18

I have just boldly ventured deeper into the digital age – the "third industrial revolution", as they say.  What was the second?  I think I missed something between the steam engine and the 3D printer...
 

I'm a self-confessed techno-phobe, so this is somewhat of a big deal for me.  Yes, I have a cell phone - which the nice lady at the Genius Bar set up (is that pretentious or what?!).  And I have a personal computer, which my paid tech support assembled.  Of course I love toys - provided someone else sets them up and gets them working for me.  That's why the fact that this blog actually functions is next door to a miracle.

I was generously gifted this past Christmas with an iPod.  A device that I had no idea how to use.  (The batteries still work in my Sony Walkman.)  Such a tiny little piece of metal, yet so intimidating.  It sat idle for over a month, before I found my courage.  It came with instructions on how to download iTunes, and then it was off to the merry, old land of YouTube, to find an appropriate Wizard.

YouTube is my personal encyclopedia for everything.  (If you're interested, I've got a video bookmarked for how to fold a fitted sheet that works every time.)  I found excellent instruction for the use of my new iPod – how to download songs from my favorite CDs; how to feed Apple $1.29 every 60 seconds.  I happily discovered that my new toy is a cinch to use.  But I must say, I found it a bit perturbing that the voice of my instructor could not have been more than 10 years old.  Fine for her – she doesn't have a full-time job, a house to run, and a dependant cat.

I spent a morning going through all my CDs and shopping iTunes, choosing just the right mix of songs to get me through my morning and evening commutes.  Trust me, it was worth the time.  There are several things I dislike about public transit, not the least of which is the way it sounds. Oh, not the train - the train itself is fine, except for that irritating automated lady's voice that says the doors will open on the right.  (What if I'm facing the other way?)  I can tune her out.  It's the passengers causing the all the noise pollution.

It never fails.  If I'm lucky enough to get a seat, I settle in comfortably, just in time to realize that someone in my vicinity is listening to their portable music player at 150 decibels.  And it's never pleasant music - it does not have a beat and you can't dance to it.  It's always some endless, repetitive, banging sound, occasionally accompanied by yelling or grunting.  I take some consolation in the fact that whoever is generating the offending racket is gradually sacrificing their hearing to it.  But in the meantime, why do they always have to sit/stand near me?

A sound I hate even more is that which emanates from someone who has never heard of Kleenex.  Constant wet, sniffling drives me insane.  I'm tempted to carry around a little package of tissue to offer these folks, but I worry that if a sniffer says 'thank you', instead of me saying 'you're welcome', I'll blurt out the truth – I wasn't doing it to be courteous, it's because they're grossing me out with that disgusting noise.  That might be considered bad form.

Another thing I haven't figured out is why I am so often riding in the same car as a complete nut-job.  The one who talks or sings to himself with no inhibitions, and later begs everyone for money.  As a Christian, I think they need assistance and prayers.  But as a normal, everyday, human, I also think I'd like to get off the train and wait for the next one.  Now that I have my iPod, all I have to do is tap the little plus sign to increase the volume.

A minor snag regarding the use of anything with earphones, though...On my way home from work Monday, riding the subway, I was so absorbed in the music, and without hearing those irritating station announcements, I missed my stop.

 

One Thing That >50 Me Has Learned Along the Way...

Everyone should be taught elevator etiquette.  Just in case Mom, Dad or Aunt Minnie didn't tell you, if you stick your arm between the closing doors of an elevator to prevent it from leaving without you, that elevator had better be empty.  If it's not, then the act is impossibly rude.  You're holding other people up.  Wait for the next one.  I would cheerfully see all elevator doors retrofitted with razor-sharp edges and the ability to close 50x faster than the ones on the Enterprise.

17

Surrounded by all this beauty – incredible variety, colours, fragrances – I am suddenly awestruck by a simple, honest truth.  I can barely keep a spider plant alive.

 

I found something, that for me, was a buried treasure, only a 30-minute drive from home (that's if there's no traffic – if it's rush hour, 2 days).  This 12,000 square-foot greenhouse, which, along with all the splendour inside, features that rarest of gems that folks in this town hold truly dear – free parking.

 

 

 

 

I've never even stepped foot inside the Centennial Park area.  It's probably very nice in the summer.  But it's freezing right now, so I'm going inside.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This greenhouse, which makes the one downtown look pale by comparison, has been around since the late 1940's.  Maybe around the time they planted this guy?...

 

I love the cactus room.  Word to the wise though – that little sign that says "please don't touch" – this is for your own good.  Trust me.  Either that, or carry tweezers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My favourite colour has always been pink.  So if this place only had a TV set and a microwave, I'd move in.  There is pink everywhere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No home would be complete without pets.  No shortage of those here.  Close to the entrance is a koi pond with 2 turtles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Maybe there were more turtles at one point, but some got too close to this guy...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I don't know how this tree-rat broke in.  He's trying to hide, but the dirt he's tossing everywhere is a dead giveaway.  It surprises me that he isn't doing what every other squirrel in this city does – digging holes in my backyard.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And here's Angel.  He's about 12 years old.  He often says 'hello', and a couple other words that I would never repeat, unless I'm behind the wheel of my car.  Angel occasionally dances for visitors which is highly amusing.  Angel also occasionally screams his head off like his fingernails are being ripped out one by one, which is nerve shattering.  (You get used to it after about a half-dozen times.)

 

 

 

I'm not quite sure what the deal is with this 'fireplace', but the room feels somewhat like a memorial.  Perhaps that's why there was a professional photographer there the day of my visit.  At least I assume she was a professional photographer, since she was lugging around a camera with a 2-foot long lens that weighed more than she did.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I don't really see why anyone would need a great big, fancy camera to get a good shot in this place.  I'm just wandering around with my cell phone clicking away – this place is what it is, and it's almost impossible to take a bad shot - as long I keep my fingers clear.

 

Before leaving, I stop by the entrance booth, to drop money into the donation box, and chat with Alice, a volunteer who has been working here for 24 years.  She has a background in horticulture, and taught the subject for about 14 years.  She's a lovely lady.  If you visit, say hi to her for me.

 

 

I also say goodbye to Angel.  I notice, when I look at the bottom of his cage, that he is pooping on The Toronto Star.  I guess that must be why all the horrible screeching.  He must be reading the editorial page...

 

One Thing That >50 Me Has Learned Along the Way...

It doesn't matter how carefully you check the pockets of every item you put in the washing machine.  Somehow, you always manage to miss one piece of Kleenex.  Then you open the washer at the end of the spin cycle, and there's your clothing – covered in tiny little bits of shredded, wet tissue.  I don't how that wadded-up piece of Kleenex gets through inspection every time.  I suppose I could just give in and buy myself a large supply of handkerchiefs.  But why bother?  I'm sure they would just magically disappear from the dryer one at a time.  So I guess I have to put up with little bits of fluff flying off my clothes as I yank them out of the washer.  Does this not happen to all of us?  Or am I the only person who has to vacuum every time I do the laundry?

16

All I remember from the last time I was in one, was that there's lots of books (the exact one of which you desire is definitely already checked out, with a waiting list of at least 3 other people), and you have to be very quiet...

 

This is quite embarrassing.  As previously mentioned, I have lived in my current neighborhood for 30 years.  But until yesterday, I had never stepped foot into my local public library, just a 20-minute walk from my home.

This is not because I don't read.  I actually read a lot.  I buy books at stores and garage sales, I trade books with people, I receive them as gifts, I pick up books that people have left at the bottom of their lawns; I own many books that I've reread.  Hopefully that's enough to convince people I'm not some illiterate yutz.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are even quite a few "Little Libraries" within a short distance of my house that I've made use of – you take a book, and you leave a book; that's the deal.  I even considered requesting one of these boxes on my own lawn, but the colour schemes are hideous.

  

Someone out there I know recently lamented that he would have loved to donate a quantity of used books to a library, but the library didn't want them.  Now I know why.

Remembering back to the library I went to as a child, the place seemed huge – room after room after room, endlessly, with an upstairs too.  But this library – it must be an optical illusion.  From outside, it looks the size of a $3 million home, but on the inside, it didn't feel much bigger than your average 2-bedroom apartment (with carpeting apparently left over from an old movie theatre).  I don't see how they could stuff more books in there – they're full.

But it's not just books.  There's a little room for magazines/newspapers, shelves of DVDs, and a very large table with about 8 computer workstations.  For the space that they have, they are trying to make optimal use of it.

The times have certainly changed.  A sign on the wall instructed people with cell phones to set them on vibrate, and to speak quietly.  I remember my junior high school librarian.  If that woman had caught you in her library talking on a cell phone, she would have removed both the phone and the ear listening to it.  (Mrs. Crowley, if you're still alive, I have a copy of "The Condition of the Working Class in England" that I signed out in 1978.   Deepest apologies – I'm almost finished it.)

Before leaving this precious local resource, I did check out a book.  It's done express now.  You just press Start on the monitor, hold your library card up to the scanner, put your book on the pad, and when the screen turns green, you're done.  You can even print out a receipt that tells you the minute they'll start charging you 40 cents a day for late fees.  I checked out "When to Rob a Bank".  I found the content disappointing, as I was hoping to retire soon (next week).

 

One Thing That >50 Me Has Learned Along the Way...

With the exception of inside your own home where you live alone - if you move an object, for whatever reason, you should put it back where you got it, when you're finished.  Or if the object has a new (and I would certainly hope, improved) permanent home, tell everyone who needs to know.  Please, please do this, because I cannot tell you how much time I have spent looking around for something that someone else shifted.  It is a HUGE waste of time and extremely irritating.

15

Good thing there's no meat in chocolate or wine – I'd have starved...

I just spent a week as a vegetarian.  No meat, no fish.  Could I do this for a lifetime?  No way.  As the BFF reminded me, if we weren't meant to eat meat, God wouldn't have made it taste so good.

 

 

The week was not easy.  I had a to order a veggie slice.   If you can't have pepperoni, it's almost not worth bothering.

 

 

Then for a couple nights, a piece of spinach quiche with a side salad.  Salad has an upside for me – even with my limited cooking skills, it's one thing I make quite well (no chance of burning it).   

 

 

 

 

Sushi without the raw fish – well, it isn't sushi.  The cucumber rolls were a poor substitute, so again, I added a side.  (Oh, shush – it's a serving of fruit.)

 

 

 

It's just not vegetarianism if you're not inconveniencing someone.  When I advised the BFF of this week's never-tried-before adventure (my Friday nights are spent at her dinner table), the response was predictable - "well then the chicken goes back in the fridge".  This must happen to every meat-eater at least once in their lifetime.  We had veggie enchiladas instead – my first one of those, too.  It was very good.  Hope she makes them again sometime (with beef).

We just celebrated a milestone birthday for the BFF, at a restaurant I'd never been to before (even though I've lived within a 15-minute drive of it for 30 years).  Platters of chicken wings appeared.  My eyes welled up when the aroma hit me...

 

 

 

 

Thank goodness 2 of the 4 main food groups contain no meat.  (You use your food guide; I'll use mine.)

 

 

This has likely been pondered many times, but I think it bears restating – how come when a vegetarian/vegan comes to your house for dinner, you are expected to serve a meal that caters to their lifestyle and you won't enjoy that much, but when you go dine at their house, you have to eat tofu and dandelion shoots because that's what the host eats.  I understand they won't eat a burger, but can't they serve you one, respecting your lifestyle?  Which by the way supports the multi-billion dollar beef industry.  I'm sorry about all the cow farts, but isn't McDonalds bringing us all closer together on this great, big global village we call Earth?

Leonardo DiCaprio makes about $25 million per movie.  I hear he's a vegetarian.  But for his latest film, "The Revenant", to make one particular scene look completely realistic, he actually ate raw bison liver.  This makes sense.  Because you'd have to pay me $25 million to eat liver of any kind.

One Thing That >50 Me Has Learned Along the Way...

At some point, almost everybody needs a job.  Even dumb-dumbs and people with the motivation of a flea.  So stop slamming Wal-Mart.  They hire people that no-one else will hire. 

14

This 'first' was one I was prepared to keep trying until I got it right.  Even if that meant over and over and over and over again...

 

Have you ever tried to make the perfect classic martini, like you see in the movies?  I'm not sure I'd ever even consumed one.  Oh, I've occasionally tried fake ones – the Appletini, the Choclatini – drinks that would make James Bond retch.   But a real martini?  I know there's gin in there, and I recognize the glass, but that's where my need for a bartender comes in.

Luckily, we have the internet.  I found an article entitled "12 Steps to the Perfect Martini."  (I know - I'm sure it's just a coincidence that it's 12 steps.)  I had no idea it almost takes a chemistry degree to mix a drink.  But I'm up to the challenge.  And also thirsty.  Good thing it's almost noon; don't want the neighbours talking.

First, get the vermouth out of the fridge.  (Did you know that vermouth is a perishable?  Once it's opened, it needs to go in the fridge - seriously.)  Apparently, a capful is all you need.  That seems a bit stingy.  I used extra.

Now take your glass pitcher or metal shaker out of the freezer.  That seems to be the trend.  Everything comes from the fridge or freezer.  The liquids, the ice, the glass, the pitcher.  No room for food – the appliance can now only hold booze and the necessary accoutrements.  (This is not as practical as it sounds.)

I actually don't have a metal shaker, or a glass pitcher, so I improvised.  I found a tall glass container in my pantry that would suffice (I wrapped my spaghetti in plastic wrap temporarily).

Put ice cubes in the pitcher – lots of them (about 7 or 8).  In goes the vermouth, coating the ice cubes and the bottom of the pitcher.  Swirl it around a little and then strain the pitcher over the sink, so any excess liquid drains.  It's a little sad to think of pouring vermouth down the drain, but I promise, very little comes out.

Get the gin out of the freezer and pour 2 shots into the pitcher.  Because I'm using glass here, we stir, rather than shake.  (Sorry, 007.)  Apparently it's something to do with friction from the ice causing a chain reaction of cold, and there has to be some ice melt dilution.  (Okay, okay, whatever.)  And you knew this was coming.  You're just supposed to swirl gently – you don't want to "bruise the gin".   We've all heard that phrase a hundred times – no one ever says what it means.  It certainly says nothing in this web article.  I'm assuming there are university courses that cover the subject fully.

Now, you set the pitcher down and put on a Frank Sinatra CD.  Well, that's what Instruction number 6 says...  A martini tastes better with background music.  Fine.  Makes perfect sense. (??)  But since it's still technically Christmas, I'm putting on a Sinatra Christmas album.  (Hey - I'm doing this 'My Way'.)  Luckily, for someone out there I know, the instructions specifically state that Dean Martin is also acceptable.

Swirl the pitcher again.

Now put out some cocktail peanuts.  I have to be careful with Instruction number 8.  I like peanuts, but they don't like me very much, and that's all I have to say about that.

Swirl the pitcher some more.

Grab a jar of green olives from the fridge – sorry if you hate them, but they are not optional.  You're supposed to poke out those little red things.  Then you stab two olives with a toothpick (through the sides, not through the core, as I found out).

Swirl the pitcher yet again.  I'm getting carpal-tunnel here...

Finally.  The martini glass comes out of the freezer.  Strain the martini from the pitcher into the glass, and drop in the olives, which immediately sink to the bottom.

Time for the taste-test!  I lift the glass, with my non-stirring hand, and take a sip.  And then I realize – I have no idea what this is supposed to taste like.  But as with art, I don't know what's good, I just know what I like. And I've decided I like it.  (Either that, or my throat is so numb from the cold, it could taste like turpentine and I wouldn't be any the wiser.)  I think the olives are supposed to be eaten last.  I quite like them right from the jar, but I must admit that a nice gin bath improves them significantly.

I did draw upon some past experience for this...Many, many, many years ago, when I worked behind the candy counter in a movie theatre (actually, at several of them), I became a bit of a legend for my ability to make the perfect Swamp – a very careful mixture of every soda that came from the fountainhead, in specific amounts, in a specific order.  I finished off by shaking gently.  And I always warned my customer to insert and use the straw with caution.  One does not want to bruise the ginger ale...

One Thing That >50 Me Has Learned Along the Way...

If you are a pet owner, or you are planning to become one, then it is your responsibility to make sure you have at least one "godparent" for your pet(s).  What happens if you (and your partner, if applicable) unexpectedly pass away?  What happens to your dog/cat/fish/whatever?  Back to the Humane Society?  Flushed?  It won't be your decision – you won't be there to look out for Fluffy/Fido/Bubbles.  Plan ahead!  I had a friend once who talked about getting a dog upon retirement - to walk, for the exercise.  First of all, not the best reason for getting a pet.  Second of all, said friend had a history of health problems.  I wondered what would happen to the pooch if my friend left us permanently, much sooner than any of us feared to imagine.  Tragically, that's exactly what happened.  Dealing with the friend's collection of fish was a big enough chore for his closest relative – thank goodness, no other living creatures (well, not pets, anyway)...  So consider carefully before you give Grandma or Grandpa 3 kittens as a gift.   Because at some point in the future, you will suddenly acquire 3 adult cats.

13

Tchaikovsky lived from 1840 to 1893.  I'm no historian, but I don't think they had LSD back then.  And I can't explain how someone could hallucinate this fantasy without some serious acid-dropping.






This was my first visit to this particular venue, and also my first time attending the ballet.

Sorry – no pictures for this first-time experience.  The lady handing out programs at the door kept repeating, "No food or drink; no photography", to every single person.  Presumably the dancers could be distracted by 2,000 flash bulbs going off in their faces.

But I can show you the facility.   I was up in Ring 5.  Not recommended for people afraid of heights or prone to nosebleeds – it's about 60 feet off the floor.  I could still see the stage quite well though, from Row A.


As I settled into my seat, and reminisced on my childhood after-school ballet classes, I prepared to be bored out of my skull for the next 2 hours.


The story begins with a Russian hoedown.  Sometime in the 1800's, a family hosts a Christmas Eve party out in their barn, after the stable boy, Peter, has chased out all the rats.  The party is well-attended - demonstrating that your average 1800's Russian probably would have killed for Netflix.

Suddenly the family's Uncle Nikolai shows up. (There really is one in every family...) He performs magic and hands out presents to all the children.  He's got a dancing horse and a roller-skating bear.  I guess we understand now why no one was allowed in the house.

Nikolai gives one of the kids, Marie, a nutcracker doll.  She and her brother, Misha, start fighting over it, until Dad takes it away and sends them off to bed.

This is where things start to get really weird.  A bunch of giant, dancing mice show up in the children's bedroom.  Their Christmas tree grows to huge proportions.  Nikolai secretly returns the nutcracker doll to Marie, and he comes to life.  Coincidentally, the Nutcracker looks very much like Peter, the rather hot stable boy.  He dances around wearing his very smart soldier's blazer, and a pair of tights that make him appear bare-bummed, while the audience behaves like this is not giggle-worthy.  (Or is that just me?)

Suddenly there's a war going on between the mice and regiments of dogs and cats and other toys that have come to life, with Misha and Marie helping the mice to victory.  When the war ends, one of the beds sails off with the kids and the Nutcracker.  They meet the Snow Queen, who gives the kids a beautiful ice boat pulled by unicorns.  (I swear I'm not making any of this up.)  They arrive in the land of the Sugar Plum Fairy and her various minions, who insist on hearing all about the children's adventures, which must have been thrilling because then they all fall asleep.  Then there's a banquet with a lot of dancing food.  Marie and Misha finally get seated at a dinner table, where they start a food fight.  At some point during all this nonsense, the Nutcracker falls in love with the Sugar Plum Fairy.

Marie and Misha wake up in their own bedroom.  Gluttons for punishment,  they fall asleep again.  But luckily the only thing that happens this time is a farewell to the Nutcracker and the Sugar Plum Fairy.  Not being ones for long engagements, they head off together.

 

 

I assure you that at no point during the performance was I bored.  I was far too busy trying to figure out what the hell was going on.  I didn't understand any of it.  But who cares?  The scenery, costumes, music and dancing were all stunning.  I was enthralled.

I highly recommend going to see "The Nutcracker".  And if you feel like smoking a little something before going in, it just might help...

One Thing That >50 Me Has Learned Along the Way...
 
Before you buy an article of clothing, always read the label.  Does it have to be hand-washed to stay looking good?  I personally don't buy anything that can't go in the washing machine, or stay acceptably clean with maximum quarterly trips to the dry cleaners.  If I had some kind of paid household assistance, that would be different.  But since it's just me, I'm not spending precious time ringing stuff out at the kitchen sink.  And then "lay flat to dry."  Where am I supposed to do that?  On the stove, the floor, the kitchen table?  None of those places are practical.  And while you're reading that label, consider its country of origin.  If the hands that made it earned 50 cents for doing so, in a rickety firetrap, yet the price tag is $189.99, leave it in the store.  Designer brand corporations will not get the message that their behaviour is unethical and immoral if we keep rewarding them.