Fish!

I went to Ripley's Aquarium.  It was totally worth the $ 30 entrance fee.  Look, eels!

These are plain old eels.  Further along, there was an electric eel in a tank that gave real-time feedback of the eel's electrical output.  The feedback was in the form of a zig-zaggedy digital readout, and a sound that goes "GZZZT".  I found the constant GZZZT-ing a bit ominous so I moved along quickly.

These are sea pens.  As in, they resemble old-timey quill pens.  If you touch them, they emit phosphorescent mucus.  At least, that's what the display panel said.  I didn't get a chance to test that out.  They were waving back and forth in the water looking... very fleshy.

This lumpfish was approximately the size of a loaf of bread.  I thought it was a pretty big fish until later, when I encountered an 800-pound grouper.  I swear that grouper was as big as my desk. Gi-freaking-normous.  Unfortunately, the lighting in that area was not conducive to photos with my lame little phone camera.

Anemones.  The orange one may have been a cinnamon anemone.  I hope so.  (I was not able to find any supporting documentation for this theory.)

Don't you just want to drizzle some icing on it and take a bite?

Sea stars.  I did not know these came in purple.  Cool.

The Pacific kelp forest was beautiful and enormous.  A wave machine had the whole tank in constant motion, especially up near the surface.  It was really neat to see the entire 3-D field of sea life moving with the water.  There's no land-lubber equivalent, except perhaps a flock of birds flying in synchrony.

Everything I saw was backed by atmospheric, film-soundtrack-type music, piped in to enhance the otherworldly experience.  I'm sure it was also to drown out the sounds of the many pumps and other machinery it takes to keep the place going.  I think if I worked there and had to listen to it non-stop it might make me want to shoot myself, but for my own visit I enjoyed it.

Tropical corals in the Rainbow Reef:

The Dangerous Lagoon was the highlight of the tour.  A moving sidewalk brings you through a tunnel under the biggest tank of all, full of sharks, rays, and a zillion smaller fish of every description.  It's eye-poppingly gorgeous.

It is also possible to step off the moving walkway to take photos or just gawk to your heart's content.  Sawfish!

It was tough to get photos of some of the faster-moving creatures on account of the dim light.  Slow shutter speed + zippy stingrays = nothing but a blueish blur.  Not to worry, the website has some pictures of the stingrays for you.

Baby seahorse:

Momma shark:

Baby shark:

Don't ask me about specific species names and whatnot.  I didn't have time to read all the signage.  I wanted to look at creatures!  Maybe I'll read the signs next time.

The jellyfish were also stunning, but by the time I got to that section my phone battery was almost dead.  But trust me, they were fabulous.

Basically I would like to gather all of you together for a group tour of the facility.  We would bring good cameras to take pictures of each other getting photobombed by crazy fish-beasties.  And make sure you wear a shirt with sleeves that roll above the elbow so that you can reach into the Touch Tank and pat a stingray.  Who's in?

Awkward Family Dinner

I got a chance to see my fur brothers this weekend.  Here's one of them.

Click to enlarge and get a good look at his terrible dandruff problem.

I have become a crazy cat lady hobo-style, i.e. due to Ken's allergies I can't have cats so I have to take my show on the road.  I actually keep that rainbow ribbon in my purse to play with other peoples' cats.  Technically I only need it on weekends, but I like to carry it around with me all the time because seeing it makes me smile.

As soon as I pulled the ribbon out, my fur brothers flipped their lids.  They pounced all over it.  Even the lazy one (above), who spends most of his time begging for food and/or tummy rubs, actually got up and trotted after the ribbon when I pulled it to the other end of the house.

Thank goodness for the cats, because they made an awkward family dinner slightly easier to get through.  Ken and I have been at odds with my step-dad on account of his being involved in some shady business with some unsavoury business men, and because he tried to get us involved in his shenanigans.  I have to honestly say that I've been avoiding my step-dad for the past few months, because I just don't want to even listen to him talk about his schemes.  He's all excited about meetings he's had with people whom I consider to be obnoxious and hateful.

The truth is that I've lost quite a bit of respect for him.  He's focusing a lot of his energy on acquiring money and power, when he has enough money and power already to serve all of his needs.  He's intent on squashing some people he considers to be his enemies, at the expense of the people who he calls his friends.  He's not being nasty to his helpers on purpose per se, but he is being astonishingly thoughtless about other peoples' needs, priorities, and feelings.  I still care for him, of course, but my willingness to help him is at an all-time low.

Our dinner conversation was stilted, but we got through the evening, so that's something.  It's no worse than it used to be when I was a teenager, I suppose.  Actually, it's better, because I'm now an independent  adult who can go home at the end of the evening to relax...

... and pick cat fur off my clothes.

Bumming Rides

It's Sunday.  Sunday is blogging day.  I should write something, despite it being the kind of afternoon when all I want to do is passively consume: snacks, hot milk with Ovaltine, novels, TV.

As luck would have it, yesterday was relatively interesting, not least because I spent some time with my relatives.  My father and step-mom, who were scheduled to spend the entire winter in their Mexican gringo get-away, are currently living in a borrowed condo in the suburbs of Toronto with my sister, on account of my sister's health.  It's a long, convoluted story, but basically my sister's back is crunk; she might need to have surgery on it; and in the meantime she needs quite a lot of help getting to and from appointments.  Yes, it's a major bummer.  But on the bright side, my sister is being well looked-after, and also it means that I get to see my folks more than never during the winter.

Getting to the borrowed condo seemed like it might be a challenge.  It's located at the far reaches of the Toronto public transit system (TTC), a few blocks away from where the buses turn around and head back to Kipling station.  As you may recall, I don't drive.  However!  It was discovered that I could ride with my grandmother (elder Bubbe, the 97-year-old) as a escort in her WheelTrans cab.

WheelTrans is a service offered by the TTC for disabled people.  It offers door-to-door cab or wheelchair-bus service for the price of a regular bus ride.  My Bubbe applied for eligibility a couple of years ago.  I'm not sure who ends up paying the real cost of the service, obviously it all trickles down to the tax-payers eventually, but in my opinion it's necessary and a blessing to many people, and I'm happy to be contributing to it.

This was the first time I got to benefit from it.  I flashed my Metropass and was able to enjoy a $50 cab ride out into the wilds of Etobicoke in warmth and comfort.  (The cab driver does leave the meter running, so that he can charge the fee back to the TTC, and so that you can see exactly how much value you are squeezing out of the system.)

It was nice to spend the extra time with my Bubbe, and we had a good time with the family.  My favourite exchange of the evening came when my Bubbe declared "I've always felt like a freak!"  "So, I inherited it?" I joked.  My father said "Yes, you come from a long line of freaks."  It's just as I had always suspected!

A second WheelTrans cab deposited us back at my Bubbe's residence at the end of the evening, and I still had time to take the train over to a friend's birthday party for a slice of chocolate cake.  That's a lot of excitement during an otherwise hibernatory February.  It was a nice change of pace.

The Bean

What does a fashion-conscious girl do when an effing relentless winter keeps her away from the shops?  Why, she goes shopping online, of course!  And where does she go shopping online?  If she's me, she looks around, but she always ends up back at L.L. Bean.

I am a big fan of The Bean.  No one is paying me to say this.  (Although if one of the Beanerites gets wind of this and wants to send me a gift card, I wouldn't say no.)  The reasons for my as-yet undying Beanerism are:

1)  The COLOURS.  I like a varied palette in my wardrobe, and I'm not talking about fifty shades of grey.  Neutrals have their place, but that place should be as contrast to whatever kicky colour I've chosen to brighten my day.

2)  The easy care.  The no-iron shirts truly can go into the dryer and come out straight onto a hanger, ready to wear.  It is my goal to eventually replace all my mandatory-iron shirts with these lazy ones.  If only I'd known of this option sooner.

My older no-iron shirt:

The one that I just received this week:

Hey, colour, right?  Don't say I didn't warn you.

I already had one of these in blue, but when I saw them on sale for 50% off I didn't even try to resist getting two more colours.  Hmm, it looks a little wrinkly in this photo, but I swear it shakes out just fine after it's been worn for a little while.

Ah, my happy family of Easter egg colours.

I also received a cardigan, (in "natural"), which I'm sending back because it's too boxy.  Too bad; I had high hopes for that one.

That's about it for my mid-winter shopping spree.  I did also order a pair of pants from Eddie Bauer, maybe, I think.  I mean, I got a confirmation e-mail stating that they received my order.  Then I started to get e-mails saying things like "Yoohoo!  I think you forgot to check out, maybe?  Let us know if we can help you process your cart."  I clicked on the e-mail link, which told me I had zero items in my cart.  So, I dunno.  Maybe I'm getting pants, or maybe I'm not getting pants.  Eh, either way is fine.  It's not like I'm dying for those pants; it's more of an experiment to see if they fit.

Oh, and if anyone from Eddie Bauer wants to pay me for linking to them, once again, I am totally open to bribes a gift card.  Just sayin'.

In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts

The weather has not been conducive to adventuring around the city of Toronto.   Therefore, I have been getting a lot of reading done.  Just this afternoon I finished In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts by Gabor Maté, a non-fiction book on the subject of  addiction.  It explores the relationships between early childhood experiences, ADD/ADHD, and addictive behaviours.  I certainly found it thought-provoking.

One of the issues Maté grapples with is how much control people have over their own behaviour.  Given one's various genetic pre-dispositions and the inescapable environments of childhood, how much are we driven by our "programming" and how much free choice do we actually have?  He doesn't try to answer that, but does make the point that there is no black and white answer; it's a slippery, grey area.

I like his idea of redefining free will as "free won't", i.e. the ability to resist our own impulses and compulsions when they do not work towards our long-term well-being.

It's also interesting to see the parallels between addiction and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. They both centre around obsessive thoughts and compulsive behaviours.  The defining difference is that someone with OCD derives no pleasure from their activities.  At least an addict gets a momentary high.

These questions go through my mind often as I make my way through life.  My impulse to be angry with someone for their destructive or irresponsible behaviour wrestles with my impulse to be understanding and compassionate regarding their side of the story.  If I'm angry it's often because I haven't defined my own boundaries well enough, and feel that perhaps they have been crossed, but I'm not sure, and feel both confused and threatened.  Also, I hate being put in a position where I have to choose between being a doormat and confronting someone, because both of those are uncomfortable.  Obviously if I get conscious about what's happening, I'll do the confrontation, but I won't enjoy it.

Maté quotes a therapist who advises that it is always better to end up feeling guilty than to end up feeling resentful.  In other words, choose to stand up for yourself, even if you might hurt someone else's feelings in the process.  I don't think it's necessarily that clear cut all the time.  I know that sometimes I feel resentful for reasons that don't reflect the current situation accurately.  Sometimes I feel resentful because the situation reminds me of a bad time in the past, or because I'm tired because I didn't sleep well the night before, even when someone is being perfectly reasonable with me.  I'll spend a lot of time trying to figure out if my annoyance is justified before I air it.

So, what do you think?  Any strong opinions out there on the free will/free won't issue?  Is an addiction the fault of the addict?  Is it really better to feel guilty than to feel resentful?  Throw in your two cents.

It's Retro Flashback Time

... but not in a fun way.

If we are supposed to learn stuff from facing challenges, then I'm right on track.  Apparently what one learns from being an adult in conflict with an aging parent is that all the crap from your childhood, the issues you thought you'd so successfully left behind in the dust, were actually just waiting for an opportunity to re-assert themselves.  Dammit.

In case anyone needs a refresher: I work with my step-dad, and due to incredibly complicated and nasty business politics we are currently opposed on some major issues.  This would be bad enough if he were only my boss.  Being opposed to one's boss who is also one's dad (with whom one has had a highly emotional and unharmonious history) is a recipe for psychological disaster.

The force of my reactions caught me off my guard.  I didn't realize how deep in over my head I was until I had my first serious panic attack in two years.  By "serious" I mean that in the middle of a friend's New Year's Eve party I got overwhelmed, went cold and sweaty all over, and had to run to the bathroom to clear out my gastrointestinal tract in the most efficient way possible (i.e. from both ends at the same time).  Yay I am so fun at a party!  Small mercies: the only bathroom in a house full of people and kids was actually free when I needed it.  Also, better a panic attack than my other thought: "I've come down with the stomach flu and all 30 adults and kids here tonight will catch it from me!  I am the spreader of terrible disease! *guiltguiltguilt*".

Poor Ken, who had been enjoying himself, had to leave the party to drive me home, but he was a very good sport about it; as were my friends, who didn't hold any grudge against me for ralphing into their wastebasket.  (I did rinse it fully before I finally surrendered the bathroom to another guest who was outside, knocking to be let in.  I advised my rather shocked hostess, on my way out the door, as to what had transpired and "you might want to disinfect that".  Lo, the shame!)

I have been back to my friends' house several times since The Incident, however last night was the first official party with lots of people and even some I hadn't met before since New Year's Eve.  I was a little nervous.  But I was fine.  In fact, I had a great time.  Yay, sometimes I actually am fun at a party!  I think it helped that since that panic attack I invested some quality time into figuring out where the hell my head is at.

I find it helpful to remind myself that I am 41 years old and no longer at anyone's mercy.  Yes, my future somewhat depends on the decisions of a man who is widely agreed to be moderately loony, but ultimately I can take care of myself.

In the wee hours of this morning I woke myself up screaming from a nightmare in which I had discovered my mother's body hanging from a noose in my childhood home.  There was also a scene in which a little girl was being gripped by a parental figure by her upper arms as the parent dangled her threateningly out of a second-floor window.  (Neither of these things physically happened in my childhood.  Still, the symbolism was apt.)

So, that's how I'm doing.  Grappling with a shitty past that has been resurrected to haunt me.  I'm telling myself what I learned in New Age class: these old injuries come up in order to be healed.  I'm working on it.

Money Can't Buy My Love

All my life, my mother warned me to expect anti-semitism.  I have never directly encountered any.

When I got married to a brown man, (my first husband), my family threatened that we would run up against racism.  We never did.

I have been super lucky, and feel very privileged to be living in Toronto, where the various -isms are rarer than elsewhere.  However, I have encountered a surprising amount of sexism in the past few months, and it's making me furious.

What changed in my recent past?  I took a step into the realm of Big, Bad Business, which is full of cranky, rich, older men.  These men assume that any young, appealing female is there to do their bidding without asking too many questions.  I would truly like to slap them all.

The Business Men are all lascivious to some degree.  I do not see them greeting each other European-style, with a kiss on each cheek, but that's always how they greet me.  Okay, I can live with that.  But there's one accountant, a rat who always reminds anyone listening that he owns a block of real estate in downtown Toronto, who takes it too far.  From the minute he was introduced to me, he hit on me unrelentingly, in front of my step-dad, and even in front of my husband.  I tried to be a good sport about it.  I mean, it's annoying, but whatever.  He can talk until he's blue in the face but he's not going to get anywhere with me.

I had just sat through a meeting with him, and, in an attempt to establish a friendly rapport, made some joke to him about psychopaths.  He took this opportunity to wrap both his hands around my neck and pretend to strangle me.  I was so startled by this that I didn't make much of a response.  I just kind of made a face and stepped away.  He followed me, put one hand on the back of my neck, and proceeded to stroke my hair in the creepiest way you can imagine.  Then he offered me a ride home.  Yeah, right.  That'll be the day.  I escaped a.s.a.p. and haven't seen him since.  The less I have to do with him, the better.

Then there's the lawyer who was rude to me because I didn't say "Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full sir," when he started giving orders to me as if I were his administrative assistant.  You can bet that he wouldn't have talked to a man of my age and position in the same way.  I gently hinted that it would be more appropriate for him to assign the task to his secretary, but he just got angry with me. I did what he wanted, fuming the whole time, because I didn't want to start a war with him, but I asked my step-dad to remind him that I'm not a secretary.  I only help my step-dad in that capacity on occasion because he's my dad, and because he asks me nicely.  I manage a department of 14 people; I have higher priorities than typing someone's memos and fetching tea, especially when the person who's asking doesn't say please or thank you.

(That all being said, I always say please and thank you to my own subordinates.  There's nothing about secretaries that should allow anyone to feel welcome to abuse them.)

I shouldn't have to deal with these losers much from now on.  I have declined to participate any further in the Big Bad Business scheme that my step-dad has been wrapped up in.  Partly it's because BBB is not my style, and partly it's because the sexism in those circles is so sickening.  I guess it's two facets of the same problem: nasty people.  I have no problem with a little innocent flirtation for fun, but when I feel like I've been time-warped onto the set of Mad Men, well, that's taking it too far.