21

I spend very little time east of home town.  To me, it's just this place I drive through on the way to my parents' house.  I think many Torontonians feel about Oshawa the way many Americans feel about Rhode Island.  We know about it;  we just don't care.
 

I don't recall ever having even driven through Oshawa.  It's quaint (i.e. filled with one-way streets, signs that can only be read if you're traveling at a 90 degree angle to the way you're actually going, and stores closed on Sunday).  And it's home to the Robert McLaughlin Gallery.

This building was donated to the city by Mr. McLaughlin's grandson, in memory of Grandpa who moved his carriage business from a little town south of the eastern tip of Lake Huron to Oshawa in 1877.  It became the largest carriage business in the British Empire.  According to the plaque at the front door, anyway.  I'm not sure what happened to the business, but I don't know anyone with a McLaughlin parked in their driveway.

The gallery seems to be dedicated to Canadian art.  No complaints.  I can be just as confused about what a Canadian painting is trying to express, as I can about a painting from anyplace else.

 

 

Sometimes, even for those who know zilch about art, it's easy to tell how a painter was feeling when they created a particular piece – I won't insult anyone's intelligence by suggesting here what mood the creator of this work was probably in at the time...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I don't like to judge (and yet I do, all the time)...Is this art?  I assume it is.  It's framed and hanging on a wall in a gallery.  But I think I could come pretty close to an authentic reproduction using 4 cans of paint, 4 brushes and a couple rolls of FrogTape.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is definitely not something you'd find hanging in my living room.  The giant eyeballs creep me out.   But I'm sure there are plenty of people who do like this style (and who are very well adjusted or have good therapists), so no disrespect meant to this, or any other, artist.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

More to my taste were surreal pieces like this one.  I love black and white photography.  True, I'm not sure what it means – a stark, almost desert-like landscape with lots of butterflies rising – but I stared at it for a very long time.  And still couldn't figure out a way to sneak it out of the building into my car.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Check this out – you'll remember it the next time you call CAA for a boost.  Charles A. Atkinson started his business in Oshawa.  Hard to believe at one point that the city was even more "quaint" than it is now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lots more photos to be seen.  Currently, the gallery has an exhibit dedicated to the National Film Board.  No, they don't just produce sophisticated short films like "The Logdriver's Waltz".  In fact, up until 1941, they didn't produce any moving pictures.  "Film" referred that old fashioned stuff that used to be loaded into a camera.  But when the organization started making movies, they created the National Film Board of Canada's Still Photography Division. 

 

 

From 1941 through 1984, this

Division commissioned freelance photographers to travel all over Canada taking interesting/important photographs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Like the ones for this article.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here's one of some young ladies who worked at a munitions plant in Quebec City.

This amazing collection of photographs is worth the visit, if you're at all interested in Canadian history.  (A subject I found very boring in high school, because the only thing we ever studied was the Hudson's Bay Company – which isn't even Canadian anymore.)

The greatest portion of my time in the gallery was actually spent downstairs, visiting with their current artist-in-residence, Janice.  I wish I could show you pictures of her and her extremely colourful paintings, but I didn't think it would be appropriate to take pictures of material that was clearly so personal to her (and I don't think it was allowed anyway – what with the "no photography allowed" signs on every wall).   But Janice was absolutely fascinating, and one of the most spiritual people I've ever met.  Also incredibly intuitive.  I put it down to a powerfully functioning right brain, which I'm envious of, because, as an organizer, the right side of my brain barely functions.  It's a miracle that I even manage to express myself in words.

I wonder what kind of a painter I would make?  I'm guessing it's likely that I haven't progressed much beyond kindergarten - yellow blob in the upper left (sun), square with triangle on top (house), and stick figures (dysfunctional family).  But if I ever decide to give it another shot, I'll lay in a supply of bright colours and FrogTape...

 

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

Using a credit card ensures you never need to carry around large amounts of cash, which generally isn't considered safe.  But that little piece of plastic is not a device for supplementing your income.  If you can't pay your balance at the end of every month, you're spending beyond your means.  Bank credit cards charge currently almost 20% interest.  Store credit cards are more like 25%. These rates are practically usury.  So don't spend more than you can pay.   And if you're paying an annual fee, you're probably committing an additional wrong.  Banks already make tons of money off credit cards.  Charging you a fee on top of the minimum 3.5% merchant fee they get for every purchase transaction is adding insult to injury.

20

I'm not the only one who turned 50 this year!   Guess what else did?!   Superbowl!!  Yes, folks, for 50 years now, football fans everywhere have been using this over-hyped event as an excuse to binge on junk food, ignore stuff around the house that needs doing, and, since 2004, hope for another incredibly obvious wardrobe 'malfunction'.  And for 50 years, Americans have been watching the cool, award-winning commercials, while we Canadians watch boring, stupid ads...

I had not only never watched a Superbowl, I had never seen any football game – ever.  AFL, CFL, college ball – nothing.  (I have seen the movie "Rudy", but that doesn't count.  It's an adorable coming-of-age, live-your-dream picture, but as far as I know, Sean Astin signed no endorsement deals afterwards.)  This presented a bit of a problem – I knew zero about football.  I realized in advance that having absolutely no idea what was going on might affect my enjoyment of the game.  What to do?...

The office where I work contains some outstanding people.  Luckily for me, it contains a football expert, in the form of my buddy next door.  I enlisted her help to enroll in "Football for Dummies", a week-long, daily, 20-minute course on the basics of the game, followed by a quiz just to make sure I was listening, despite my eyes glazing over upon hearing terms like 'wide-receiver', '2-point conversion' and 'incomplete pass'.  (My buddy also bakes and knits, but those are advanced courses.)

Sunday arrived, and I assumed I was ready.  Just to be sure, I did something else I'd never done – I cooked chicken wings.  Isn't that what you're supposed to eat during the Superbowl?  I read somewhere that America consumes approximately 3 billion chicken wings on Superbowl Sunday.  That's just over 9 wings for every man, woman and child in the USA.  Maybe the President should do like he does at Thanksgiving – before every Superbowl, pardon a chicken!

The game started at 6:30pm EST (pre-game show starting around 6:30am). It is separated into quarters – four units of play at 15 minutes each.  So the game should take roughly an hour to watch, right?  Not quite. Here's the breakdown: 1) about 45 minutes of actual play, 2) about 15 minutes of watching players, coaches and referees wandering around the field, 3) 30 minutes of half-time break, 4) 2½ hours of commercials.  Finally around 10:30pm,  we see one bunch of guys jumping up and down pouring Gatorade on each other, and another bunch sitting on a bench crying.  

I'll say this about football – or at least, the Superbowl.  It's not boring.  You never have to watch the game long enough to get bored.  Because there's a commercial every 3 minutes.  And it's all very colourful - lots of blue and orange and green, Lady Gaga in a red tuxedo.  And lots and lots of penalties, particularly for 'unsportsmanlike conduct'.  I don't know why this would be unexpected.  Look at the way they're dressed – helmets, mouth-guards, padding, cleats.  They did not come here to display a gentlemanly countenance – they came to crush skulls and insult the other guys' mothers.

My football education helped somewhat.  I did remember that the team in possession gets 4 chances to advance 10 yards.  That's really not very far, but I understand now that it's much tougher than it sounded.  Mostly because every time some guy got the ball, 8 other guys jumped on top of him.  Then a whistle blows, and play stops while somebody checks to see whether the quarterback/running-back/whoever is still breathing.   Either he gets up, or they bring a gurney out.  This happens again and again and again, until half-time/game over.

Basically, the ball goes this way, then it goes that way.  Kind of like tennis.  Except way, way, way, way more complicated.  Plus there's the half-time show.  After a miraculously quick set-up of a stage in the middle of the field (that crew should be somewhere building new subway lines – they are FAST!), out comes Cold Play, Beyonce, and some guy with dark hair and sunglasses whose name I can't remember, along with lots of dancers.  Normally I hit the mute button when exposed to...I'll just politely refer to it as 'today's popular music'.  But I decided, in for a penny in, for a pound.  I've got Advil upstairs; I might as well listen.  The stadium crowd seemed to enjoy it very much.  It was all part of the Superbowl extravaganza experience, so I will go so far as to rate it, 'meh'.

Anyhoo – congratulations to the Broncos.  If this was indeed Peyton Manning's final game before retirement, I'm glad I got to see it.  And commiserations to the Panthers – there's always next year.  Unless at some point during the regular season, you suffer a serious, possibly career-ending, injury.  But I hope not.  That would be unsportsmanlike.

The BFF came over to watch the game with me.  She says she's going to force me to watch the next Grey Cup.  Apparently, on our side of the border, they only get 3 chances to make 10 yards.  That should make the game shorter, right?  RIGHT?  When is it?  November?  And it's probably going to be hosted here in Toronto?  Oh, geez...I'm going to be out of town.

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

And while we're on the subject of cars (see last posting)...If you really must have a car in the driveway full-time, think carefully about whether to purchase or lease.  I use to think that leasing was always a bad idea unless you were able to claim your car as a business expense.  That it was like renting for five years, and then you simply give the car back – they have your money, and you have no wheels.  But there are other particular situations where leasing could make sense.  If you're going to put almost no mileage on your car, driving mostly only on weekends and with very little distance driving, at least consider leasing.  Expensive repairs will come up, the longer you own the car, and more of them – low mileage notwithstanding.  If you hardly ever drive the thing, think about leasing the cheapest acceptable vehicle, and letting any unexpected, costly repairs be the dealership's problem.  If you lease a new car for 5 years, chances are pretty good that basic maintenance is all you'll have to pay.  But if you own, along with basic maintenance, there will a come a day when something big, like maybe your rear deferential, goes – that's thousands out of your pocket.  You may realize after 10 or 12 years, with all the money you've spent on major repairs, it actually would have been cheaper to lease.  If you do decide to go the leasing route, obviously don't take the buy-out option.  The whole point is to unload a potential money pit before it becomes one.  Another obvious point is that you must have a 10-star rating on your auto insurance.  If you're going to drive a brand new vehicle every 5 years, you won't be able to count on your insurance decreasing every year after the 5^th year, as the car ages.  A squeaky clean driving record and persistence in shopping for the best rate will go a long way.

19

I'm certainly feeling less than virtuous.  When I wish upon a star, it's usually for winning lottery numbers or for something bad to happen to someone I don't like...

 

Time to catch up on another old movie that it's very unbelievable that I have never seen, especially considering that film-watching is one of my favorite activities.  One major obstacle is that I never watch movies on network television.  TV edits movies for content and timing, and they never let you watch the credits.  Plus, they paste their station logo onto the screen, usually on the lower right, and it's always a major visual distraction to me.  I hate this practice.  Never once have I ever been watching TV, when, just as the identity of the murderer is about to be revealed, I suddenly think to myself, "hey, what channel am I watching?"  I don't care.  Nobody cares.

Thank goodness for TCM.   They occasionally put their logo up, but only for a moment and generally only twice during a movie – I can live with that.  Other than that, films are shown as originally seen in the theatre, as far as I know.   Recently, as part of their Movie Camp series, they broadcast "Close Encounters of the Third Kind."

How could I possibly have not seen a movie that came out in 1977, written and directed by a guy everyone over the age of 5 has heard of?   I don't know.  I was 12.  And probably head over heels for Luke Skywalker and Han Solo.  No offense to Richard Dreyfuss.

You have to admire the special effects in this movie.  They seem way ahead of their time.  Because that is one heck of a spaceship.  And this was back when Lucasfilm/Industrial Light and Magic was barely off the launch pad, so no help there.

I'm a very left-brained person – an organizer; analytical.  I like things to make sense, and everything in its place.  So this movie drove me bonkers.  I tried to hang in there; I really did.  But by the time we get to the mash potatoes, I'm really not getting what's happening in Roy's mind.  And when he starts throwing dirt and bricks in the kitchen window – that's it.  I would have done the same thing his wife did – load up the kids and drive away, never to be seen again.  Not that I missed them much – they seemed very exchangeable for any other family unit in suburban America.

Then, poof!  We're driving to Wyoming where Roy miraculously hooks up with Melinda Dillon's character, and everyone's wearing gas masks, and there are helicopters flying around chasing people.  And what's with the French guy?  Is he Canadian?  Like from Quebec?  He doesn't seem snotty enough to be from France. 

There just seems to be a lot of moving parts here, for a movie based on a Disney tune.

I did think the space aliens looked adorable.  But if you read one of my earlier blog entries, you know how I feel about space aliens.  They are not to be trusted.  No matter how cute they are.  (Okay, ET maybe.)

Of course, after the film ended, there were the two TMN Movie Camp hosts, who gushed over it like it was the Second Coming.  Everything about it was apparently brilliant and all film students should watch it 100 times over until they too have learned enough to become brilliant filmmakers.

I admit the finale made perfect sense to me.  Since Richard Dreyfuss spent the entire movie acting like a total space cadet, he might as well become one.  It's all for the best, because when his wife sees what he did to the house, she's going to be pissed...

 

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

Everyone should know how to change a flat tire.  Yes, you too, ladies.  Because if you own a car, or regularly rent one, chances are, you're going to get a flat at some point.  Be prepared for it to be raining, or dark, or in the middle of Nowheresville.   In one case, I wasn't exactly stranded alone on Mars, but I had a ton of baggage sitting directly over the space-saver compartment, and a screaming, carsick cat to deal with.  It was a major pain to change that tire.  But I was grateful I'd taken the time to learn.  So either know how to fix a flat, or hire a chauffeur-driven vehicle – guess which one's cheaper?  Sometimes you get lucky – I once made it into my own garage before my front driver's side sank into the pavement.  I'm now a legend with at least one CAA responder.  He nearly wet himself when he discovered I'd run over a spoon.

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?