The Seated View

There are no words. Sitemeter offers a world view of my blog hits as dots on a map. I enjoy checking where readers are from and wonder who they are, where they live and what they're like. I've had dots along the Gulf coast and been thrilled - I always wanted to visit that area of the U.S. Please, when you can, let us know you and your loved ones are OK.

Well, that term started out years ago as “Birthday Slut”, but I changed it to reflect the obeisance owed The Haver of The Birthday. G’ahead… try it out… be relentlessly self-promoting, imperious and demanding on your birthday. Insist on adoration and acquiescence to all your wishes. It’s a grand feeling. And here’s a little known secret: the older you get, the longer you can milk it. I’m 43 and am having a Birthday Week. By the time I’m 80, it’ll be a month. I had a perfect birthday. Just perfect. The weather was lovely (which in Danish means you’ve been a good girl/boy the previous year – ah, the ways we impart a sense of responsibility in our children… “be good or the entire country will suffer!”), had lovely birthday wishes with English, Danish and Mexican birthday songs, plus a phonetic version of the Danish that should be made available to the public, and in general, was made a complete fuss of. In the afternoon, friends and I spent time at Buskerfest . W

This is my mormor – my mother’s mother (the cute kid is my sister 20 years ago – she now looks like this ). Her name was Søster Karen Christensen and she was the perfect grandmother. She was funny and not afraid to use herself as the punch line. Once, in her mid-eighties, in a checkout line, she looked at some parsley and sighed, completely deadpan, “I once looked like that” and calmly continued stacking her groceries while everyone else fell about laughing. When I was a child and staying with her and morfar (grandpa), I’d sleep with mormor in their bed (morfar took the divan) and I’d be lying in bed, watching her get ready. Every night, after she took out her dentures, I’d pester her to say futtog (“choo-choo train” in Danish). You haven’t lived until you’ve heard how that sounds without teeth. She wouldn’t do it all the time for she understood that the special disappears when it is made routine. Those times I stayed with mormor and morfar wer

I went to the park with a book. It was a gorgeous day – no longer hot as dragon’s breath, but nicely warm. Compared to most of this summer, 30 degrees Celcius (86F) is only warm. In a lot of countries that would be sveltering, but not in Toronto, not this year. I went to the middle of the field, an expanse of grass, left long-ish by the Parks people and I like it that way. The scent of it, the intensely green smell was all around me, enveloped me, carried me off to a place of leafy heaven. I closed my eyes, turned my face towards the sun and basked. There’s no other word for it: I basked. The light suffused the world, bathed me in its yellow warmth, flowed through my skin, into my body, all the way through to the bones, warming, relaxing, healing. I felt aglow with it. A drop of sweat trickled down the back of my neck, taking with it all my worries, leaving only sun. The wind was perfect, too. Enough to refresh and that was all. Lazy waves

I'd post, but they've changed something and taken away my wysiwyg view and I don't speak HTML and I don't know why they did this. More later when I've figured it out.

As all people who share their homes with cats know, they are in charge. The cats, I mean. I figure I just live here to serve Mojo’s every need, but even so, I sometimes get surprised at just how extensively she has trained me (at times foolishly believing that just because she responds to certain requests when it suits her, that I’ve trained her). Mojo doesn’t like drinking from a bowl. I’ve heard stories of cats that are all about running water and some that drink from various odd receptacles. Mojo likes glasses and cold water. A while back, when she’d walk around looking at me with the “find me some water, woman” look, I’d taken to tapping the side of the glass with my nail and she’d jump up and drink. A few days later, she called me (yes, she calls me and I respond, but I figure it’s only fair – she responds when I call her) and I came out into the living room and found her perched on the table, next to the glass, looking very expectantly at me. So I tapped

(ed.: it's been brought to my attention that people who are new might not know of my... er... tiny obsession with Big Brother 6 , could be confused by this post. So that's what I'm rabbiting on about) My Kaysar is gone. Well, I suspect there might be several million North American women (and gay men) who are willing to fight me for him, but it’s my blog, my world and here, he’s my Kaysar. And he's gone just because he’s a nice man and an honourable man and that just makes it all much worse (and him more swoon-worthy). I will admit that had it not been a member of the Fiendship who orchestrated this move, I might have chortled in glee. Instead, I want to… well, better not say what I want to do to Ms. Cartwheeling Cheerleader. I’m trying to lead with kindness, really I am, but when it comes to the Cult of Cappy, it’s not easy. They are so smug, so hypocritical, so lacking in any interesting personality traits whatsoever. Take Beau, for example.

Janne & the Tinks .

I just finished reading Leeway Cottage by Beth Gutcheon. Heard about it some place I can’t remember and given the theme of Denmark during World War II, I naturally had to read it. Audible only had an abridged version, so my take on it will likely be coloured by that. And by the way? It took me a while to find that word – all that was in my mind was ‘tainted’. I hate abridgement. I fail to understand why anyone in their right mind would wish to read a novel that has been amputated. I also fail to understand why it’s OK to abridge. There’s a reason for all those words, people! The writer put them there with great deliberation to paint a picture with words – I mean, no one abridges Van Gogh or Monet, do they? Back to the main track… The book is the story of two people, a marriage and a war and spans about 80 years. Poor little rich girl Sydney Brant marries Laurus Moss, a Dane. When the Germans invade and occupy Denmark, Laurus feels compelled to

Please note: the following post can only really be understood by people who watch Big Brother 6. if you do not, don’t bother reading it. In fact, I urge you not to, as you’ll not only be mystified, but likely to mock me in the comments. I’ve watched every Big Brother since its inception. I love the inanity of it – it’s the TV version of a fantastic beach read. Totally engrossing while immersed in it, utterly forgettable the day after the winner’s been announced. During the run, I gradually get so sucked into the BB universe that I start dreaming about it. Not until it’s been part of my life – 3 shows a week! – for about two months, but then... I have the odd Big Brother dream. When I tuned in to the first episode this summer, I was very disappointed at the cast – so young (the oldest is in her mid-thirties!), so pretty, so ridiculous (I’ve just described almost every reality show contestant out there). However, my rule with any new show (reality, drama, whatever) is to

The cat came home last night, carried into the place like a conquering hero by the Mojo Transportation Team. Here she is, running full speed away from the evil carrier, headed towards the bedroom closet. After a brief stop in the ultimate Safe Place, she came back out and checked over every square centimetre of the apartment for infractions committed in her absence. In between fleeting sojourns to the safety of the closet, she told me, in a loud and very affronted voice all about the nasty people in the nasty place with their nasty instruments and even nastier procedures. In great detail. Although she eventually subsided from yelling to more of a grumble, she did keep it up fairly continuously until bedtime. When she wasn’t demanding water, nibblies, brushing and general adoration, that is. My mistress is home and I no longer have time to do anything but penance for daring to spend hundreds (and hundreds) of dollars doing something which (hopefully) will pro

After a week of being entirely adult, doing all kinds of things I’d rather not and having Mojo’s stay at the vet’s extended through the weekend, I decided to be decadent and have a No responsibilities Weekend (NRW). Kicked things off nicely on Friday evening by having a lovely dinner with my friend Andrew. Great conversation over grilled salmon with an absolutely fantastic tomato-basil salsa, which rendered me utterly incapable of stopping when I was full. I was a total pig. Made even better by Andrew insisting on paying, which was very in the keeping with the NRW theme. Had a perfect acupuncture/massage by the incredibly talented Liz (who really should get a website so I can plug her business by relentlessly linking to her). Sat in the sun watching a guy play soccer with his dog while listening to Mike from troubled diva ’s latest podcast. Lots of good music, perfect for summer sunshine listening. My favourite (but not exactly light and summery) of the bun

Yesterday, I sent Mojo to the vet. She went in for some tests (general wellness and senior cat check), to stay overnight and then go under for dental cleaning today. Given that I can’t take her in myself, my mother and Michele brought her in (yes, it takes two adults. One of Mojo’s nicknames is The Psycho Cat from Hell. She doesn’t like to be forced to do anything). The look on her face when they put her in the carrier, the instant escape attempt(s), the crashing up against the sides and top of the carrier once locked in. And then, as she was carried out the door, the crying started. From both of us. I freely admit to being an absolute sap when it comes to the wee beastie, but still… I have no idea how parents do it. How do you find the strength to do something that has to be done, even though it frightens and hurts your kids? It just broke my heart. And I didn’t even give birth to her. There is one thing I plan to do while she’s gone, though. Normall

I’ve been thinking a lot about getting naked lately. Not the regular kind of unclothed – sorry to anyone who’d started drooling and to those of you who covered your eyes, you can read on without trepidation. I’m talking about the kind of naked that shows the real you – or most of the real you (with thanks to Heather Armstrong of dooce for the inspiration). I’ve spent a large portion of my life hiding the darker, messier side of having arthritis and a disability from the rest of the world. Being open leads to people getting uncomfortable, which too often goes into pity and in case you didn’t know, pity is just about the worst thing to have thrust upon you. The “oh, thank god it isn’t me” shows through, right after the condescension. On the other hand, keeping that part hidden can lead straight to the point where you are seen as all brave and inspirational. Super Cripple territory. Once you’re in that place, it also gets hard to show parts of yourself that aren’t