blueAlto

A guest post by: Karen

Hello blueAlto readers. As I have not written for the site for a while, I'll briefly introduce myself again. My name is Karen, I'm a thirty seven year old woman who has been close friends with Al since the early nineties, and has been a regular contributor and guest author to his site, both in this and the previous incarnation, for the past two years. Currently living in London, UK, where my partner Dan is on a work exchange, we are the parents of twin boys who will be two years old in December. For more info, feel free to view my about page.

First, a word about Al. He is currently out of town dealing with some family issues, and has asked me to maintain privacy around the topic. What I do feel comfortable in saying, is that currently he and his family are dealing with a serious, but not entirely unexpected family medical issue; one that requires his complete time and focus for the next few days. I will be updating the site until Wednesday, at which point Al will post on how things will go in the foreseeable future.

So, beyond the above, Al is fine, dealing with things as they come up. Of course this is stressful, but it is nothing he has not dealt with before. I would ask readers to please understand that beyond what I have outlined above, I cannot, and will not, answer questions as to the nature of what has occurred. That is up to Al to answer on no ones time line but his own. Thanks in advance for understanding and respecting that.

So, back to my little one year life derailment known as "the other half and his paramedic exchange opportunity". Life derailment is perhaps a strong term, not necessarily denoting what a fantastic time it has been thus far. Not having lived in this city since my late teens, I have relished the opportunity of returning to a place that, as far as I recall, has not changed in those fundamental ways we lovingly remember something by. In a city where the Chinese laundry on the corner is next weeks burrito stand and next months Martini Bar, that is saying something.

We have now been here a little over six weeks and we are just now settling into some semblance of a routine. The twins, being one and a half, are happy and quite content so long as "juice", "toys", "Mama", are within grabbing distance, and something they can place in their mouth, but really shouldn't, is close at hand. What can I say, I will attempt to enjoy this period while it lasts.

Dan, beyond the needs already ascribed to his children, is now feeling his groove a little with the new position. Initially awkward in the degree of learning curve required, he is now feeling at least somewhat functional in an air ambulance system and trauma program that he had no frame of reference for (completely different than the North American model) beyond his medical knowledge and skill set. It is a relief for me to see, as he is now leaving for work (and returning home), without the typical angst indicating furrowed brow.

I have been spending time catching up with my younger sister Emma, an art therapist for the London School board. She has been fawning over the boys, spoiling them rotten of course. I had forgotten that she had only seen them once before, on their first birthday. It has been wonderful to reconnect leisurely, rather than share our lives in a visit dictated by a timeline of days. True to her nature, Emma had not been exactly forthcoming with the specific details of her new relationship. Specifically, his, uhm, background. Since we had planned on staying with them in their guest room, I was initially a tad concerned. As usual, surprise, surprise.

Darren, the young man who "works for a medical non profit", is actually one of the UK's foremost plastic surgeons. Besides running a thriving practice in London, he is co founder of a non profit that provides plastics services to disfigured children in third world countries. Oh Emma, my dear sister, always the mistress of understatement! Of course with that buildup, my cynical nature came out immediately, and was just waiting for him to prove that he truly was an evil pig named Satan, with the ruination of my sisters virtue just around the next corner. Alas, he really is a great guy.

The above opinion is of course not related in any sense to our reality of "guest room" in the flat shared by Darren and Emma. I will let the pictures of our fully separate and self contained "guest room" speak for themselves. After the jump.

But tommorow, please join me on these pages when I tackle the topic of hair, and our relation to it.  Yes, it must be obvious how I am throwing everything into these posts.  But on Monday, we will have fun.  I'll be taking you for a traditional Pub lunch in London.  Be warned, however.  You will come to find that the term "traditional", takes on a slightly new meaning when referenced by yours truly.

The entrance to the main flat in central Knightsbridge.

 

Our kitchen

 

The shared rooftop deck. Pity, really, that we have to share. 

 

The real reason I am loving this experience is below. Otherwise known as:

Where Karen begins her mornings.

 

I thought today would be a good day as any to offer a few updates on the goings on of Karen, Dan and the clan as they settle into a routine in London, and the new resident who is sharing my living quarters: Abercrombie the dog.

First off, I am happy to report that Karen, Dan and the twins arrived safely in London, and have enjoyed a week just getting settled in, and spending time with Karen's younger sister, Emma, an art therapist for the London school board. Originally they had planned on staying with her sister and her fiance, but weren't sure about living in such close quarters for an entire year. Evidently, those were needles worries.

Suffice it to say they were pleasantly surprised to learn that the fiance was significantly more "resourced" than Emma had let on, and they were relieved to discover the size of the flat they were to share was, as Karen put it, "more than large".  I've seen pictures, and trust me, it is a bloody mansion! They have a fully functional separate two bedroom suite with its own entrance, kitchen, "parlour" and two bathrooms. Of course making my decision to visit, one that may see multiple occurrences over the next year.

Dan started his position with the air ambulance helicopter service last week, and it is apparently been quite the transition. While the basics of paramedic scope and practice are similar, he is finding the orientation and all the local specifics to be quite the learning curve. In many ways I miss the clinical elements of paramedic work, and this position is one I really envy. I have no doubt that after the initial "newness" wears off, Dan will be hitting his full stride and be having a ball.

Karen is planning on adding a once a week entry to the blog, writing on something local and specific to London. She has asked me to put out the word for any suggestions readers may be interested in regarding postings she could write about. So, anything you want to know about London first hand, now is the chance. Leave your suggestions in the comments.

Abercrombie, the Lab / Poodle cross is actually quite the model canine I am finding out. He is more than mannered, is quiet (relatively), and thankfully, is the latest object of Singher's undying affection. So far, so good! Though as I am finding out, walking two dogs this size has proven to be a bit of a unique challenge when doing the old poop and scoop, but I'm learning quickly.  Overall, I have to say that things are going well with two canines in the house, though I am not naive enough to think this is anything but the honeymoon period. A nice way of saying; expect a ranting update sometime soon.

 

Because there really is no sense in feeding you a line of bullshit over it, yes, this is a particularly tough entry to write, Since I have to admit, today has been a particularly tough day. The extent to which, has both surprised and humbled me.

No, nothing is wrong, no one is sick, and Singher is as crazy as ever. What has me more than a little bummed, is that tomorrow evening at this time, two of my best friends and their twin boys will be on a plane to London, ushering off their year of living and working abroad.

But I need to be clear; I am more than happy for them, truly. Dan has taken a position that if I was still working for the flight medic program, I too would have jumped at. Not to mention the opportunity for Karen to spend a year with her sister, and be able to enjoy what will be the third year in the life of their twins, in one of the most exciting cities in the world.

Though when it comes right down to it, I really don't think that I ever considered just how much of a role those two people have played, and continue to play in my life. It's beyond friendship, it transcends the limiting boundaries of straight and gay bullshit, and it's something I have been supremely blessed to enjoy in my life. I think perhaps I feel a little guilty that it has taken the fact of them moving away, to make me see exactly how important that has been.

So, not to draw this out anymore than is necessary, and because I steadfastly refuse to turn this into a painful, ritualistic goodbye, and thirdly because when Karen gets settled she will do a once weekly update from across the pond, for all those reasons, I will close. So, to Karen and Dan, two of the best friends I could hope for, I love you both, take care of each other, and be safe. I will see you soon.

PS  And just remember, you have to come back because I'm the sucker who is feeding and boarding your mangy flee bag!

In continuing with my series of favorite cheesy gay 80's anthems, this Fridays selection is a special two for the price of one. First, an amazingly timeless remake of a Thelma Houston classic. Jimmy Somerville, formerly of Bronski Beat, singing a manic rendition of Don't Leave Me This Way. Of course followed up by his rendition of Gloria Gaynor's Never Can Say Goodbye, another disco classic, this time a bit earlier from the late seventies.

And since I'm in an uncharacteristically generous mood, as an extra bonus, I'll hint at what I would probably end up telling you over a beer in person; that being the entire story of Jimmy Somerville, a cocktail napkin, some tonsil hockey, four beer, and a London leather bar called The Market Tavern, home to men and mayhem. Or so said the add in the gay guide to London that was the catalyst for my attendance. Oh yeah, forgot to tell you, this event was co - starring a twenty one year old yours truly.

You heard correctly. And really, if you were to buy the beer, I'd be certain to make it sound remotely more interesting than it actually was. Since, while all the things I mention were true, the event was rather anti climactic, lasting less than twenty minutes start to finish. But I will say, he was in every way pleasant, and yes, I still have the autograph.

When my partner Dan and I decided to have children in the spring of 2006, we realized that a vacation for just the two of us would be a long time coming. If we wanted to pick up and go, then was the time.

The picture in the header above   that was in the header above, and is now below this entry was off the coast of southern New Zealand where Dan and I went for two weeks in the summer of 2006, seven months before the twins were born. It was a fantastic holiday in every sense, and we were lucky enough to get several shots of similar quality.

Though you can thank the geography and locale for the beauty more than you can Dan or I, as I left out the shots with thumb prints on the top right corner.

 

In the ongoing process of filling my archives, here's one from around this time last year...

 
Ten days before Christmas 1996. I was a year into working at the medical clinic in Usinsk, northern Russia, a small village at the base of the Ural mountains, occupied largely by western ex patriots working in the natural resource sectors. My schedule was six weeks at the clinic, on shift every day, then for six weeks, the company would fly me home.

Really, for a guy who had just turned thirty, it was a sweet deal. Half a year of time off, a way more than competitive tax free US dollar salary, and a practice environment with a scope and responsibility I would be hard pressed to find anywhere else.

One of the many perks, since the company happened to be owned and managed by an out gay male, was employee domestic partner benefits. At the time I was with my ex, Jim, and we had decided to take advantage of the annual round trip, business class ticket to London he was entitled to.

It was arranged to work out perfectly. I would fly into Heathrow after working my six weeks in the barren center of the Russian Arctic, and Jim would be winging in from Canada. We planned on a week of shopping, theater, and great food.

Our first night in London we decided to see an opening night play. A friend from university was working for a PR firm in Soho, and had scored opening night tickets for us to a new, "sure to be the next big hit of the moment" West End production. Normally, I'm fairly picky about my theater. I want to know what I'm seeing, who's in it, and be semi familiar with the style of plot narrative employed. Ok, that last part I'm totally kidding.

My point, is that over the years I have, to many others annoyance, become a discriminating thespian. In this case though, the giddy hype was just too contagious. Nothing had been revealed about the production except a promise that one "would never see the London stage the same way again", after viewing the new, edgy production, an adaptation by the just becoming semi famous, writer/director Irvine Welsh. It was the same production which had for months been rumored to star more than one A list film actor in a central role.

Jim and I arrived at the Brompton Yard Stage just before the first warning bell. Settling into the fourth row, center (amazing seats) I glanced at the playbill. And then, quietly, with my best manners, I began to freak the fuck out! This play was not only starring Ewan McGregor, a brilliant and very Brit alternative actor I long had the hots for, but it also featured Franka Potente, a relatively unknown beyond hardcore theater circles, who a year from that opening night would be widely known for her breakout role in the German hit Run Lola Run. Again, one of my acting giants, long a favorite, would be performing four fucking rows in front of me! So excited, I had yet to pay any consideration to the title of this production. Some strange, short title, something like Trainspotting. Whatever....

Three hours later, Jim and I, along with the rest of the theater crowd, spilled out into the West London night. We had just been witness to the opening night of a masterpiece, which in just a few months would become the UK's most profitable box office success, as well as one of my most enduring theater memories of all time.

Hungry, and still high on what was a beautifully mild London night, Jim and I settled on a wine bar in Compton Gardens. Clearly, it was with visions of a crusty loaf, some Stilton, and a bottle of red, dancing in our heads. So of course we didn't flinch at the sign informing us of the eighty dollar bar minimum. Well, it was London.

Half a liter of Merlot later, we were probably laughing a little too loud. Though we were entitled. Since Trainspotting, the stage production, makes Trainspotting, the film, look like the latest Disney release. It's not often that one has the opportunity to witness the London theater blue hair contingent, believing they are seeing the next Merchant Ivory stage epic in the making, as they instead are treated to a gritty, Scottish production about heroin use, "nasty arse sex", and with an opening scene that features a naked and very tweaked out Ewan McGregor, intensely jerking "his jizz leaking fucking cock" into what appears to be a way too violent body spasmed orgasm....because of course, he has been using A535 heat rub for lube. Ouch. On so many levels.

Trust me, it's not a pretty scene when the blue hairs, in unison it would seem, turn a concerning shade of pale, and almost faint in their seats. For the past ten years, that specific memory, if it catches me in the right mood, will consistently and without fail, produce quite the piss inducing laugh fest. I suppose there is something about British blue hairs and sketched out skin heads on a smack high, jerking off with heat grease, that I apparently view as just too fucking funny.

But it's when I picture that specific scene being included in the cinematic version that I have the best laugh....as I can literally hear one of the blue hairs offering a sniveled, "perhaps, it might have lost the intended net effect". Indeed.

The transition, despite the attempt at buffering, was severe. Club World on British Airways, Toronto to London, London to Nairobi was lavish; the ever jolly BA, having lived up to its catch phrase of "the world's favorite airline". Sudan Airways, on the old and worn 707 (did they still fly these planes) was an effective jolt back to reality. I passed on the potato and grey colored boiled chicken entree that appeared to be lunch. The two wilted lettuce leaves and the unnatural colored olive placed on the side of the tray weakly attempted flare, but succeeded only in magnifying a lack of presentation. After all, boiled chicken, is boiled chicken.

During the layover in Nairobi I had met Annie, the very French Canadian nurse who was also on the project. From Quebec City, her English was excellent, though so heavy with accent, that on the last leg of the journey I had to frequently clarify. The bit I could make out over the dim of the engines and foreign language, seemed impressive. Thirty six, (my age) BScN from McGill, and had worked seven years in the remote north of Labrador at a two room clinic as an advanced practice RN.

Like myself, her reasons for the six week commitment were personal, and involved "fresh perspective" and something "outside of ourselves". Recently single after what sounded like the divorce from hell, Annie was looking for something new. Currently happily coupled, my reasons were more personal challenge and boredom with my flight medic position. Though the lure of adventure travel played a role, since my days of practicing in Russia and central Asia were only a few years old.

Annie, it seemed, was quite the firecracker. She spoke with the typical northern Quebec demonstrativeness, hands a' flaying, words often interspersed with French slang. She was cute, slight, petite even, but feisty. The dark brown eyes, however playful, told me very clearly she was not a woman to be messed with. I liked her immediately! When she realized we attended McGill at roughly the same time, I sensed her easing up with me, guard coming down a bit. Whether it was the circumstance, or the bad Belgian beer, by the time the cockney accent from the row behind split the air, we had become fast friends.

"You two hell raisers on the same Halo relief assignment as me? Bloody Christ I won't get any sleep. Me names Willym".

Willym was a character. Gruff, blue-collar Liverpool stock, the husky forty five year old had been an offshore oil rig medic supervisor for over twenty years, having worked in all corners of the globe. Safe to say, he was the most skilled and experienced out of the three of us. His reasons for being there we later found out, were much more personal, much deeper than for Annie or myself. They were also reasons much deeper than even Willym could have known at the time.

Thankfully, that long, hot and humid flight provided the interaction necessary for a solid getting to know each other fest. After landing at Khartoum International Airport, there was to be no time for the polite formalities of appropriate socialization. Since within twenty four hours, we'd literally be in the middle of a war zone. One that the substantial resume of the three of us combined, would prove to be sorry preparation for.

Catching up on my blog reading yesterday, I noticed Eric had a post about Christmas music highlighting the legendary duet between Bing Crosby and David Bowie, singing The Little Drummer Boy. As it is one of my favorite selections, as well as Christmas television specials (even if the lamb gets run over by a caravan), I relfected on a few of my own holiday favorites.

Christmas music for me has always been iffy. What I like is few and far between, and what I like tends to reflect the classics, both in style and execution.

The first time I saw Jessye Norman perform live was Christmas Eve, 1998 in Paris at midnight mass, in Notre Dame cathedral. The style, poise and presence of this woman is incredible, and (at the risk of sounding like a gushing opera fag), when she took the stage, it literally took my breath away. Her rendition of Schubert - Ave Maria in German, is the most beautiful I have heard it performed. Much leg work to find the exact piece, but well worth it.

Good Monday morning to everyone. I have returned. Where I have been would be best explained by the following. What do you get when you combine two stir crazy adults, two one year old twins with no problems in the "speech coming along as expected" category, two canines, one mildly less insane than the other, a blizzard, and a motel out of Psycho? A damn good weekend!

More details to come, as there are no doubt several entries to write stemming from  this little adventure. Suffice it to say that a last minute plan of Saturday cross boarder shopping turned into the event of the season for myself, Karen, the twins and the now, it would seem, out loud and proud canine coupling of Singher and Abercrombie, when Buffalo was dealt its usual hellish storm of the week, stranding us at a lovely little inn  called "Village of The Happy".

No, I'm not kidding. Nor was it particularly amusing after driving in white out conditions for a few hours when the proprietor of Happy Land skulked into the reception area dragging what I still think was a club foot.

"Need a room", would have been fine, however the hair lip lent just that extra special touch to the ambiance. And that was late Saturday afternoon. Our little American Gothic adventure concluded late last evening with many more tales to tell. Though I will take a rain check on those, while I catch up on that much forgotten human need known as sleep. But yes, it was a blast.

Later. 

Update: Sunday 7:00 pm

Well, that was starting out as a relaxing trip! Too bad it didn't last. Due to some unavoidable issues, I had to return early this afternoon. Nothing serious, just unexpected stuff that I feel better dealing with myself. More later.

***

Coming to you at just after eight am Vancouver time, on a crisp, bright (somewhat) Sunday morning. And Allan is ready for bed! My first clue should have been my call an hour ago to Karen in Toronto. "Hello"? says the scratchy and obviously sleepy voice that answers my phone. "Al, it's eleven in the morning. I'm still sleeping. Isn't it like, four am there or something."?

Well, close I guess. Karen, Dan, the twins and the puppy are staying at my house while I'm away. We like to say it's because their apartment is a bit cramped for four and a dog, but really the truth is much darker. They are staying in an to attempt to salvage the many plants that are dying a slow death under the care of my decidedly not green thumb. In terms of plant life, anything that I so much as touch turns brown, withers and dies. Of course anything Karen touches turns into the central Amazon. Perhaps it has something to do with that whole "watering" concept. I never really got that.

But back to my desire for an early morning nap, a desire always present when I come out to the west coast. Three hours may not seem like a big time difference, but when you're wide awake at five am (after having gone to bed at two), and then take the dog for a run by the seawall, grab an OJ and breakfast, and relax reading the paper, you're ready for a nap! Thankfully, my friend that I am staying with is not, how shall we say, an early riser. If Paul is up by eleven on a Sunday, in his book,  it's early. 

But tiered as I am, I have to say that landing in Vancouver yesterday was one of the most relaxing moments I've felt for a very long time. It feels so great to get away from Toronto, even if it is just for a few days.  I suppose it is common to everyone, but the amount of stress one is going through often becomes most clear when that stress is actually relieved. In this case, suffice it to say that my shoulder weight is significantly lighter than it was yesterday. And that, is a welcome change. So no guilt for heading back to bed. It shouldn't surprise you that Singher, fierce athletic dog that she is, is already there. Snoring up a storm!

Just a quick update before the weekend, as I'm heading off to Vancouver early Saturday morning (Singher in tow). Toronto, combined with other circumstances, is at the moment feeling a bit cramped. I need to get away, get a change of scenery, come back with some "fresh perspective" as I'm fond of saying to others when they need to get away. So I'm taking my own advice.

I have a few entries lined up and scheduled to post on the days I'm away. Since, for a couple of the days anyway, I'll be whitewater rafting with a few friends, far from computer terminals, cell phones, and flush toilets. Wait a second....Kidding! I can, and really do enjoy the whole camping vibe.

Rafting is a sport that for me developed and grew out of lifeguarding. in my late teens / early twenties, I enjoyed several summers as a rafting guide on the Ottawa River. Feels like ages ago, further demonstrating that time most certainly does fly. I realized today it has been at least three, if not four years since I've hit the rapids. Far, far too long. Mental note: never again. With any luck, those will still be my sentiments upon my return (inevitable sore ass and all). And yes, from the rafting!

 I'm back late Tuesday night. Have a great weekend everybody.
 

So last in our story of Al, hairy hot blond blue eyed bears, and airline seats which served to acquaint my olfactory senses with my toes, the "wink and a smile" had taken place. That bliss was proved to be short lived.

Down the left aisle, comes the form of a haggard mother with one snotty kid under 5, one snotty kid under 4, and one baby no more than 6 months, awkwardly hanging off the poor woman in some sling type device. Army green. I had to laugh.

They come with the requisite diaper bags, toy bags, meowing toy kitty's, and more clear bottles filled with what, I am pleased to say, remains a mystery to me. I notice the movement towards the rear of the plane comes to a stop. Yes, directly behind our three seats.

I try to be gracious, I try to offer the benefit. She's traveling with three kids, across country, by herself. Ten minutes later, after my back is throbbing from my seat being attacked by five year old feet, I have had enough. So has my mother. My mother is an odd duck. An amazing parent who truly loved raising her child, thrived in it really, I feel very fortunate. However my mom has never really liked other children.

Which was painfully clear when the four year old sugar tweaked, drooling girl decided it would be fun to tickle my mothers ear with her "orange fuzzy pen".

My mom occasionally can be less than subtle. Turning around, "Excuse me please, I know you have three children with you, but please keep that little beast away from me, my seat back, and anything fuzzy. Teach her to stick it in her own ear! Maybe then she'd think twice"!

Of course she then launches into a conversation with me about how I would never have DARED to act like that as a kid. I sink lower into the straight jacket sized seat, while realizing she is 100% accurate. Whether it was a sense of politeness or manners, as I like to think, or just being too much of a suck to "be bad", she was right, I never would have acted like that.

Directional change! As indicated in my first post, this is where the invitation from Mr. DBB "Inflight Service Director" Bear to Executive class occurs. Fearing leaving my mother alone and returning to a triple pediatric homicide, I decline. Which is when he makes it clear it is aninvitation with "guest privileges". I don't think I have ever seen her move faster. Thankfully, I resist the urge to ask her if "this was her diaper bag". Half an hour later, after twenty minutes in the air, I am enjoying my ice cold cranberry / vodka with cheese biscuit, my mother enjoying her lemon Martini. Appetizers, then a surprisingly decent dinner, given all the cutbacks of late.

An hour or so later, the cabin has become a zen space of comforting quiet. No glare from the film, as all of the seats have in seat video terminals. Outside it appears to be just after sunset. Fading shades of purple, gray, and orange quickly slipping behind the deeper shades. I assume we are somewhere over mid western Canada, maybe an hour from the Rockies. I glance at mom, who is very much out like a light from her Martini being "refreshed" (twice). Well, now is as good a time as any I decide. Deep breath, and I make my way to the forward galley. DBB Bear and Ms. cute, fresh faced FA are chatting.

With a smile just a little too perky, "I'm going to head back and heat up one of the veals. If you need me give a ring Mark".

"Can I get you something Al"? says Mark the bear with a melting smile.

Obviously taken off guard, I stumble, "Uh, yeah, a Coke". How did he know my name?

Reading my mind he points to a list on a clipboard. "Passenger manifest. Get's em every time".

He passes me the Coke. "Thanks Mark...it's the name tag. Get's em every time".

He laughs and challenges me, saying it was only when Ms. cute and perky said his name that I knew it. I toss it right back and say, no,it was during the second wink.

FOLLOW UP:

NO, I did not join the mile high club. And no, I am not already a member. Though the last point may require a few definitional adjustments.

Did I get a phone number? Yes. Below, a few snippets for the detail hungry. Though those details ain't coming!

• He is 43.
• Lives in Vancouver.
• Does the VAN - TO and Van - Paris routes
• Is partnered (17 years) in an open relationship
• likes hiking, kayaking
• has two German Sheppard's
• has a physical education degree from Simon Fraser
• Yes, he is aware of, and will have read this before it will be posted

I met his partner Doug. I would classify it as a very comfortable partnership that their seventeen years has transitioned into. As a rule, I never do the third wheel thing or involve myself with an attached man unless I am completely sure all parties are on the same page mentally. That's how David and I operate, and it's a standard I never compromise on, as hurting someone else in that way is not an example of who I want to be. On the second last night Mark and I had sushi by English Bay, then took in a movie.

So the take home for me on this one was a potential new friend, as well as the potential for a new couple friendship for both David and I.

Judging by the amount of emails I received on my little snippet about Mr. Dream Bear Flight Attendant, I thought I would elaborate.

Late last week after getting home from an out of town conference, I receive a frantic phone call from my mother. One of her sisters is "gravely ill". Being 39, in the critical care field, and having grown up with these events, I know the best response.

"Which of my aunts is it Mom"?

She answers. I calmly tell her to take the "crisis" out of "Family Crisis" and insert her own options. I listed many. Now my mother knows this particular persons need for attention and realizes how completely absurd this is. Though we are talking about a family who eats guilt for breakfast, and can hold the shame card like no one else. In other words, she always heads out west (from Ottawa) on last minute notice,for events that share a common trajectory of "deathbed" to a"miraculous healing".

The catch.

My father is in Mexico City at a sports officials clinic for the next two weeks. He always goes with her to these things for support, since a family that gathers at every crisis may seem outwardly close, sometimes it's a compensation. In this case it is. This of course, is where being an only child really SUCKS. I have no choice. I know my mother and I know several members of the snake pit she'd be walking into on her own. In other words, I needed to go.

So roughly a week ago I end up meeting Mom in the departure lounge at Toronto International. She had just arrived from Ottawa, and I had just narrowly escaped death, having my buddy Peter drive me to the airport from central Toronto (mid afternoon, under 1/2 hr, a life threatening but rather effective maneuver)

After I cop a rather snotty and elitist attitude on the gate agent who seemed as if she was being royally put out by checking the status of upgrades, the egg was then on my face when I realize said upgrades are on the bedside table at home, not in the empty side pocket of my daytimer where my hand was literally stuck trying to retrieve the absent upgrades.

Then came two much needed pleasant experiences. Boarding the 767 and having the fresh faced and pleasant flight attendant direct us to our two out of three middle row seats just behind the bulkhead (extra leg room). I then experience pleasant experience number two in the form of the Dark Blond, Blue Eyed, Great Smile, Mr. Flight Attendant Bear. Walking up the right aisle, I could only see the rear view. Great hair, broad shoulders, glimpse of beard, amazing ass...Two minutes later Mr.DBBBear takes a walk down the cabin and I get hit with the front view. Picture the type of face you could just stare at for days. Oh yeah....

I even held it together when I got the polite, though hint of a casual smile...and the quick wink. Three years ago the wink would have resulted in me turning a nice shade of red. Many would say "oh cute". Not exactly the response I would be hoping for! Though this time, I didn't miss a beat. Wink and smile returned in kind.

More to come...