only dream of, so they were beautifully situated to take full advantage of the crown jewel of the city, Central Park. Like other major NYC attractions, the park is too big to bite off much at once, but I suggested they try to ramble through as many parts as they could.

The lovely Bow Bridge in Central Park

Next on the list is a recent contender in the green-oasis category, The High Line, a new park built on a decommissioned elevated freight railway that snakes up the west side of Manhattan for almost 23 blocks. Opened in 2009, the park has been constructed in sections. A citizens’ group saved the structure and secured it as a public park; in combination with the N.Y. Department of Parks and Recreation they are currently working on the third and final segment. A quick scan of the High Line web site and blog will give you some idea of the mind-boggling range of experiences and activities available, as well as the positive change that can happen when passionate citizens organize with a clear goal.

The High Line at dusk

The Metropolitan Museum of Art (The Met) is a must, of course, but any attempt to take it all in at one go does both this venerable venue and the visitor a disservice. My suggestion for first-timers is to take the excellent hour-long highlights tour, offered daily by keen and knowledgeable docents who will give you a digestible sampling of the Met’s many delights, saving you that horrible “I ate the whole thing” feeling. A bonus at the Met is that admission is basically pay-what-you-can; they have a “recommended entry fee” of $25 for adults (kids under 12 are free), but if you can tolerate the evil eye of the cashier, you can pay whatever your budget allows.

New York City has many world famous museums, but it’s also stuffed with smaller, quirkier versions. A favourite of mine is the Tenement Museum on the Lower East Side, an area itself worth a wander, especially streets such as Orchard, lined with quirky milliners' and haberdashers' shops. There’s a lovely cafe, 88 Orchard, on the corner of Orchard and Broome.

Another is the medieval Cloisters Museum, also part of the Met; though it’s quite a hike to the north, it’s worth it, and the views over the Hudson from the terrace are spectacular.

It can take some trial-and-error getting used to, but in my opinion the transit system itself (the Metropolitan Transportation Authority [MTA]) is one of the must-see’s of the city. If you stay above ground in cabs and on the sidewalks, you haven’t really “done” New York! Many of the stations are decorated in gorgeous mosaics, there’s always some kind of performance going on underground, and the size and complexity of the whole thing are boggling. And contrary to their general reputation, I’ve found New Yorkers to be extremely helpful and tolerant of hopelessly lost tourists, often approaching to offer assistance as I’m standing on the platform trying to make sense of my transit map.

"Shad Crossing," by mosaic artist Ming Fay, part of the Delancey St. station.

Despite its sometimes overwhelming size, New York is really like a Met museum of distinctive neighbourhoods. To avoid overwhelming yourself, pick a few and explore. Perennial favourites such as Greenwich Village, Soho, and Chelsea rarely disappoint. Jump on the subway downtown, get out at Houston or Christopher St. and just wander. Stop by the famous Magnolia Bakery at Bleecker and 11th and pick up something nummy to scarf down in the shady park across the street.

There are also a few cool "restaurant row" kind of streets a little further south; e.g., Thompson St., south of Washington Square, where you'll find cute little Porto Bello Restaurant, among others. I ventured to Porto Bello on my own one evening and was waited on hand and foot by a team of charming Italian waiters—does it get any better?

First-timers will want to check out the iconic Times Square, for sure, but don't get stuck eating in the heavily touristy area that surrounds it; mediocre, chain-restaurant food and high prices are all you’ll find. Nearby there are lots of excellent and competitive independent restaurants, all along the inappropriately named Hell's Kitchen section of 9th Avenue, from about 50th or 52nd down to 42nd or so. Many NYC places allow you to book ahead using OpenTable, which is a handy service if you're short on time. Two Hell's Kitchen favourites of mine are Pietrasanta, on the corner of 9th and 47th, and Fragolino, between 45th and 46th. (As you can tell, I'm a fan of la cucina Italiana—or maybe it's those waiters again!)

Nearby (W. 46th) there's a fun cabaret bar—very Manhattan-slash-struggling-performer—called Don't Tell Mama. A good after-theatre drinks option, if you're up for that.

There's certainly no shortage of storied, over-the-top experiences available in the Big Apple, but if you’re looking for O.T.T., special-occasion kitsch, and have saved up some cash for a blow-out meal, I recommend the Russian Tea Room. Weekday lunches are usually not busy, the place is slathered in gold leaf and red vinyl, and they have a flight of vodkas that will prep you for viewing the bizarre giant glass bear aquarium and "Fabergé egg" trees in the mirrored dining room upstairs, if you can talk them into showing it to you.

Want a break from Manhattan? If you have time, I highly recommend hopping across the East River and exploring Brooklyn. The Park Slope area to the west of Prospect Park (another gorgeous Calvert Vaux and Frederick Law Olmsted effort by the architects of Central Park—I rode the 100-year-old Carousel there last year!) offers street after street of gorgeous brownstones with a lively commercial stretch along 5th Ave. for dining and shopping. Nearby are some worthy cultural institutions, including the sleek art deco Brooklyn Library, the breathtaking Brooklyn Botanic Garden (a favourite of borough brides), and the excellent Brooklyn Museum (which also operates on a “suggested contribution” entry system).

 The enchanting Bluebell Wood at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden.
Photo by Rebecca Bullene.

But my heart belongs to the historic Brooklyn Heights neighbourhood. A north-to-south amble along these streets clustered in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge, or even better, down the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, lands you on gorgeous Remsen St. or lively Montague. Stop by Connecticut Muffin on Montague for a rejuvenating snack.

The Brooklyn Heights Promenade. Sure, there's an amazing view of lower Manhattan to the west, but I prefer peeking into the historic townhouses on the east!

Finally, here’s a list of some more free NYC activities:

• Exploring Central Park and Prospect Park
• Watching the street performers/acrobats at the southeastern corner of Central Park, in Times Square, and in the park near City Hall
• Strolling across the Brooklyn Bridge
• Taking the Staten Island Ferry out past the Statue of Liberty (just turn around on arrival at the far end and get right back on).
• Visiting the exuberant Flatiron Building and the nearby Eataly market/store by Mario Batali

I also enjoy exploring the grand and boutique hotels and their opulently decorated—and suitably hushed—bars, especially the oldest grande-dame ones near Central Park, such as the Carlyle, home of the famous murals in the Café Carlyle and Bemelman’s, or the St. Regis, which features Maxfield Parrish’s version of Old King Cole in the bar of the same name. I may not be able to book, but I can look!

 The Café Carlyle, stomping ground of Woody Allen and the late, great Bobby Short, with murals by artist Marcel Vertés.

Ah, New York. Whether I devour you, core and all, or sample you in dainty bites, you’re always a remarkably tasty snack.

Men, what I'm about to tell you is Top Secret, and I'll be kicked out of the International Woman's Collective if they ever find out, so let's keep this strictly confidential.

Here's the thing. It's that time of year again, and I've just been asked for my List.

But it's a rock-and-a-hard-place situation for women when it comes to gift lists. Men ask us for them, but they miss the point. It's basically one of those "if you have to ask..." kinda things. You guys already know that despite all the years of evidence to the contrary, most of us do, to some extent at least, expect you to exercise a modicum of "mind-reading ability," as you call it. And here's the season when those expectations can most often come to grief.

With the goal of helping you to navigate this particular relationship minefield, I'm revealing the following.

When we make lists, when you ask us for them, and when (or if) we give them to you, they probably don't include the things we'd REALLY like. Those items won't appear on any list. (And please know that this is not entirely just to be oblique and mysterious; it's partly because many of us are still saddled with that whole "everybody else's needs come before mine" crap.) The Official List items are likely to skew way more toward the "needs" category vs. the "wants." Things that would make life a little easier; things that would upgrade something we already have; things for the house.

What I'm trying to say is, and I know this is Unfair, but The Official List is not really going to help you if your goal is to wow us, and it certainly won't help if you want to surprise slash delight us. For starters, here's a helpful hint: unless specifically requested, gift cards fall under the Complete Cop-Out category, and chocolate, jewellery, and skimpy lingerie (which is really for you, not us), though lovely, generally doesn't cut it either. As well, store or on-line gift guides are themselves well-nigh useless, I hope you realize, unless you spot an item that twigs you to something your Significant Other has already mentioned.

Sorry, Dudes, but the only way to achieve wow and delight is to listen carefully. Because it's not really mind-reading that's required; it's just paying attention.

We've already told you the content of our secret wish lists, I can almost guarantee it. But those items won't appear on the lists we've given you. They are the relationship Easter eggs that are yours for the finding, if you've listened enough to know where to look. And as those who've learned this secret know, they are well worth the search.

I know! I told you it was Unfair! This could even fall under the "Game-Playing" heading in the Book of Why Women Don't Make Sense, that catechism I know you love to recite to each other.

But I guess I'm tired of following these stoopid commandments and wish we could just get past all the rigmarole. To that end, I'm risking excommunication to leak this one small key to the kingdom, so listen up. Think back. What did she ooh and ahh over at the mall but you know would never get for herself? What did she admire when you were over at your friends' place that time? What item in that new catalogue did she point out to you for "someday"? Oh, and if you do manage to capture some of these ephemeral moments, fergodssake, write them down somewhere you can find them.

If it's too late or you simply weren't listening, you might have to resort to outside help, but this can still be worthwhile. Talk to her friends. If you humbly confess your sins of not paying attention, they might take pity on you, absolve you, and give you the scoop on a Real List item. Or at least on what you should be listening for.

And here's helpful hint number two: for many—or maybe even most—of us, gifts of time outstrip gifts of stuff by far. We'd love more time with you, more time for ourselves, some time away, more time to sleep, to read, to linger over coffee with our friends. So offer to take over one of our chores; make arrangements to take us to a concert or run off with us for a dirty weekend; sign us up for a couples cooking class or a wine-tasting event; give us a homemade "gift card" for a regular night off to do whatever we want.

Gifts like these are tough to wrap, and take some imagination and commitment—and don't get me wrong, we also love getting stuff (especially toys!)—but anything you can do along these lines will be appreciated more than we can express. Two words. Win–win.

Of course, the whole Christmas gift-giving thing's a clever stratagem that not even Womankind can be blamed for. We know we shouldn't be so focussed on all the stuff and the buying and the list-making and the Secret-Santa-ing in the first place. But let's get real. Most of us aren't quite ready to move to the ashram. For here and now, in this list-crazy world, I hope this helps.

Happy Holidays, and good luck out there.

Joni Mitchell Got It Right

The Butterfly Nebula

Credit: NASA, ESA, and the Hubble SM4 ERO Team

We are stardust / We are golden / We are billion year old carbon

There are certain arcane corners of the human pursuit of knowledge—archeology, philosophy, and particle physics come to mind—that strike me as almost perverse. Most of what their acolytes study is, and will forever remain, in human-race terms anyway, untestable and unknowable.

I applaud these advocates of pure speculation, who must be driven by something like curiosity for curiosity’s sake. I can relate to an unquenchable curiosity for understanding how and why things are as they are, but I don’t think I could wrap my head around the certainty that my best and most solid theories are beyond proof, either due to time (prehistory), distance (the cosmos), or the limits of my own intelligence and instruments (theoretical physics).

But I guess all of scientific inquiry could be said to fit this definition. Anti-science types like to mock studies of climate change or evolution, for example, as “only theories.” They don’t understand that science is about testing, not about proving. Everything called a theory has actually been thoroughly and repeatedly tested—back when it was only a wee young hypothesis. It’s only after exhaustive examination and nitpicking that a hypothesis graduates to theoretical status. And I have no idea, Schoolhouse Rock notwithstanding, how a theory becomes a law.

I find myself mulling all this over as I proof a textbook on astronomy. Understand that physics is emphatically not my strong point, so I’m struggling with all the ionized particles and fusion reactions. But I’m also struck by the author’s clear spiritual, philosophical bent, which does get my attention. “Astronomy is about you,” he says.

I admit I’ve never shared this view, but wait a minute. I DO believe that we’re all fundamentally connected, and astrophysics proposes that this is true for reasons that are well beyond my grasp. But basically the theory says that all atoms get endlessly recycled, so there are bits and pieces of us that were once part of the core of an anonymous red-giant star ten billion years ago. And when our own star, the Sun, finally snuffs out, that’s not the end of us either, atomically speaking, anyway.

There are apparently a couple of likely endings to the Sun’s story, but the Carl Sagans of the world would argue that they’re not really endings at all. If the Sun cools slowly as a white dwarf, it’s likely to expel large amounts of its mass in the form of hot stellar winds that would certainly engulf and incinerate the closest planets, including ours. The resulting conflagration would recombine our atoms with those of the Sun.

Or for a more spectacular version of Earth’s closing ceremonies, as a dying white dwarf, the Sun might still be able to generate enough heat to expel gases that get lit up to form a beautiful gaseous shroud called a planetary nebula. And I’m told it is from such turbulent, element-rich, yet seemingly insubstantial stuff that new suns, planets, and solar systems are born.

The Helix Nebula
credit: NASA/JPL-Caltech/ESA
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Now I’m big on recycling, so this is great news. Even better than being fertilizer for a newly planted tree, which is my current post-viability plan. But there’s another perk to this Theory of Ultimate Connectedness, and this one’s aesthetic.

There’s some evidence that a white dwarf star could develop a solid core of pure carbon. And we all know what happens when Superman picks up a chunk of carbon and subjects it to Kryptonian pressure and temperature—it becomes a diamond. So if our own white dwarf sun were to be subject to those same forces, it could crystallize, floating forever as a glittering monument to us all.

Even if that doesn’t happen, just take a minute to marvel at these actual planetary nebulae, some of the most exquisitely knock-your-socks-off sights in the universe. That could be us! You and me and Uncle Irving! Better than a tombstone, better than a pyramid, better even than a diamond.

And that’s a theory I can get behind.

Finding Wisdom

Have any of you seen Woody Allen’s latest movie, Midnight in Paris? Owen Wilson’s character encounters all his heroes in the bars and salons of 1920s Paris, and drinks in their personalities, philosophies, and advice first hand.

I recently had my own Midnight in Paris moment when I happened upon a photography exhibit in the Galleria at BCE Place (or Brookfield Place, or Hamburglar Place, or whatever the heck they’re calling it these days). The project is called Wisdom, and is a combination of a book, an exhibit of portraits, a film, and a web site (http://www.wisdombook.org/) by photographer and filmmaker Andrew Zuckerman that features the images and words of a selection of the world’s elders. Unfortunately, due to my usual propensity for arriving on the scene at the Very Last Minute, the exhibit had actually wrapped up the day before, and was in the process of being disassembled. Along with the book, only twenty or so famous faces were still on display, while their confrères, sandwiched together on nearby dollies, waited patiently, staring out of their heavy travel frames next to a bored young security guard.

As Zuckerman says, these are the elders of the global village, and he was struck with the idea that he should record the “gift” of their thoughts, advice, and yes, wisdom, for the next generation. With the help of Desmond Tutu, who wrote letters to 200 prospective participants worldwide, Zuckerman tracked down the 70 or so who agreed to sit for him (I believe 50 of those are part of the exhibit). Membership in this club was restricted to over-65s. The late Edward Kennedy is here, as is Jane Goodall, Nelson Mandela (natch), and Billy Connolly. I will confess that there are many I don’t know, which taught me my first lesson: that I am ignorant of many of these great thinkers and doers.

Each large portrait was shot against a featureless white background, which Zuckerman says “democratizes the environment,” and therefore, his subjects. The faces are full of crags, droops, and character, of course. Andrew Wyeth looks like someone left him sitting out on a too-hot day. Kissinger’s eyes are so hooded he seems to be struggling to stay awake. But there are some notable exceptions. They may have wrinkles and white hair, and again, this may say more about my recent shift in, ahem, priorities, than about senior hunks, but a fair number of these guys have still got it goin’ on, as the kids say—at least in my eyes.

There’s Redford, of course. (Sigh. It’s always been you, Bob, since I was 14.) But man, check out the shots of Clint Eastwood, or Kristofferson, or wow, Graham Nash! Am I crazy, or are these guys hot? I think it’s their intensity. And obvious intelligence. And possibly, good hair. It seems the artists of various stripes fare the best as they navigate the “third act,” as Sir Michael Parkinson calls it. (He’s one I had to look up. He’s a British journalist and broadcaster, played himself interviewing Bill Nighy’s character in Love, Actually, which I own, and is apparently not too enamored of the current state of British TV, saying: “In my television paradise there would be no more property programmes, no more police-chasing-yobbos-in-cars programmes and, most of all and please God, no more so-called documentary shows with titles like My 20-Ton Tumour, My Big Fat Head, Wolf Girl, Embarrassing Illnesses, and The Fastest Man on No Legs.” I’d say amen to that, but then what would I watch?)

Each of these artists, musicians, and leaders of men in the exhibit is accompanied by a quote, a transcribed sound bite from the interviews Zuckerman conducted as part of the sessions. He asked everyone questions that touched on the same set of themes: love, work, the environment, conflict resolution, and of course, wisdom. I’m with Dame Judi Dench, who noted that she has “gotten sillier” as she’s aged, and therefore hasn’t the foggiest when it comes to sharing any pearls of wisdom.

The young security guard probably won’t pay much attention to the sage words of these cultural icons. The young always know better. But maybe a few of his elders’ whispered ruminations will sneak past those ear buds, such as, “Take risks,” “You can’t get to wonderful without passing through all right,” “Inspiration is for amateurs,” and “Your best work is your expression of yourself...when you do it, you’re the only expert in it.”

So I don’t know about the security guard, or the tourists streaming through the space-formerly-known-as BCE Place, or even you, but these are things I need to hear right now, the advice I need to take. Thank you Andrew Zuckerman, and thank you, elders.