Bloginger

Saints don't come without luggage

“Ma-reeeee…Ma-reeeee.”

This is not the mating call of some exotic bird.

This is my mother-in-law beckoning her daughter.

This, starting in mid-November, for three glorious weeks, is the sound that will reverberate through my home, to the depths of my very soul.

“Ma-reeeee…Ma-reeeee.”

My sister-in-law and her husband are going on vacation. We’re all so very happy for them but a byproduct of their excursion is an extended

Peterborough

stay for Assunta. That’s Susan in the language of the decidedly non-Italian. Three weeks to be exact.

“Ma-reeeee…Ma-reeeee.”

I love my mother-in-law. She is an angel who had one foot in Heaven the day she was born. There are more pictures of the pope in her

Scarborough

home than at the

Vatican

. Like most nonnas – grandmothers – she lives, absolutely lives and breathes, for her 10 grandchildren and their children. She will be no bother, only asking that I flip the channel weeknightly to “her” Italian show. She will listen to Jeopardy as she knits, not even bothering to look up as she mutters “Stupid” each to time a contestant provokes the wrong answer buzzer. It’s pretty funny actually. But that mother-to-daughter mating call makes me skin crawl. Always has. It’s my fingernails on a chalkboard.

“Ma-reeeee…Ma-reeeee.”

I’m destined for a pasta overdose. I’m good with that. Love Italian food. Her sauce is to die for. And my shirts won’t even see the hamper. If laundry was an Olympic event, Assunta would be Jesse Owens. Within days of her arrival, our home will be shiny as a new lira. That’s all good, very good, but…

“Ma-reeeee…Ma-reeeee.”

Electrohome, 2005 to 2009, R.I.P.

It's incredible how one misstep, literally, can ruin what was otherwise a wonderful long weekend.
OK, I admit I was a little hung over Monday morning. Went to the Black Horse to have a beer and catch of bit of son Pete's band Levon. By the time I stumbled onto George North just before midnight, Plan A was long discarded. My DD wasn't impressed, which normally wouldn't bother me 'cept I have to live with her.
Back to Monday morning. I arose, head a-pounding, about 6:30 a.m. Never could sleep in. Too much of nothing to do and so little time not to do it. Regardless, after turning on the TV, I fetched my OJ and returned to my playpen. It was then I stumbled and my weekend took a decidely tragic turn.
My foul-footedness took me for a ride courtesy of a throw rug on the slippery ceramic tile floor. Italians ceramic everything, don't you know.
Out went both feet at I flew backwards, banging my head off a bookshelf and dislodging volumes upon volumes. I crashed to the floor and looked up just in time to see my cup of juice fall to earth -- more specifically on my TV. There was a spark followed by a sizzle and then...nothing. Suffice to say I haven't cried like that since Eddie Shack retired.
It's just a TV, you say? Au contraire. This 25-incher had serious sentimental value. I won it a few years back at my nephew's stag in Toronto and carted it home courtesy of pal Darrell Junkin and his big van.
I never win anything. Never. That TV gave me the right, for once, to laugh at the Gods of Bad Fortune.
We have another set, a 36-inch model, in the lower basement. Every now and then Her Highness lets me watch it but not nearly enough. So this TV was my lifeline. Now it's gone, in its place a temporary fix in the form of a 14-inch monitor. It's like using a wrist watch as a wall clock. I'm in the market for a decent pair of binoculars.
The good news is the Minister of Finance has give the go-ahead for a new TV purchase. I'll inherit the current model -- a major upgrade. The bad news is my house smells like crap. Who knew a throw rug doesn't burn cleanly?

Finally...a blog with some teeth

No more "soft" food -- I need meat.
For five days now, I've been nursing an infected molar. Any sleep I have been able to get has been punctuated by bouts of head-numbing pain. Today I saw my dentist; a nice man whom, in a pain-induced stupor, I have wrongfully referred to as Dr. Josef Mengele. It is kinda funny, though.
As I suspected, I need a root canal. Check that -- I don't need one. Who does? I require one to save my brain and/or heart from life threatening infection. As good a reason as anything else to get one, I guess.
The kicker is I had a root canal just more than a month ago. At about $800, that put me leaps 'n' bounds over my benefit plan limit. Ouch! Don't get me wrong -- I'm very fortunate to have a plan. I just wish it wasn't based on dental service fees circa 1909 as opposed to 2009.
Facing the prospect of another eight bills for this go-around, I wasn't a happy camper. I say wasn't because the good dentist informed me I can have an inexpensive temporary procedure that will relief the pain and keep things in check until January when I again have $1,500 in benefits to play around with. It took me all of one second to say that's just fine, thanks.
As required by the dentist cops, he did mention another option -- yank the offending molar from its roost. Thanks but no thanks. Depending on who you talk to, I have enough space in my head already.
Between now and next week, it's a steady diet of antibiotics, T3s and mushy food. Mmmmm, it's gonna be quite a Thanksgiving dinner.
In the meantime, I'll whittle away at that outstanding bill.
It's one thing to have a dentist messing with your teeth. It's quite another thing to have a yet-to-be-paid dentist messing with your teeth.

Green with garbage bag envy

I have to phone City Hall first thing Monday morning. As organized as I try to be, I've apparently forgotten to pay, in whole or in part, my municipal taxes. There can't be any other reason I was left holding the bag today. Actually, two bags.

I'm 5-foot 6-inches tall; about 149 pounds on a good day. Somehow I managed to carry two garbage bags to my front curb from the sideyard shed -- about a 50-foot journey. But somehow the neighbourhood garbage man, er, roadside sanitary engineer, couldn't lift either and take them away to the lovely Bensfort Road countryside. He couldn't move the bags two feet -- 1/25th of my weekly Friday trek from shed to curb. And so it was, on Friday night, I returned my garbage to the shed to await the assistance of what will hopefully be a more burly garbage man, er, roadside sanitary engineer.

The two-garbage-bags-per-household-per-week edict is a sound one. I'm totally onside with landfill site diversion. I compost. I recycle. I'm a good little environmental citizen. But there's one drawback that is obviously clear -- if garbage men, er, roadside sanitary engineers, were paid by the garbage bag, my trash would receive equal treatment. But that's not the case and now I'm stuck with two bags of garbage that only I can move.

There is a solution. Hire stronger garbage men, er, roadside sanitary engineers. At least stronger to the point that they can match my Herculian strength. Give a pencil to those lesser capable, give them desks and put them to work on their next contract demands.

And I thought I was bad...

The gig's up and it's about time

The only question that should be at the centre of the Roman Polanski extradition case is what took so long for matters to get to this point?
As the famed movie director's high-powered and well-placed friends come to his defence, it would be wise not to lose sight of the fact that the now 76 year old pleaded guilty in 1978 to having unlawful sexual intercourse with a 13 year old. That's called rape. Shortly after, he fled the United States for France and went on to make a chapeau full of money doing what he does.
But with his arrest at a Zurich airport, it's time for Polanski to face the music, despite Samantha Geimer's support of his call for the case to be dismissed because of alleged misconduct on the part of a judge who he claims reneged on plea bargain. She's the 13-year-old girl Polanski has admitted to raping.
Polanski pleaded guilty in return for a sentence of time served but has claimed over three decades that the judge broke the arrangement, forcing him to flee -- a fugitive whose money and fame allowed him to escape previous extradition bids.
Now the gig is up and this ugly matter appears headed for some resolution. It's nice that Polanski's victim has professed her desire that her attacker be absolved of any responsibility. But it's wrong and as such should carry little weight as things move forward.
Polanski, who wife Sharon Tate was brutally murdered 40 years ago by members of the Manson family, lost his mother at the hand of the Nazis and the killing factory at Auschwitz.
There is no statute of limitations for the perpetrators of the Holocaust. Those criminals have been hunted down for decades and still are being hunted. The intervening years haven't diminished the relevance of justice being served.
Polanski, more than anyone because of his personal experience, should know that and willingly cross the ocean to face the music. Now.

There's a whole other world out there...and close by

It does one good to get off the couch and see the world...or at least that part within a reasonable driving distance.
Spend Saturday past with the missus in Cobourg along the Lake Ontario shoreline. The purpose of our trek was to take in COPEX 2009, the annual show and sale hosted by the Cobourg Stamp Club. Yup, I lead a pretty damn exciting life.
Regardless, the show was great but the real bonus was the town itself. We had never spent any appreciable amount of time in Cobourg. Actually, we had only passed by on our way to points east. On Saturday, we learned quickly  that Star 93.3 morning man Joel Scott's praise of the history-steeped town is well justified.
Because we got away early, we had a real hunger on. We discovered that the Buttermilk Café in the heart of the downtown is the eatery of choice and then experienced firsthand why. It's not cheap but breakfast was delicious and filling. A real nice spot.
The Saturday morning farmers' market in back of Victoria Hall is perfect -- not too big, not small. We came away loaded down with apples and fresh bread. And a walking tour of the downtown core revealed a number of niche stores nestled beyond the interesting facades of an equal number of well-preserved buildings.
All in all, it was time very well spent; a long overdue visit. More important, it's sobering to learn firsthand that the world doesn't start and end in Peterborough

As red and shiny as a drunk's nose

I was a strange kid. Very strange.
Each August, as all my little pals wet their pants in anticipation of their families' annual visit to the Canadian National Exhibition and the prospect of a midway rides overdose, I really only looked forward to one thing connected with that yearly trek.
I couldn't wait to climb all over the fire truck stationed at the Toronto Fire Department's CNE firehall.
Don't get me wrong. The candy floss, the games and the rides all held some allure but the big deal was the firehall visit. The folks knew it and made sure it was part of the day's itinerary.
Funny but I never really had any ambition to be a fireman. Good thing, as it turned out. Would you really want me to see me coming up the ladder as your bum starts to sizzle? I didn't think so. That aside, I have a morbid fear of ladders but that's a story for a whole other blog entry.
But oh how I loved the trucks. And I adored the men who rode them. I no longer adore men but I still tingle when a fire truck passes.
As part of Fire Prevention Week Oct. 4 to 10, the doors of three city firehalls -- on Sherbrooke Street, Monaghan Road and Carnegie Avenue -- will be swung wide open Oct. 10 from 1 to 3 p.m. I very am tempted to drop by and recapture that feeling of awe and respect of so long ago.
Hell, who am I kidding? I just wanna hit the siren switch.

I'd kill to have your time

At age 51, I'm looking forward to my retirement. Sadly, I'm on the Freedom 90 program, so I've got a few more years of working life ahead of me. Sigh.
In the meantime, one small but sincere request -- could retired people who also happen to somehow drive please stay off the roads during the morning rush hour.
Stay home and eat an extra bowl of bran and then venture out for your highway stroll. Us working stiffs have places to go.
Case in point. This morning I was in the curb lane westbound on Lansdowne Street...flying along at about 7 km/h. In front of me, taking in the sights, was Mr. I'm-In-No-Hurry-So-Why-Should-You-Be? I was trapped as the left lane was busy but moving. Envious? You bet.
Want to make our roads safer? Don't have a maximum speed posted. Have a minimum speed posted and ticket the tour bus driver wannabes. They are a menace and they typically have no sense of urgency and, worse, have nowhere to go. That's deadly during the morning rush.

Damien Cox's act is beyond tired

Since I was a kid, The Toronto Star has been part of my life.
From a bicycle seat, I delivered the daily in my east Toronto neighbourhood; at home, I watched Dad sit down nightly to scan its pages and then listened with no shortage of awe as he passed comment on its contents. I got into this business in part because of those early influences.
But there was another passion in the Rellinger household. A passion for the Toronto Maple Leafs. My first Maple Leafs jersey was a Christmas present. Number 14. Dave Keon. Wore it until it wore me.
The hardest thing I've done in my life, and continue to do, is be a Maple Leafs fan. Disappointment after disappointment...through the 1970s, 1980s, 1990s (save for a few seasons) and into the new millenium. The abuse has been relentless but as the spinach-eating sailor said, I yam what I yam.
The Toronto Star, like all paid circulation dailies, is having a rough go of it. In order to maintain circulation, in order to get people to want to subscribe, the editorial content has to be appealing, entertaining and, yes, opinionated and controversial. After all, the worst thing people can do is ignore you. That said, Damien Cox doesn't add to our understanding of Canada's great game and the Leafs' place in it. Rather, he takes an oh so easy target and, with a major hate-on for all things blue-and-white, makes his living off of tirades repeated ad nauseum year after year. Pick up a Toronto Star sports section from a year ago and try to spot the difference. There isn't one.
If the Leafs won the cup, Cox would rant they suck because they won it in six games instead of five. His obsession with despising all things Maple Leaf darkens what is a terrific writing talent. The morning after the Leafs' Sept. 22 shootout win over the Penguins (the club's fourth win in five exhibition games), he tells us the Leafs have weaknesses. The man can't help himself. Years of conditioning disallow him from even showing the faintest flicker of optimism for the rebuilding Leafs.
I'm 51 years old. There are two things I hope to see in my lifetime. One is a Stanley Cup parade on Bay Street. The other is one written word of the encouraging variety from Damien Cox. I will see the former. I really believe that.
As for the latter, well, a Cox column complaining Bay Street was closed for a Stanley Cup parade is a given.
There's only thing worse than being boring for a writer. That's being predictable.