The Seated View

I had the weirdest reaction to the end of the TV season (about which I babbled endlessly on Friday). I don’t know if it was due to the oversaturation of Very Dramatic Season Finales, but I started watching movies and they were all British and Scandinavian – I needed small and (relatively) restrained as an antidote to all the Drama. It began with a sort of homage to 28 Weeks Later and Hot Fuzz that got released recently – naturally, I had to watch 28 Days Later and Shaun of the Dead . Then I moved on to The Best Werewolf Movie Ever Made (and despite this not being the first time I’ve watched it, it still scared me witless). In the process, it was confirmed again that I must not watch or read anything scary past 11pm because I’m just too much of a wuss to handle it on my own. Luckily, I had an antidote to the antidote: a tape of the Tinks from 6 months to Christmas-ish made for me by John. Nicest way of cleaning out the dread I’ve ever seen. Once I’d regained my equilibriu...

Thank various divinities, the television season is over! The feeling of freedom that washed over me the minute I finished watching the season finale of Lost last night (taped, hence the time shift), was overwhelming. I'm sure the argument could be made that I could have stopped watching at any moment, but with the exception of American Idol, I thoroughly enjoyed it all, both dramas and reality shows, and didn't want to miss anything. One of these days, I have to learn that it's OK to miss things. One of these days. Not no w. Brothers & Sisters. This show does many things well - one of them was the way they dealt with Tommy and Julia’s preemie twins. I hated how close to home this was and I hated it even more when one of the twins died, yet at the same time, I admired the show for doing the hard thing instead of magically making everything alright at the end, as most shows would have done. I also admire them for a season finale that gave us interesting st...

(the best-favourite being Christmas Eve, naturally)

It goes without saying that Mojo’s always cute – it’s her job and she’s good at it. However, lately, she’s been cranking it up to 11. S he starts out the day having a wee rest after breakfast. For some reason, her legs appears to have become longer lately and the white fur looks even more like little tufts of whipped cream Mojo sits at me. She sits louder than anyone I’ve ever met. In fact, Mojo's ability to communicate her desires through posture, utterly soundlessly and through walls has convinced me of the truth in the theory that pets develop a psychic link with their people. I'll be doing something in the bathroom, in the kitchen (not necessarily food related) and all of a sudden, I get that feeling and I just know she’s sitting at me. A quick peek at one of her regular hangouts will inevitably reveal is that yes indeed, Her Royal Catness wants something. She has become so proficient at this talent that sitting at my attendants will also cause them to cater...

First things first: I have a new obsession. It's quite indecent, really - I have to severely ration myself or I'd likely engage in unseemly displays of devotion. Dare’s Lemon Crèmes . The mix of the sweet cookie and the smooth filling with just the right amount of lemony kick is heaven. And for the non-Canadians among us, Amazon apparently has everything . I've read three interesting stories worthy of disability activism lately. Well, to be fair, I've read more than three, but these are the ones that kept me thinking. First, disability has apparently become an unfair advantage when it comes to participating in the Olympics. Second, in Afghanistan, an estimated 90% of suicide bombers are people with disabilities - it's a way for the useless and shamed to find some meaning. And lastly, via Disability Studies at Temple University , I found out that Disability Rights Washington performed an investigation of the "Ashley treatment" that I rante...

Twice in the past year, two separate doctors have told me that if I got arthritis today, I likely wouldn't end up in a wheelchair. Given that on both occasions, I was crying because everything had gotten to me and I’d run out of hope, I'm pretty sure they meant it as a sort of comfort. It seemed that way at the time, but that’s not the point of today’s post. I keep forgetting that using a wheelchair is a fate worse than death. I could go on for pages and pages about how able-bodied people view the seated life, but the phrases "wheelchair-bound" and "confined to a wheelchair" pretty much say it all. More than once, I have heard people say they would kill themselves if they ever lost the use of their legs, which tends to be my cue for Educational Seminar #57(a). I haven't always adored using a wheelchair instead of walking. There are many things that I’d love to do, but will have to wait until my next life - riding horses, scuba diving, sitting on ...

They say it's a new installation in the Sculpture Garden . They say it's got something to do with Space Crystallization, transforming the space to interact with the observer's consciousness . That's what they say . But really. Isn't it clear that somewhere, a giant intelligent spider is lurking, waiting for lunch to come wandering by? p.s. Happy birthday to Michele - excellent friend, mother, adopted sister and aunt!

As you may have figured by now, there hasn't been much going on here at Casa de Looneytunes. Basically, it's been all about angst, medication, pain, hiding from the worry and reality shows. Reality shows really are a blessing for those times when your mental acuity is significantly lower than normal. And speaking of the angst, I'm sick to death of thinking about it and writing about it, but unfortunately, that means the options for an interesting post are thin on the ground. Which means what? You guessed it! Reality shows. I know, I know - not the most intriguing of topics (well, for some), but I'm sure if we try hard, we can work up a good head of steam about complete strangers and their inane shenanigans. And so, in alphabetical order, let's get opinionated about the remaining contestants. American Idol . So, let me get this straight - you travel around a huge country, audition thousands of people and yet somehow, manage to end up with a dispropo...

Yesterday, the Tinks did their annual television appearance (hey, they did it last year and twice is a tradition) at the telethon for McMaster Children’s Hospital - yes, I forgot to tell you on Friday. I should be whipped with a wet noodle - and I watched for about an hour. And as usual, I cried buckets. Teared up, sniffled, wept and bawled. I cried at the sad stories, I cried at the happy endings, I cried during the segment of memories from the 2002 campaign and I wept when the Tinks were on. Which doesn’t make any sense whatsoever, as they were clearly fine (albeit having that glazed look that signals naptime being imminent) and it’s not like there were pictures of when they were in the NICU and Morgan was on a ventilator and they were both so tiny and… I simply cannot be relied on to maintain my composure when exposed to things like this and I have no idea how John manages to be one of the hosts and not blubber helplessly throughout. On camera. No idea. Two weeks ago,...

Back in the days of my misspent youth – which admittedly could’ve been a lot more misspent and I plan to make up for that in my next life – I was a hare. A sprinter of sorts. Someone who approached life with an all or nothing kind of attitude. I wrote 99.99% of my essays the night before they were due and really, do you need to know more than that? I told myself I worked best under pressure and since I never worked in any other way, it became true. Before I started Enbrel, I'd had other priorities (like sitting still) for quite some time and the tasks and junk of my life had accumulated in immense piles. After I started Enbrel, it took a while for my strength to build up, then I was busy doing other things – like say, living - and then things got bad again. And the piles grew. Every now and again, I'd work through one or two, sometimes more if I could get someone to help me, but when you own so much stuff that you cannot put things away anywhere and you can’t rea...

It’s the unpredictability that gets to me. Wh ich, given that I've lived with not knowing how I'm going to feel the next day for over 40 years, seems a fair indication that I just can't be taught. To be fair, I know how to live with a certain amount of unpredictability - the daily kind, the one that varies within a certain set of limits. It's my reality and I live with it (sometimes, even halfway graciously). Of course, it explains why I'm an unmitigated control freak - when your body has a will of its own, you attempt to control what you can. A lot. Although I'm getting better at controlling (!) the urge to run other people's lives. Personal growth, y’know. Anyway, it’s this other unpredictability that’s driving me ‘round the bend. Also the tired. I’m tired of the tired. This new adventure with Humira hasn’t exactly worked out like I expected. At the start of February, things went well – I was riding the tail end of the Enbrel that rem...

  Between Peter and I, there seems to be a cross-Atlantic trend towards reviews in the middle . Which doesn't mean that we don't finish the books, just that... Well, I'm not sure what it means. On my part, certainly a lack of patience appears to be the case. And a compulsive need to talk about a story that's affecting me profoundly. A few days ago, when I came upon the idea of writing about the bogeyman, I was quite impressed with myself for coming up with such a brilliant idea. It took me until yesterday to realize that maybe, just maybe, it was triggered by reading 'Salem's Lot by Stephen King. Of course, I'm having the kind of week where on Monday, I spent quite some time wondering why the water was pooling in front of my eyes while I was taking a shower, only to realize that I'd forgotten to take my glasses off. For the first time ever. Apparently, my brain is busy doing other things. Yeah, that's it. I've read 'Salem's...

When I was little, we lived in a tiny, one-story rowhouse. The living and dining room was a long rectangle that ran the length of the house and my room was down by the dining area. We didn't get a TV until I was about seven - one of my earliest memories is watching Neil Armstrong walk on the moon through a haze of static (my parents were in Spain and my grandmother, who was looking after me, had no idea how to adjust the antenna). It must have been some time that year that I got the fright of my life. I'd been put to bed and my parents were watching Frankenstein at the far end of the living room (please keep in mind that 'far end' is a relative term. This was a very small house). I wanted desperately to see it, too, and stood by the crack at my door longing to join my parents, saying nothing, but undoubtedly communicating very loudly that that a) I was there and b) I wanted to see the movie. Eventually, they relented and allowed me to join them briefly. I...

All families have their myths of creation and building, myths that are retold, over and over again. All families have shorthand expressions, part of the fabric that binds them together. Expressions that, for the initiated, tell everything in a few words, but leaves everyone else baffled. For me, these three words sum up the perfect marriage: “Portugal’s fishing policies. We started weekends slowly, back in the days when I lived with my parents. We slept in, had a late breakfast together - often in our jammies – and after eating, I’d take my second cup of tea and retreat to my room to read, Janne would do the same and my parents would take theirs to the livingroom and talk. About anything and everything. Once, after hearing distant sounds of heated debate for a couple of hours, I emerged from my room to investigate what was so absorbing. “Portugal’s fishing policies”, they told me and collapsed in peals of laughter. At the time, they’d been married for over 30 years. Bo...

I read an article about a man who collected antique computers and he had gotten his hands on a vintage machine – an Apple Powerbook 3400C. From 1999. I thought 'antique' meant 'more than a hundred years old'. Seriously? A computer is antique when it’s eight years old? That just makes me want to cry... Spam of the month: Riproaring Addition! I spent hours giggling to myself while I womdered what that meant. Raucous Math Olympics? A really fast supermarket clerk? Laughing your arse off while you’re balancing your chequebook? What?? (no, I didn’t open it the email – remaining ignorant was far more entertaining) Leave your best guess in the comments. Ever wondered what happened to the news? Diane sent me a link that explains. In song. A couple of days ago I accidentally flipped by a rerun of The Pussycat Dolls Present: The Search for the Next Doll - although I am a fan of many reality shows and not ashamed to admit it, I draw the line a...