I love music. I love to dance. I’m positive that in my other life,  I was a brilliant musician and an awesome dancer. But in this life, the Gods who delegated talent to each newborn, who passed along the conveyor belt, forgot to give me my brilliant musician gene and my awesome dancing skill.

My present predicament was hearing Elvis’ “All Shook Up” and the Four Season’s “Sherry” that had my feet tapping and moving in the kitchen while I was preparing dinner. I had such smooth footwork, graceful turns and dips as  I peeled carrots and sliced mushrooms. I was still inspired the next day when I signed up for line dancing classes, convinced that I would be able to keep up with the rest of the dancers. We would move  as one impressive unit, not a foot out of step.

I had missed the first wo classes by the time I joined the rest of the beginners’ group. I had also danced a year ago with the same instructor, who had this boundless energy and fun way of teaching. The dances and step-work would be a “refresher” course as I strongly believed that my feet would remember the steps as soon as I heard the music.

Did you know that feet behaves very differently when in a group? For some strange reason, my twinkle-toes, dips and doodles and other fancy steps were gone.

Several ladies commiserated as they remembered their beginning classes had them being out-of-step for quite some time. However, they were  now on their 14th class and they all  moved as one.  Their advice? Never  position yourself at the end of any row because line dancing has turns and repeats and no one to follow, if you were facing as wall.  Place yourself in the middle of a group where there would always be someone to follow. And, you know what?–they were absolutely correct.

We all watched attentively as our instructor showed us the steps in small blocks, without any music.  We copied her several times, then we did the complete dance a few times–to imprint on our memories.

By following others when the music started, it’s amazing how many dancers began and ended on the wrong feet; twirled in the opposite direction and remain slightly off the beat. Gales of laughter burst forth when we realized we were facing each other rather than in the same direction. Patiently the instructor went through the steps again until finally, we  were all twirling and moving as one–with the slower music. Giddy with our success, we graduated to a faster beat and rhythm. Our feet did its twinkle-toe moves and surprised us as we managed to dance successfully as one unit.

There is hope after all—I may be a dancer yet. . . .

Today, I saw my poodle-bear–or a probable descendent.  I wrote this a few years ago in Jet’s memory, so here it is again. . .

We use to have a black, curly haired cockapoo we named Jet. His dad was the cocker spaniel down the street and his mom was the miniature poodle next door. Out of the litter of 7 pups, 6 were curly-haired mini-poos like their mother, but ours was a cocker spaniel with the cutest poodle face. Jet was the largest of the litter and the most curious. That’s why my sister picked him. His curly fur covered his face and body making him look like a small bear cub. Only his big navy-button eyes and laughing mouth with tongue lolling out, could be seen beneath all the fur. Jet inherited his dad’s mischievous nature and laughing navy button eyes. From his poodle mom, he inherited her intelligence, charm and cuteness factor. With such a lethal combination of genes, he won our hearts when he entered our lives.

Jet never walked sedately. He would happily run in all directions and at the end of the “walk,” he would abruptly stop, plop his rounded bottom on the ground and look at his puffing owner as if to say, “What’s the matter? I’m only getting started!” And then take off again at a gallop.

On our doggy walks, I’ve heard comments like “Take him to obedience classes,” “He’s too undisciplined!”, “Don’t pull on the leash–can’t you hear him gasping for breath?”  I was too embarrass to tell them that we got booted out of obedience classes. As for the gasping, well, part of it was me. And if I let go of the leash, I may never see Jet again. It happened before. I had taken him for a walk in our neighbourhood. It seemed like one of those rare days when Jet actually gamboled and not galloped. That is, until he spotted the German shepherd who was ten times bigger and this feisty cockapoo wanted to fight! I stood frozen on the spot while my dog took off, barking his doggy insults. No amount of calling brought him back. It took two days of scouring the neighbourhood and calling his name before he finally emerged –scruffy, tire and so happy to see us again.  If he could only talk and tell us where he had been and what adventures he had. We suspected some kind person had fed him as he wasn’t starving, but he was exhausted.

Jet’s exuberance at snuffling out bits of this-n-that beneath the many flowering shrubs and ornamental bushes, showing only his rounded little backside, was an endearing sight. When he was almost two years old, we decided he needed a haircut as his fur was getting matted from totally enjoying the freedom of his fenced backyard and exploring every nook and cranny. No amount of patient brushing and detangling helped. Our first experience at the “Doggy Wash” was a disaster. We picked up our unhappy poodle-bear who had several scissor nicks on top of his head. At our horrified looks, the frazzled manager complained that Jet was not an obedient dog. Poor Jet–he looked as miserable as he probably felt. His matted bits of fur had been clipped and the rest trimmed as best that could be done under a  very wriggly situation. We were then told he was forever banned from the “Doggy Wash.”

The next Summer, we decided to try again. There was a new place in town and they had never heard of our dog–yet. Jet balked when he realized where we were going to leave him. Bracing his four furry  paws firmly on the ground, we had to pull him towards the new shop. At the tinkle of the door bell, a cute little miniature poodle, with a pink bow tying up a clump of her curly topknot, pranced up to our little guy and enticed him into the backroom. Jet never had a chance.

When we picked him up 4 hours later–our small plump bear cub emerged as this skinny poodle with a blue bow on his head and smelling like a fancy perfume shop. That “sissy” look didn’t last long when we got him home, took the bow off and he got to the serious business of exploring his backyard.

Jet lived to be 18 and a bit. We like to think he had a good doggy life and is keeping things lively in Doggy Heaven.

Big brothers are an enigma–at least, mine was when I was growing up. If anyone at school or elsewhere. ever picked on me or yelled at me, my Big Brother was right there in their face, fiercely daring my tormentors to try someone their own size by picking on him instead. On the other hand, my brother was the champ at teasing and tormenting his sisters. To be fair, he wasn’t really being mean, but he did have an inquiring and inventive mind. As proof, my “Betty” doll had a huge piece of its plaster forehead missing because my brother had used her head as a hammer for his Meccano construction set. My “Suzy” doll had the thick long eyelashes of one eye trimmed to nothing because my brother wanted to see if it grew back. It looked very strange when Suzy closed her eyes and only one eye looked complete. Of course, all of this may have started because I had borrowed a piece of his cherished train tracks so his train couldn’t run and hid his small hammer from his construction set but, I certainly wasn’t going to ‘fess up to any of that! Besides, I never said I was a  “perfect” child–after all, younger sisters were put on earth to torment Big Brothers and probably vice-versa.

If he wasn’t there in person to defend us, my brother was determined that his sisters knew how to fend off bullies and/or boys with active hormones. We were “taught” how to kick and punch while giving our scariest karate yell. I remembered his encouraging piece of advice, “Bob, weave, punch hard , then run as fast as you can!” I only had to use this tactic once. As for the amorous boys, my sister and I figured out our own moves. I still recall the time a date came to take me to the movies. The TV hit that season was “Dragnet” and my brother’s tough “grilling” would have made Sergeant Joe Friday proud.

One of my favourite memories was of my brother and I going to the Saturday matinees. Dad would give us each a quarter–15 cents paid for the movie ticket and 10 cents for our treat. My brother discovered “The Nuthouse, “a newly opened popcorn and roasted nuts place , two doors down from the theatre. He convinced me that if we “pooled” our treat money, we would get a huge bag of buttered popcorn or cheese-flavoured popcorn or caramel popcorn or a decent bag of roasted nuts. To a small kid, big was a good thing, especially when it came to snacks. If pooling our treat money got us something good, with lots to share, I was quite agreeable.

My brother’s first paying job was busboy/dishwasher at a popular tourist restaurant in Victoria. He worked weekends, holidays and throughout the summer months to earn his university tuition. It was hard work but he enjoyed his job, the people he worked with as well as the customers he met. After a week, he was amazed to learn he would be given a share of the tip money. He was so proud and happy when he gave each of his sisters $2 from his share of the tip pot. It was the policy of the restaurant that any of the industrial-size pies not sold by day’s end would be sold to the staff for $1. Once in a while, my brother would bring home an enormous apple, lemon meringue, cherry or peach pie–carefully carrying it on the bus ride home.

My brother had always been a “foodie” before the term was ever coined. When he was working  throughout the  interior of British Columbia, he would often write home to tell us about some fabulous truck-stop or small cafe where the food was plentiful and tasty. When he came home, it was to try and cook the foods he had tasted–giving us an idea of what he had experienced. Because he was often working in areas where camping, fishing and hunting was the norm, he developed a taste for bannock bread, one of the simplest things to cook over an open fire–or so he was told. It took a lot of tries at home, in a frying pan on an electric range, before it finally turned out the way it was supposed to. It also took a lot of reluctant tasting by his dubious sisters.

It was a sudden heart attack that struck my brother down. He was far too young when it happened. Even when years passed, there were often little things that made me think of him. The Farmer’s Market on Sunday was selling fresh hot bannock and I had to smile when I saw them. The price of 2-dollars for the “Red Wagon’s” hot butter popcorn–freshly popped and drizzled with real butter–had me laughing when I remembered the huge bag we got for 20 cents, way back when.

I feel very blessed to have had a Big Brother who genuinely cared so much for his sisters. It’s when something is suddenly snatched away forever that you feel the loss more. My brother taught us a lot by example–being considerate, kind, share your knowledge and to take a stand on something you truly believe in. I like to think that being the oldest, he “broke the trail” for his sisters to follow. The other  day, my brother’s advice came to mind as I restrained myself when confronted by an obnoxious salesman: “Bob, weave, punch hard and then run as fast as you can!” If only we could really do that now. . . .

It’s incredible how a simple project can take over to make a minor problem bigger. Hubby and I had studied a water stain that had embedded itself into the acryllic surface of the bathroom sinks. The larger bathroom had this dark brown, ugly stain that was huge. It was there when we first moved in 4 years ago and  at that time, we had thought a bit of “elbow grease” would correct the problem. No amount of scrubbing and/or soaking with various cleansers–supposedly guaranteed to remove stubborn stains from most surfaces–worked. The smaller bathroom, usually used by guests, had a much smaller and barely there stain. We decided to invest in two new sinks. But because the original sinks and countertops were all one piece, we also had to check out new countertops. And because the old taps were looking tire with new sinks and countertops–yep, you guessed it–we also got new faucets. The plumbing part of the project would have been very straight-forward and a simple matter of connecting pipes to its correct attachments. The problem loomed a bit bigger because the new sinks were a bit bigger making the alignment of water pipes to plumbing pipes off-kilter. It needed some special attention to make it work, which meant needing a plumber to do what Hubby had planned to do himself. Needless to say, our project also got more expensive by using a professional plumber.

Of course, this got me thinking about Life itself. Navigating through all the rainbows and pitfalls throughout our lives can be both exhilarating and daunting. I firmly believe that we are given challenges so we can’t be too complacent when things go smoothly for a period of time. I think we need to rethink our goals and priorities from time-to-time. When we hit that pothole or detour in our road, it reminds us that challenge makes you think. Whatever decision(s) made at that time can change a person’s pathway. Whatever changes in the pathway can make a stronger person—stronger because it takes courage and honesty to change; vision to see what makes it work. When too many challenges strike at once, it takes an extremely strong and focused person to remain on his/her chosen course without getting worn-out or disillusioned.

We all face confrontations, disputes and encounters in life that makes us pause and think. It’s an amazing process how my thoughts rambled along because it brought me to my writing. I had faced a number of challenges over the past few months that resulted in my writing being temporarily abandoned. One of the best tests of whether or not to proceed with a manuscript  is to pick it up and read it with a fresh eye. After four months, my story still  grabbed my attention.  Renovation projects may be ongoing, but a writing project must conclude at some point in time.  My challenge is to continue my story to the end so others will eventually read it too.

It never bodes well for me when it’s time to get those dreaded ID photos. Driver’s license photos are usually a nightmare. No matter how careful I am making sure my hair is neat, presentable and flattering–the photo usually turns out to be so grim that the only thing missing is the convicted felon number across my chest.

Okay–maybe it’s not that bad.  I’ve often wondered how anyone can take so many terrible photos and I’ve come to this conclusion. First, we have to look straight ahead. No one ever looks straight ahead—even the most reluctant, camera-shy family member knows not to look straight ahead.  We all have a favourite angle or view that we automatically turn to—you know, that slight tilt of the head, that come-hither smile, that twinkle-in-the-eye look. Photo IDs don’t allow this–look-straight-ahead-and-do-not-smile only.

AND did I forget to mention the footprints? At both places, I had to place my feet on these footprints and then look ahead at the camera. Most times, this would be a simple procedure, but when I had to take off my glasses to avoid any camera glare, it is no longer a simple process. To summarize, my feet got shifted out of place, the glasses were half off and the camera snapped the photo. It caught a perfect aerial view of the top of my head.

My passport photo ID is now good for 10 years. The only positive thing I can say about that photo is that 99% of the time, I will be arriving at my destination after a gazillion hours on a plane, so a worn-out, jet-lagged appearance will exactly match my passport photo. But, there is no excuse for my driver license photo, since I have to flash it often for ID purposes. That wild-woman-chased-by-a-psychotic-maniac look was actually caused by a windy day and no doubt, that grim face was a result of seeing the finished photo I’m stuck with for the next 5 years.

I am always amazed at the amount of “stuff” a person can accumulate. I’m not talking “collectibles” one gets over a lifetime. I’m talking stuff a person can collect in a week, a month, a year or two or three. And, as long as a person has an empty space, a shelf, drawer, closet or even a part of a basement, stuff manages to make its permanent home there.

I’m an expert on stuff taking up space because Hubby and I have moved five times since we got married. It seemed with each move, we had tripled the amount of stuff that moved with us. Hubby is quick to point out that most of the stuff is mine. And yes, it’s true. I married a “minimalist” and he married a “collector of stuff.”

It’s an insidious thing when collectables sneakily take up space. It’s so easy to toss whatever into a drawer or shelf; after all, out of sight, out of mind never proved truer. As a writer, I love to collect bits and pieces of keepsakes, tokens, souvenirs and/or  information that I can use for future stories. I’m sure there are thousands of us doing the same thing. If I hear an unusual quote or a snippet of conversation that can lead to a future story, it’s clipped or scribbled into a file and/or notebook. Programs from concerts and art exhibits; postcards from friends; road maps and street maps from various cities, clippings of fascinating people who may be a potential interview—all these and more were due for a “clean-out” from my catch-all basket. This was my basket for holding scraps of paper, out-of-date info and all manners of pamphlets that at the time, would be a possible source for background material. Some stuff got filed into a new folder, while others got  pitched into the shredder. Files were tackled in the same ruthless manner–are these files useful or useless?

I love books and my tastes are rather eclectic. My resource shelf reflects this as it holds a number of helpful books that can inspire, help me out of tight writing corners, talk forensics and gives me all manners of information that may or may not help. Some of the books appeared obsolete with potential markets that were long-gone. In the end, there was space on my shelves and in my file cabinet plus a few new ideas percolating in my head.

It only took me 2 agonizing days to have less writing stuff, but give me a month–it’ll all come back. . . .plus all the other stuff to boot!

There is something to be said about being in a supermarket lineup. There isn’t any other lineup that puts those gossipy Hollywood magazines and tabloids in your path, ready to grab your attention. It use to be candy bars and chips that threw themselves into your cart as you sailed past, but because of health reasons, such temptations were replaced by healthy energy bars and fruity glucose drinks and of course, those scandalous magazines and tabloids.

The latest headlines are conflicting stories and accusations between Brad and Angelina. Hey, anything to do with Brangelina and their brood of six, is always eye-catching news unless there are cute photos of the Royal children, Georgie and Charlotte. Anyway, there we were, captive readers of the ongoing verbal battles and accusations between Brad and Angie. Just reading the headlines made me itch to reach out to read the story. It was obvious the lady in front of me felt the same. We looked at each other and laughed.

“I don’t buy these magazines or tabloids, but I must admit, I do sneak a quick read while I’m in the lineup,” she explained.

“Hey, this is the only time I get hooked into reading beyond the headlines,: I replied. “And, I don’t even feel guilty about not buying this because I  already fell for the pregnancy stories about Jennifer Aniston. If any of those stories were true, the extremely long pregnancy in the animal kingdom, would have produced two baby elephants by now!”

The lady behind me laughed and reached over to grab the tabloid so we could all read it and comment. There really wasn’t much meat in the stories themselves, just a racy headline that would grab your eye-balls and impel you to toss it into your cart. But she resisted and placed it neatly back on the rack.

I have a sneaky suspicion that these magazines and tabloids are placed there for women. Somehow, Marketing has figured out that women are most likely to read and buy. After all, have you ever seen a display of “Mechanics” or “Auto News” placed conveniently by the Cashier for men?  Nada.  And besides,  I bet at least 5% of smart women sneak a quick peek at the stories behind the headlines and after reading, gently put the tabloid back as we move through the cashier lineup. However, it did make standing in line bearable with entertainment at your fingertips.

I like to think I’m an unflappable kind of gal. You know, in the face of any alien invasions  or earthquakes or such, I’m the calm, cool and collected person who, hopefully can take charge and delegate duties or, I’m most likely the calm, cool and collected person who can follow orders. But at the end of the day, after battling catastrophes and nincompoops, I want my own peaceful oasis without any further hassles. So, I have compiled a list–a list of my pet peeves that can really wreck any peaceful karma and thoroughly tests your patience.

1) You’ve waited through 4 changes of traffic lights. Just as you prepare to finally make that left turn, two idiots step off the curb without checking for cars and slowly meander across the street. These idiots also don’t know how to check the pedestrian light to see there is a humongous hand in the universal “Stop” position, leaving you, the motorist, stuck  in a half-turn against traffic, due to another light change.

2) The Cellphone and/or Texting Junkie who is welded to his/her tech toy. They don’t have time to check for cars ready to squash them like bugs–after all, Pedestrians have the right-of-way. Somewhere in their “Handbook for Pedestrians,” this is carved in stone and permanently embedded in the Junkie’s teeny-tiny brain. Common sense is left at home whenever they venture out.

3) There is a campaign in my home-town to “Share the Road”–meaning cars and cyclists can co-exist amiably. This certainly sounds good on paper, but in practice, it is a constant struggle to be ever vigilant for cyclists squeezing into a car lane because the bike lane abruptly stops and picks up again after a few kilometers and/or miles. Now, some cyclists are becoming more aggressively demanding–forcing drivers to move slightly over the centre line to allow the bicyclists through.

4) People darting across busy streets for their buses literally take their life in their hands. They have to dash across a busy main street because they have to be on that  bus right now! Listen, you dummy–if you hadn’t stopped for that coffee or whatever, you would have been at the bus stop with plenty of time to spare.

5) Coffee bars are usually fun places to read the newspapers, enjoy a decadent snack and meet friends. But, no one needs to hear a loud cellphone conversation detailing every single moment of a hot date; an ugly fight between partners or the latest juicy gossip of who-cares.

6) Some supermarkets provide mini-shopping carts for little munchkins who like to help their Mommies and/or Daddies. I love kids but I really, really hate with a passion, the few out-of-control kids who race madly down the aisles, careening off ankles that blocks their temporary race-track. Your worst nightmare is when there are more than one child, each with a mini-cart, racing and screaming with manic excitement. Parents are usually 5 aisles over and totally oblivious to the chaos their child is causing.

7) And my all-time favourite peeve–I enjoy my concerts. I love classical music, jazz, blues and rock ‘n roll. I enjoy any music performed well that fully captivates the audience. We are totally immersed in the pure joy of listening when a dratted cellphone blasts forth with its own melody to ruin the moment. At the last concert I attended, I was delighted to hear the request to please turn off any cellphones–that’s progress!

Okay, now I feel better. Tossing out those pet peeves that can drive a person bonkers, (if you let it), is really great therapy. What’s your pet peeve(s)?

I have hats–lots and lots of hats. Hats for all seasons and all types of weather. My Mom use to knit all of us nice woolly hats for the winter–not that Victoria, BC ever experience long, cold winters, but Mom knits us warm, colourful hats anyway. I love my Mom’s knitted hats because I can squash them into my coat pockets, shake it out and plunk it on my head–easy-peasy with no fussing.

Summer has another kind of hat–light, UV protected with wide brims to shade the face. I have summer hats with big brims, wide brims, air holes for ventilation, different colours to match whatever colour I’m wearing for that day as well as hats with funky patterns to suit one’s mood.

The only downside of hats is “hat hair.” I loved those movies where the heroine whips off her huge, wide-brimmed, flower-bedecked hat and her long, beautiful blonde/bronze/raven/red/chestnut coloured curls, falls sexily down and around her shoulders, framing her heart-shaped face. When I whip my hat off, my short curly hair is pressed around my head with the hair in unsightly clumps—that is hat hair, my friend.

AND, where the movie heroine can finger comb her curls back into its sexy tousled look, my finger combing definitely makes it a rumpled look. The only thing missing would be a scruffy raincoat with a huge hood.

At this stage of my life, I think I am resigned to the necessity of hats and the resultant hat hair. Some of us have that flair for fashion and finger fluffing while wearing hats. The rest of us carry big purses or have big pockets for the brush and comb so that we can still look good when the hats come off. Maybe in my next life time, I’ll come back with the sexy hair that falls down and around my shoulders, framing my big brown eyes–only a quick finger fluff to ensure that perfect hair.

On the other hand, it would be my luck-of-the-draw to come back as a llama with sexy, silky hair that falls beautifully around big, brown eyes and a gentle face; a shake of the head to flip off that hat and the hair is still perfect. . .