This last one is a game of hide and seek -- complete with eyes-closed counting at the basketball standard.
Love it!
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Uncle Jay
The best part of going to Utah is getting to play with my thirteen nieces and nephews. I am consistently impressed at the crisp, clear personalities that they have from early on. Each one incredibly different than the one before. I wish I was closer and could have a stronger place in their lives. They are one of the main reasons I occasionally think about moving back to Utah (don't worry, the moment usually fades quickly -- with the requisite shudders and palate cleansing). They grow so very fast. I initially had the goal of taking pictures of all of them this trip out -- however, it was not to be. However, here for your enjoyment, is a small sampling. They are adorable . . .
Cleaning Memories
While at my parents' house last week, my attention was brought to a series of boxes belonging to me sitting on shelves in the garage. This initially came as a surprise. I truly felt that I had taken most of my belongings with me in my frequent moves. Apparently I was wrong. So, one morning I decided to go through the boxes -- a brave and daring adventure.
What I found in those boxes was a collection of letters, yearbooks, photos, mission paraphernalia from Japan and large amounts of books. I was surprised to find that I still had strong attachments to many of the items -- somehow feeling that getting rid of them would be the end of the world. Each item represented a specific part of myself -- a specific role from my past. I forced myself to work through the items and eventually managed to reduce the contents from eight boxes to three. I took a large load to Deseret Industries gave some items to my siblings and tossed the rest. There is truly something therapeutic about cleaning house -- reducing the many boxes we have to a more manageable number. Figuring out what we are ready to let go of and what we still want to hold onto. I tossed many many pictures and letters. But I also held onto random objects and mementos. It helped me to once again redefine who I am -- who I want to be -- and to gain a clearer vision of who I was.
I highly recommend it.
What I found in those boxes was a collection of letters, yearbooks, photos, mission paraphernalia from Japan and large amounts of books. I was surprised to find that I still had strong attachments to many of the items -- somehow feeling that getting rid of them would be the end of the world. Each item represented a specific part of myself -- a specific role from my past. I forced myself to work through the items and eventually managed to reduce the contents from eight boxes to three. I took a large load to Deseret Industries gave some items to my siblings and tossed the rest. There is truly something therapeutic about cleaning house -- reducing the many boxes we have to a more manageable number. Figuring out what we are ready to let go of and what we still want to hold onto. I tossed many many pictures and letters. But I also held onto random objects and mementos. It helped me to once again redefine who I am -- who I want to be -- and to gain a clearer vision of who I was.
I highly recommend it.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Je ne comprends pas
When moving to Montreal became a reality, I decided I needed to learn French. After all, to get by in a bilingual city it is usually a good idea to be bilingual. Plus, once I arrived and moved into my apartment I found that my neighborhood is almost exclusively French-speaking. (The politics of language is a fascinating topic here in Quebec and perhaps a subject for a future posting.) I initially started working with a set of CD's through Pimsleur. I had good results with them when I went to Siberia to visit my parents and I figured I could do it again. Diligently I would listen to my CD's and repeat the various phrases and exercises they provided. After a while I was feeling like Mr. French Fancy Pants . . . that is, until I actually attempted to have a conversation. I needed something more hardcore and so I decided to sign up for a French Conversation class through the Continuing Education Program at Concordia. When I went to register for the course, the individual signing me up did a brief "evaluation" to determine which class I belonged in. This "evaluation" consisted of him asking me a short question (probably, "What is your name?") and me responding with the only phrase I had really mastered "Je ne comprends pas" ("I have no idea what the heck you're babbling at me"). His evaluation expertly determined that I should be in the beginning class.
Last night was my first night of French Conversation I. And it lived up to every glorious expectation I ever had. It was like something out of a David Sedaris essay. I entered the room, only to discover that I was the only person in the class over the age of 19. I was also the only individual in the class who was not from some part of Asia and for whom English was their first language. The desks were arranged into groups of four with two dyads side by side. I took one of the only empty seats left, opposite Chi, a severe looking girl with pink-rimmed cat-eye glasses. I attempted to make small talk with her, but her stern look seemed to rebuke me for not addressing her in French. I tried a playful -- if not somewhat anxious -- "Bonjour!" To this Chi responded by blinking twice and sending a text message. I could not have been more excited. The instructor arrived exactly at 6:00. I'm sure that she told us her name sometime during the course of the evening, but I missed it -- along with 90% of the words that flowed from her. She had a tight smile with white teeth and bright pink lipstick. Her frilly blouse and jacket matched her lipstick perfectly. In her freshly highlighted hair she had six or seven small butterfly clips in various shades of pink and purple. If I couldn't have a beret, I would take butterfly hair clips. She only spoke in French. I only understood in English -- grasping for anything that sounded remotely familiar and repeating it loudly with gusto.
Toward the end of the "lesson" we were instructed (mostly through wild gesturing) to go around to our classmates and ask the following questions:
1. What is your family name?
2. What is your student number?
3. What is your telephone number and address?
4. What is your email address?
5. When is your birthday?
I felt like the next questions would include : What is your Social Insurance Number? What is your bank account number? What is the PIN to your debit card?
I initially attempted to get Chi's digits, but she was busy texting (her loss) so I worked my way through Akishi, Lu, Ashti and Stacii -- making sure that I altered some of the information on each of my answers so that they couldn't drain my bank account. We slogged through the exercise for what seemed like hours until time was up. Ms. Butterfly cheerfully babbled something to us -- writing what appeared to be a homework assignment on the board - and then gestured toward the door. In unison we all said, "Adieu" and made our way onto the French filled streets.
Next week will be another adventure, I have no doubt.
Last night was my first night of French Conversation I. And it lived up to every glorious expectation I ever had. It was like something out of a David Sedaris essay. I entered the room, only to discover that I was the only person in the class over the age of 19. I was also the only individual in the class who was not from some part of Asia and for whom English was their first language. The desks were arranged into groups of four with two dyads side by side. I took one of the only empty seats left, opposite Chi, a severe looking girl with pink-rimmed cat-eye glasses. I attempted to make small talk with her, but her stern look seemed to rebuke me for not addressing her in French. I tried a playful -- if not somewhat anxious -- "Bonjour!" To this Chi responded by blinking twice and sending a text message. I could not have been more excited. The instructor arrived exactly at 6:00. I'm sure that she told us her name sometime during the course of the evening, but I missed it -- along with 90% of the words that flowed from her. She had a tight smile with white teeth and bright pink lipstick. Her frilly blouse and jacket matched her lipstick perfectly. In her freshly highlighted hair she had six or seven small butterfly clips in various shades of pink and purple. If I couldn't have a beret, I would take butterfly hair clips. She only spoke in French. I only understood in English -- grasping for anything that sounded remotely familiar and repeating it loudly with gusto.
Toward the end of the "lesson" we were instructed (mostly through wild gesturing) to go around to our classmates and ask the following questions:
1. What is your family name?
2. What is your student number?
3. What is your telephone number and address?
4. What is your email address?
5. When is your birthday?
I felt like the next questions would include : What is your Social Insurance Number? What is your bank account number? What is the PIN to your debit card?
I initially attempted to get Chi's digits, but she was busy texting (her loss) so I worked my way through Akishi, Lu, Ashti and Stacii -- making sure that I altered some of the information on each of my answers so that they couldn't drain my bank account. We slogged through the exercise for what seemed like hours until time was up. Ms. Butterfly cheerfully babbled something to us -- writing what appeared to be a homework assignment on the board - and then gestured toward the door. In unison we all said, "Adieu" and made our way onto the French filled streets.
Next week will be another adventure, I have no doubt.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Anniversary
Tomorrow is September 11th. The anniversary of that intensely tragic day eight years ago. A strange feeling to realize that this will be the first year, since the event, that I am not living in NYC. It's odd to sense the distance. Eight years ago I had just moved to NYC -- I was relatively innocent. I had barely embarked on a new journey to change my life. A cross-country move -- a change in profession -- and an open future. Then, that fateful morning, as I left the gym, less than a mile from the World Trade Center, I saw people looking up and followed their glance as we watched one -- and then two planes hit. One would be an accident -- two would be . . . what? Incomprehensible. Standing in the street and watching the rest of the events unfold with the strangers around me -- experiencing our collective trauma. We gasped. We cried. We sank to the ground in unison as the towers fell -- feeling the rumble . . . eventually overtaken by waves of smoke and emotion.
To this day I find myself looking for ways to contain the experience -- to express it -- to exorcise it. I feel it so deeply in my core, but I have a hard time bringing it to a place where I can look at it and comprehend it. It feels like a defining moment in my life. A moment when I understood the depth of man's potential -- the horror and the brilliance. Oddly (or perhaps not so oddly) it was a moment that confirmed for me that I was in the right place - that I had made the right move. There was something solid about being there. It wasn't something I heard about on TV -- there was no television for days. It wasn't something I read about in newspapers. It was something I saw. Something I smelled. Something I heard. Something I felt all around and through me. I lived it. I get upset when people use the events of September 11th as a tool to justify acts of violence, prejudice and poor judgment. I take it very personally. Yes, it was something that happened to our country and it impacted people throughout the world. But the spirit in New York in the days following the terrorist attacks was not one of vengeance or hatred. It was not a spirit of prejudice, judgment or cynicism. It was a broad spirit of love, brotherhood and togetherness.
While the anniversary of 9/11 each year brings with it flashes of pain, memories of suffering, and intense images of terror -- it also brings with it a profound recollection of the unity that was felt in that amazing city. As I sit here typing this, I realize that I miss New York. We went through a lot together. It saw me through my darkest and brightest days. And, in the end, we both came out stronger.
Here's to the memory of those who lost their lives eight years ago through acts of extremism. And here's to the hope that the world can someday move beyond extremism and enter a state of acceptance and inclusion.
To this day I find myself looking for ways to contain the experience -- to express it -- to exorcise it. I feel it so deeply in my core, but I have a hard time bringing it to a place where I can look at it and comprehend it. It feels like a defining moment in my life. A moment when I understood the depth of man's potential -- the horror and the brilliance. Oddly (or perhaps not so oddly) it was a moment that confirmed for me that I was in the right place - that I had made the right move. There was something solid about being there. It wasn't something I heard about on TV -- there was no television for days. It wasn't something I read about in newspapers. It was something I saw. Something I smelled. Something I heard. Something I felt all around and through me. I lived it. I get upset when people use the events of September 11th as a tool to justify acts of violence, prejudice and poor judgment. I take it very personally. Yes, it was something that happened to our country and it impacted people throughout the world. But the spirit in New York in the days following the terrorist attacks was not one of vengeance or hatred. It was not a spirit of prejudice, judgment or cynicism. It was a broad spirit of love, brotherhood and togetherness.
While the anniversary of 9/11 each year brings with it flashes of pain, memories of suffering, and intense images of terror -- it also brings with it a profound recollection of the unity that was felt in that amazing city. As I sit here typing this, I realize that I miss New York. We went through a lot together. It saw me through my darkest and brightest days. And, in the end, we both came out stronger.
Here's to the memory of those who lost their lives eight years ago through acts of extremism. And here's to the hope that the world can someday move beyond extremism and enter a state of acceptance and inclusion.
We must be the change we seek in the world.
Gandhi
Monday, September 7, 2009
The Most Disturbing Show on Television
fter spending the morning taking a practice GRE exam -- once again confirming that I am completely math-stupid -- I decided to relax for a few moments by watching TV. I still don't fully know what channels I have here in Canada so I had to flip through the channels to see what was on. I stumbled upon a show I had heard about but had avoided --- Toddlers and Tiaras on TLC. Out of morbid curiosity -- perhaps looking for the furthest thing from the GRE -- I tuned in.
Good Heavens. What awaited me was perhaps the most disturbing show on television -- more than Dirtiest Jobs or Keeping up with the Kardashians, far more than Shark Week or Man vs. Wild, more upsetting than Celebrity Rehab or a Blue Collar Comedy Special -- Toddlers and Tiaras shocked and scarred me.
The little girls stood in as personifications of their parents' neurosis. Mothers attempts at living through their small children -- as they paraded them on stage with elaborate hair and makeup; fake smiles and copious amounts of glitter and taffeta. When the children would have missteps -- forget their lines -- get fussy -- or, heaven forbid, act like children, the mothers would scream, shame and manipulate the girls into participating. I only watched the last 10 minutes of the show -- and that was more than enough to get a good sense of the senseless and harmful nature of the pageants. Each little girl became a JonBenet Ramsay from my perspective. The sexual nature of the young performer's "talent" routines was offensive and inappropriate. I watched in horror as one little seven year-old excitedly noted that she watched the male judge's eyes and smiles as he watched her routine -- revealing that she had been coached, in particular, to play up the sexuality for the male judges. It was almost as offensive as the dance routine I saw once when I was teaching high school -- ten eight year-old girls from a neighborhood dance studio doing a performance to "Oops I did it Again" which included tearing off their dresses to reveal mini-skirts along with pelvic gyrations and rehearsed "come hither" looks. I'm all for sexual liberation -- but, please -- at seven?!
Now, one of my not-so-well-kept secrets is that I was a judge for the Miss Utah Pageant. Yes, it's true -- laugh if you want, mock, if you must -- but it is a much different jar of vaseline than these mini pageants. While Miss Utah and Miss America pageants do serve to objectify women, the participants are not under the age of 10. They have more agency -- more understanding of the consequences of their actions. They go into the pageant with eyes wide open -- or at least there is a much greater chance of that being the case. These little girls, though, were purely puppets of their parents. Fulfilling dreams of their mothers -- transforming into elaborate cabbage patch dolls and poodles at a dog show. After my ten minutes of horror, I am almost to the point of saying that it constitutes child abuse.
It's hard enough in our society -- in this day and age -- for kids to be kids. Why would we rob them of the chance to be kids? Is there no way to institute morality police -- big brother -- secret spies -- something to police parenting? Okay, so maybe that is extreme, and maybe parents do the best they can amid the myriad defenses and life struggles. Perhaps my anger and vitriol should be aimed instead at the pageant promoters and organizers. Who are these people and in what realm can they possibly feel that it is a good idea? Let's stick with spelling bees and pinewood derbies if we must have intense, potentially abusive competitions in childhood. Let's leave the adult messiness to the adults.
Good Heavens. What awaited me was perhaps the most disturbing show on television -- more than Dirtiest Jobs or Keeping up with the Kardashians, far more than Shark Week or Man vs. Wild, more upsetting than Celebrity Rehab or a Blue Collar Comedy Special -- Toddlers and Tiaras shocked and scarred me.
The little girls stood in as personifications of their parents' neurosis. Mothers attempts at living through their small children -- as they paraded them on stage with elaborate hair and makeup; fake smiles and copious amounts of glitter and taffeta. When the children would have missteps -- forget their lines -- get fussy -- or, heaven forbid, act like children, the mothers would scream, shame and manipulate the girls into participating. I only watched the last 10 minutes of the show -- and that was more than enough to get a good sense of the senseless and harmful nature of the pageants. Each little girl became a JonBenet Ramsay from my perspective. The sexual nature of the young performer's "talent" routines was offensive and inappropriate. I watched in horror as one little seven year-old excitedly noted that she watched the male judge's eyes and smiles as he watched her routine -- revealing that she had been coached, in particular, to play up the sexuality for the male judges. It was almost as offensive as the dance routine I saw once when I was teaching high school -- ten eight year-old girls from a neighborhood dance studio doing a performance to "Oops I did it Again" which included tearing off their dresses to reveal mini-skirts along with pelvic gyrations and rehearsed "come hither" looks. I'm all for sexual liberation -- but, please -- at seven?!
Now, one of my not-so-well-kept secrets is that I was a judge for the Miss Utah Pageant. Yes, it's true -- laugh if you want, mock, if you must -- but it is a much different jar of vaseline than these mini pageants. While Miss Utah and Miss America pageants do serve to objectify women, the participants are not under the age of 10. They have more agency -- more understanding of the consequences of their actions. They go into the pageant with eyes wide open -- or at least there is a much greater chance of that being the case. These little girls, though, were purely puppets of their parents. Fulfilling dreams of their mothers -- transforming into elaborate cabbage patch dolls and poodles at a dog show. After my ten minutes of horror, I am almost to the point of saying that it constitutes child abuse.
It's hard enough in our society -- in this day and age -- for kids to be kids. Why would we rob them of the chance to be kids? Is there no way to institute morality police -- big brother -- secret spies -- something to police parenting? Okay, so maybe that is extreme, and maybe parents do the best they can amid the myriad defenses and life struggles. Perhaps my anger and vitriol should be aimed instead at the pageant promoters and organizers. Who are these people and in what realm can they possibly feel that it is a good idea? Let's stick with spelling bees and pinewood derbies if we must have intense, potentially abusive competitions in childhood. Let's leave the adult messiness to the adults.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Bonsai
I love bonsai trees. Love them. Adore them. I would marry them if I could. There is something intense and magical about their proportions, their age, their wisdom. I have an intensely physical response to a bonsai tree.
A week ago Lindsay and I went to the Botanical Gardens here in Montreal. We came across a small garden of bonsai trees. I was reminded of how much I feel a connection to these miniature trees. Here are a few photos of our adventure:
My favorite.
We thought this one looked like a small forest -- Lindsay is providing the small people . . .
A view of the Japanese garden with the Olympic Stadium in the background.
It was good to connect to plants and nature . . . and Japan again. It is very grounding to walk among plants and nature. Of course, we topped off our visit with a trip to the Insectarium . . . left me with a bit of the creepy crawlies, but entertaining nonetheless.
p.s. For incredibly good bonsai trees, the Brooklyn Botanic Garden has the best (no offense, Montreal . . . ).
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Fits and Starts
I have had a dickens of a time to get this blog started. Ever since moving to Montreal was a possibility I said that I was going to blog my way through the adventures. As I went through the transition from NYC to Montreal I had many a wacky adventure. Along the way I continually dog-eared memories to blog about. However, time ran away from me. The dog ears became more and more abundant and I still hadn't started writing. Like many, I found myself stuck in the "what should I call my blog" phase. Because, of course, one cannot begin blogging until one has the appropriately witty and clever title. I finally decided I was just being silly and settled on something common, French and relatively apropos.
I am sorry that you missed out on several blog entries due to my neurotic nature. So that you can know what you were missing, I will now give a brief list of entries you missed (in no particular order):
There is a strong possibility that some of those will still be written -- several are on-going themes -- and some are just too good to pass up.
So, what exactly will this blog be about? -- Beats me. But, I do like rambling on about random topics. Who doesn't like a cyber soap box? We'll see where it goes. Or, rather, we'll see if it goes.
Fasten your seat belts.
I am sorry that you missed out on several blog entries due to my neurotic nature. So that you can know what you were missing, I will now give a brief list of entries you missed (in no particular order):
I'm Moving in a WHAT?
Please, dear Lord, don't let it rain
My Precious, Precious, Poutine
UPS Can Kiss My Keister
But Wait, I'm Not a Nurse
Bankrolling IKEA
Rocks
Transitional Objects
There's No Shame in Flirting to Get What You Want
Would You Rather Have Fleas, Bed Bugs, Spiders, Gnats or Chiggers?
Dog Poop Alley
God Bless Lindsay
I Live in a Foreign Country
Bixi-licious
How Do You Say "How Do You Say?"
How Many Bank Accounts Can I Open?
Killing My Crackberry
Yes, I said Big Brother
NYC Bus Drivers vs. Montreal Bus Drivers
If One More Person Warns Me About Winter . . .
Did I Really Move to Canada?
Peaceful Loneliness
The Handy Man Within
I'll Try One of Each . . . No, Make that Two of Each . . .So, what exactly will this blog be about? -- Beats me. But, I do like rambling on about random topics. Who doesn't like a cyber soap box? We'll see where it goes. Or, rather, we'll see if it goes.
Fasten your seat belts.
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